How to Love an American Man (16 page)

“Yeah, super.”

“Although . . . I'm embarrassed pointing this out, but what do you think's going on with my face?”

“You're having a little breakout situation, eh?”

“I'm on the oral antibiotic you gave me, but for some reason it's not helping.”

“Are you on birth control?”

Whaaa!
Where is he going with this?
“Um, well . . . I . . . was.”

“When?”

“Until . . . two weeks ago.”

“Well, see, we may want to talk about going back on that, because the hormones can help regulate—”

“Chris, I really try to be mindful of taking that kind of thing when it's not necessary. There's nothing about my cycle that isn't right as rain on its own.” Oh. My. God. Not only have I answered his question, but I also have just found an ingenious way of informing him that my reproductive system is favorable for childbearing.

Just—you know—in case he'd ever wondered.

We both sit silently a second. “Okay then,” he says, apparently satisfied but backing off. “That's excellent news, actually. That's something you don't hear many women say.”

“I just hate messing with nature. But,” I tap gently on my chin, “I seriously do need to see this clear up.”

He says I can come into the office tomorrow morning; it'll be Saturday and he only has one procedure. “And for now,” he reaches into his backpack between his legs on the floor, “forget anything you've ever heard about chocolate exacerbating a breakout. It's totally untrue.” He pulls out a brown glossy box wrapped in a sleek pink ribbon. “Sorry, but it's so worth it. Indonesian dark chocolate. Kris, it's amazing.”

“Oh, whoa.” With my eyes on the road I locate a smooth cube, a superdark chocolate that Chris thinks has orange liqueur inside. I bite in. Yep, orange. It bursts onto my tongue and melts in with the chocolate inside my cheeks. Incredible. After we've polished off a minibox, we start in on the snacks I packed in the back—bananas, oranges, and organic graham crackers.

“These graham crackers are good!” he says.

“Right?” I hold out my hand, and he cups a bunch of tiny bear-shaped crackers into it.

During the five-hour ride he catches me up on his trip—how warmly the hospital administrators received him and showed him around, how smoothly his presentation went, and how different the customs are there. He explains how immediate the culture of Southeast Asia is, with an openness and warmth one just doesn't find in America. “Even the administrators, Kris, they'll be in the middle of a business conversation with you and they'll just reach over and do this.” He places his hand over mine on the steering wheel and rests it there. Immediately the contact of his skin on mine sets off a tickle of electricity beneath my belly button.

I feel my eyelashes flick sheepishly, and involuntarily, my throat clears. “They must be friendly,” I say quietly.

“They are.” He removes his hand.

When we arrive back in town we stop at the hospital to see a sixteen-year-old patient who slammed into a tree driving her friend's truck. Chris introduces me simply as Krissy and makes no attempt to justify my role there. He takes the bandage off from around the girl's dread-locked head to examine where her jaw's been fractured. “Was there maybe a little alcohol involved here, hun?” he asks the girl, whose tattooed arm is wrapped protectively around a beat-up acoustic guitar.

Through a wired-shut bite she replies, “I don't know.”

“I see.”

“Actually, there was maybe a little alcohol involved.”

“There was, okay. I just need to know this stuff because if there are still any substances in your system, it can affect how your body reacts to the treatment. I'm not trying to put you on the spot.”

“Okay.”

Chris asks the girl why doesn't she play something on her guitar for us. “I'm not that good,” she answers. She's wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and baggy jeans with a mangled hem that dangles down way past her feet.

“Please,” I coax. “I love the guitar.” The girl taps on the guitar's neck, and I can read that she's considering whether she wants to open up to us. She shrugs, then breaks into a few tough measures that face down conflict like an abused dog that's finally full-grown and has learned to fight back. On the last note her ring finger wiggles heavy on the string—a lonely vibrato note that communicates resignation to defeat.

“See?” I say. “That was awesome.”

“You came up with that?” Chris asks incredulously. “Yeah,” she chuckles, embarrassed. Chris shakes her hand and tells her he'll check on her over the weekend. “Oh, hey, do you feel like you're in the bathroom a lot?” he asks.

She thinks a second. “Yeah, I guess I have been.”

“Okay, I'm gonna have the nurses turn down your IV. You're probably just a little more hydrated than you need to be.”

“Hey, Doctor,” the girl says, obviously shy about how to address Chris. He turns around. “You gotta get me out of here soon. I don't have any insurance. And my parents . . . they got enough problems.”

“We'll take care of it, honey,” Chris says. It sooths me when he speaks affectionately to his patients. “The only thing you worry about is healing up, and I need you in here another week.”

I stay arm-to-arm with him as we exit the hospital, sweeping straight past the necks behind the nurses' desk that are stretching out one by one like a single file of ducks. It's wild fun to leave them suffering over who that is with Dr. Christopher.

These are the same hospital halls I navigated with Grandma just last week when we came for the holiday grieving lecture, except she and I stood at every crossroads in the corridor scratching our heads and wandering aimlessly. “Your grandpa was always the one who had a knack for directions,” she'd said.

“I know,” I told her, “and unfortunately it's something I didn't inherit from him.” I was impressed, though, when eventually her instincts led us to the correct room, but here with Chris it's completely different. We cruise fast through the halls, and with the scan of his ID badge he gains bold access through even the tightest locked-down doors. Although, as I hustle along with him, it's not his status that wows me as much as his expertise—how does he get a kid who was drinking underage and who clearly can't afford to pay her hospital bill to confess to the fact that her illegal activity and bad judgment is what brought all of us into this sad scenario together? And then who so kindly considers to ask the girl if she's uncomfortable because she's peeing too much? Chris has a way of sauntering into any hospital room and instantly locating the hand sanitizer, the stethoscope, and any obstruction to the patient's well-being. I just feel
safe
with him.

I walk a step behind him out of the exit doors and decide that if anything bad ever happened to me, he's the one person I'd want directing the scene—no matter how personal or frightening. When we reach the parking lot he asks me to toss him his car keys, saying he'll drive us home to the lake. It doesn't faze me for a second that he hasn't slept in more than a day: I totally, unabashedly trust him.

He drops me off at my house, and I wonder why he climbs out of the car as I make my way to my front walk. “Kris?”

I turn back in the lamplight.

“I have something for you.” He crosses my driveway with a rectangle of fabric resting across his palms. A thoughtful wrap protects what's inside, the complimentary mesh kind they give you when you buy a designer purse.

I look up at him. “What did you do?” He places it in my hands. “Should I open it now?”

He nods.

I let loose a soft scarf that unrolls all the way down to my feet. It's a deep charcoal color, embroidered with tiny blue and pink flower buds all connected to one another by a delicate green vine. For some reason the first thing I do is hold it up to my nose. It smells faintly like him. “Chris,” I whisper. “Thank you.” And, like his gesture, what I say next can be taken as either neutral or romantic: “This is the most beautiful thing a man has ever given me.” It's true.

“It's pure pashmina,” he points out.

“It's exactly something I would have chosen myself.”

He says it reminded him of me one night when he was out touring an Asian city capital. I go in for a hug. My God, I actually want to cry!
Stop being stupid. Remember what we are
. But still, I have to force myself to detach from him. As I continue on to my front porch he heads back to his car.

“Chris?”

He turns.

“Your family's not around. Do you have plans for Thursday?”

“Thursday . . . what's Thursday?” he says.

“It's Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving, that's right! Well, let's see . . . he takes off for another course in New Jersey on Friday, but wow, Thanksgiving. No, come to think of it, he doesn't have plans.

“You're more than welcome to join us. We have dinner at my aunt and uncle's up the road, but not till the evening, so, you know, you have the day to get things done.”

That sounds perfect, he says, a really nice invitation, and he'll even bring something.

I'm racing through the house like a woman on fire as his SUV lights pull down the driveway.
“Mom!”
I holler.
“Chris is coming to Thanksgiving!”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I get online and order a silk blouse I've been eyeing. It's matte sea-foam green with romantic puffy sleeves, and with black pants it'll be the perfect Thanksgiving ensemble.
Thank you for this lovely and accomplished man who has joined my family on this most American holiday.
And even though the suede ankle boots I've been admiring will cost me ten hours of work for him, I put those in my virtual cart too. Thanksgiving is only five days away—I better lay out my underwear and jewelry now!

By Sunday the phone is ringing off the hook. My aunt calls, asking if there's anything Chris doesn't prefer to eat and do I know whether he has a favorite cocktail. “He's like me, he'll eat anything. Although truly, he's not a big drinker,” I answer. Balancing the phone on my shoulder, I dig my pushiest pushup bra out of my top drawer. Just as I'm hanging up with my aunt, Grandma beeps in and talks a mile a minute. “I know, Grandma, I'm really excited too! The poor thing didn't have any plans at all.”

Thursday morning I go for a run, then clean my upstairs. Chris and I have planned to go over some paperwork in my office before we head out with my family, and I want my living space to be in perfect presentation shape, as this is the first time he'll get to see it. I get so carried away putting things in order that I begin to organize my personal files and closet, chucking items I've been meaning to get rid of since college. Just as I'm wrapping up my cleaning spree, I shut off the vacuum and notice that I have a missed call. Ah, it's him, he must want to confirm the time.

“Hi, Kris.”
Yay!
“Wishing you a happy Thanksgiving morning. I'm spending my day getting ready for this cheekbone course in Philly . . .” His voice trails off for a moment and he sounds tired. “And look, I really hate to do this, but please don't count me all in for tonight. I got called out for a surgery last night and I'm exhausted.”
Oh no . . .
“I'm gonna get some sleep and give you a call later to let you know if I'm up for visiting.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. Like a zombie I turn and walk downstairs into the kitchen. “He doesn't know if he's coming,” I tell my mom blankly, just as she's sprinkling brown sugar over a mountain of sweet potatoes.

“Oh no! Oh, honey . . . what'd he say?”

I shake my head. “I guess he got called out to a surgery last night, and he's tired and he has to get ready for this trip he's going on tomorrow—”

“But it's Thanks
giving
,” Mom says, visibly crestfallen. “He has to take a break from work sometime. Is he definitely not coming?”

“Well, he made it sound like there's a chance, but Mom,” I lower my chin, saying
Get real,
“I'm not holding my breath.”

“Yeah,” she says, peeling off her apron. “You're right, we shouldn't have had our hopes up.”

All this time I could have been pitching in with stuffing or pie or drying dishes, and instead I was primping the upstairs with the detail-orientedness of a Brazilian wax.

Which is clearly
another
thing I wasted my time doing this week.

I wear the blouse anyway, deciding that my family deserves to see it even more than some silly no-show did. Just as I'm ready to go out the door with Mom and Dad, I get a text that he's still up in the air.
Come and honor God and America with your celebration,
I reply. When we arrive at dinner everyone seems to wonder why we're not eating right away, and my phone goes off again.

Uncle Phil approaches me smiling. “Will Chris be joining us?” he asks.

“No, Uncle Phil. I just got final word.”

Before we make our way through the buffet, Uncle Phil gives a toast, then, with most of us still hovering around the bar and the hors d'oeuvres table, we bow our heads for grace. Once I make my way through the buffet line I wonder whom I'll sit next to now that my date's turned out to be such a turkey. At the end of the far table in the dining room, I spot someone sitting silently, all alone: Grandma. Her eyes raise up to me when I place my plate next to hers, and we both force half smiles as I descend into my seat. She has tears in her eyes, and I can tell she's relieved someone's sitting next to her.

The demise of tonight's plans leaves me too weak to cut into my meat. I'm afraid that if I make eye contact with anyone, I'll start bawling, and I wonder if Grandma is fighting a telltale face like I am. The two of us combined are deflecting any potential company at this table with the miserable energy that's radiating from us, two pitiful peas in a pod. I blink back my tears with such concentration that it's difficult to even focus on my plate, and I don't know whether I feel sadder for myself or for Grandma. Finally, she breaks the silence: “He's not coming.”