Me vs. Me (14 page)

“Keep your eyes closed, Gabby, or this won't work. All right, you kiss Cam, squeeze his hand and float to the stage.”

“I want to thank all the little people!”

“Yes, but here's the question. What are you wearing?”

“I'm wearing the dress Julia Roberts wore when she got her best-actress award. The black-and-white Valentino gown.” I'm lean and tall in my imaginary world.

“Oh, good choice. So you like vintage dresses.”

Do I? “No, wait. I just remembered that I like the dress Angelina Jolie wore. Remember the halter cream satin? Gorgeous.”

“So you like slinky and modern.”

I open my eyes. “Yes, definitely. Although I think I'll pass on the accompanying dragon tattoo. Wait! I just remembered another dress I loved. Remember the one Halle Berry wore when she won? The red full skirt and the embroidered flowered top.”

“Something princessy then. A showstopper.”

“Exactly. Except—”

Aurora clears her throat. “Why don't you girls look at some dresses and show me what you like.”

We start walking around, pulling out gowns. One with a puffy skirt. One with beading. One that's straight. “I like them all,” I say.

Lila shakes her head. “But you can only have one.”

Not if I meet someone in New York I want to marry. Then I get to have two.

I finger a pretty puffy one. “How much is this?” I ask Aurora. I got my dad's first check yesterday. And it's going straight to my dress.

“This one is Vera Wang.”

“How much is Vera Wang?”

Aurora looks at her clipboard. “Nine thousand eight hundred.”

Lila whistles. I start laughing. “Are you kidding?”

“It's Vera Wang,” she huffs.

“Pricey. I'm looking more for dresses in the three-thousand-and-under range.”

“Let me see what I can find in a size ten,” Aurora says.

“I'm not a size ten,” I say quickly.

“Wedding dress sizes are different than regular sizes,” she says, ushering me into the massive dressing room. “Now get down to your bra and panties, and put on your heels while I find you dresses.”

Lila sits down on a cushioned bench. I strip then step into the shoes I was told to bring when I made the appointment. I can't help but stare at my pale flab in the mirror. I might be a size ten here, but I'm a six in New York. Except for the lack of bruises here, I look much better in New York. This is not good at all. I turn around and check out my butt. I think I'm going to need one of those big puffy dresses.

Aurora enters with one draped over her arm. She unzips it and says, “Now step in carefully.”

I try not to topple over as I slip into the dress. Since it's strapless, she pulls it over my bust line, heaves it closed, then pins it so it fits snuggly.

Man, this baby is heavy.

“What do you think?” she asks me, trying to read my expression in the mirror.

White. Lots of white. Pretty.

“Gabby,” says Lila. “Do you like it?”

Pretty. White.

“Maybe it's too tight,” Lila says, looking worried. “Hello? Anyone home?”

I snap out of it and smile. “I'm not used to seeing myself in a wedding dress. I'm overwhelmed.” It's ivory with a tight bodice and a princess puffy skirt. Rows of small crystal beads run along the top and on the low waist.

“You look beautiful,” Lila says.

I feel choked up. “Thanks.”

Lila reaches into her purse and takes out her camera. “Smile. You can send it to your mom.”

Aurora blocks the camera with a karate chop-like move. “No photos. We have a sign at the front. Absolutely no pictures.”

“It's for her mother!” Lila says, annoyed.

“Her mother should have come then,” Aurora says, shaking her head. Yes, my mother should have come. I didn't even think of inviting her. Maybe I would have if she hadn't pretty much wiped her hands of the whole wedding.

“It's okay,” I say. “Let's focus on the dress. What do you think?”

Lila puts her hand on my bare shoulder. “I love it.”

“Yeah? I like it a lot, too. But let me try on some others.”

Aurora undoes me, and then I step into dress Number Two. And then Three. And then Four. Number Two has capped sleeves, Three is tight and hugs my curves and Four is straight and covered in taffeta. And I like them all (except for Three, which makes me look like a bloated mermaid).

“Which do you like best?” I ask my audience.

“The first one. Definitely,” says Lila.

“What do you think?” I ask Aurora.

“I prefer the last one.”

“Yeah?” I look them over again. “How do I know which one I like the most?”

“I think you just know,” Lila says. “It's like finding a husband. As soon as you meet the man you're supposed to marry, you know. As soon as you try on your dress, you know.”

“That is so dumb,” I say. “I didn't know the moment I met Cam. Hey, can I ask Cam for his opinion?”

“You can't show Cam your dress!” Lila shrieks.

Aurora shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“It's bad luck,” Aurora says.

“Says who? Anyway, I'm buying the dress for him, right?”

“No,” Lila says. “You're buying it for you.”

“No, I'm buying it so when he sees me in it, he gasps. I want him to think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world in the dress.”

Aurora starts unsnapping my back. “He will.”

I need another opinion. If I can't ask Cam, it has to be someone who has good taste in clothes. Someone like Heather.

 

“How was your day?” Cam asks. I hear honking in the background. “Hold on, I'm just switching lanes.”

I'm exhausted after an afternoon of dress shopping and so I'm back at the apartment, back in my pajamas, watching the news. It's too time-consuming watching it all in New York, so in my downtime, I catch up here. Whether I watch it in New York or Arizona, it's the same news, right? I think of it like instant replay. “I went wedding dress shopping,” I tell him.

“Did you find anything?”

“No. There are too many choices. What kind do you think—”

“Hon, I heard of a great property today in the Valley.”

“You mean to buy?”

“Of course, to buy. It's a steal. Two years old. Four bedrooms. Pool. Three bathrooms. I think we have to take a look. There's an open house from five till seven.”

“Why do we need four bedrooms?”

“We don't need four bedrooms this second. It's for the future. For when we have little Gabbys running around.”

“Very funny.”

“I want a house full of Gabbys. Adorable little girls with your big smile.”

Aw. “Aren't we going to have any boys? Don't I get any little Cams?”

“I'd think you'd be sick of one of me by now.”

“Never.” I hope not, anyway.

“So what do you think? Should we take a look? It's a great deal.”

“All right.”

“Good. I'll pick you up in five.”

“Now? But I'm watching the news!”

He laughs. “Honey, you're not working, remember? There'll be plenty of time later for the news. Right now your top priority should be our house.”
Honk!
“Gotta go. See you soon. Love you.”

Before getting dressed, I stretch out my back. Trying on all those dresses took its toll. Those things are heavy. Who needs the Pilates? Maybe the gym should add a new class—wedding dress try-on.

I quickly change into clothes and meet Cam outside. “I'd like some more information about this house,” I say as I fasten my seat belt.

He kisses me on the forehead and we drive off. “What do you want to know?”

“How much they're asking, for one thing.”

“Three-fifty.”

I start coughing.

“We don't need much for a down payment. We'll take out one of those pay-only-the-interest mortgages. It would be nice to start our marriage with a new house that we own together.”

I did a story on those mortgages and I'm not sure they're so smart. “Those mortgages are too risky, and we'd be using our entire savings. And how would we furnish this so-called house?”

“That's what wedding registries are for. Which we have to do. Soon. My mom keeps asking me about that.”

“I don't know if I'm ready for this.” Buying something here means we're never leaving. I'm not sure if I'm ready to put down roots in Arizona forever.

I catch him looking at me sideways. “We can always sell, Gabby. Look, let's just see what the place looks like. We don't have to make any decisions today. Unless there's another buyer,” he adds.

“Where is this place, anyway?”

“Mesa.”

Groan.

When we finally reach the property (only four blocks from his parents, whoopee!), I'm already miserable.

I heave lots of sighs and make lots of unflattering I'm-annoyed faces as Cam signs us in, introduces us to the broker, holds my hand and pulls me from room to room. The worst part is, the house is beautiful. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, two floors. The kitchen has all new appliances. The master bathroom has a Jacuzzi. I can already feel the jets on my back. Ah. That's the spot. Oh, yeah.

“What do you think?” Cam asks.

“It's nice.”

“It's a steal,” he says. “Apparently the owners are divorcing and trying to get rid of the property fast. That's the only reason they're willing to sell. I think we should make an offer now.”

“Today?”

“I want to go home and check the numbers, but yes, let's do it. Let's make the offer.” He takes my hands between his and squeezes them together. “Let's buy you a home.”

The thing is, when I used to dream about a home, I used to imagine myself coming home after a long day at work at my fabulous job. “I don't know,” I say, my voice shaking.

“Gabby, this is us building a life together.” His cheeks flush and his globe eyes dart around the room. “You and me,” he continues. “I can already see you lazing by the pool, while I barbecue lunch. The kids will be kicking around a soccer ball back and forth, and the dog will be barking and chasing them. At night we'll relax in the Jacuzzi and then drink wine by the fire….” Instead of continuing, he pulls me into him.

I feel my body melt as I breathe in his soapy scent.

“Don't you see it? I love you so much,” he whispers. “And we can have it all. The whole dream.”

“I love you, too,” I say softly. We can have it all. And in my other split, I can have whatever
else
I want. Like the fabulous job.

“All right,” I say. “Let's buy it.”

They're Fake and They're Spectacular

“H
eather, what are you doing Friday night?” I'm standing in my New York living room, brushing my teeth. Talk about multitasking. I'm simultaneously watching the news, getting ready for work and solving my wedding-dress crisis.

“Going home for Christmas Eve.”

Oh, right. “Does that mean you don't want to come shopping with me?”

Her eyes light up. “What do you need?”

“A wedding dress,” I mumble through a foamy mouth, and then return to the sink to spit and rinse.

She follows me into the bathroom. “Excuse me?”

One more rinse and then I do my best to quasi-explain, “Not to buy, just to try on.”

“You want me to come with you to try on wedding dresses?” “Yup.”

She eyes me suspiciously in the mirror. “Why?”

“Because I've always wanted to.”

“For no reason?”

“Not for no reason. For fun.” She is just crazy enough to believe me.

She still looks doubtful. “I don't buy it.”

I rack my brain for an appropriate excuse. “I, um, read an article that says trying on wedding dresses helps you get over ex-boyfriends.”

“That doesn't sound healthy.”

“No, it is. Very therapeutic. They say finding a dress is like finding the perfect man. You know as soon as you try it on. The article was written for women who doubt their judgment in men and recommends that you try on dresses so that you know what discovering the real thing feels like.” And if you buy this, I have a piece of oceanfront property to sell you—in Arizona. “It's a new psychotherapy called The One. Very popular in California.” She's not going believe it. There's no way. It makes no sense. “I'm surprised you've never heard of it,” I add for effect.

“Oh, I have,” she says in a rush. “Of course I have. Actually, I was going to suggest it to you, but I heard it's traumatic. I'm not sure if you can take it.”

Hook, line and sinker. “So you'll join me?”

“Yes. If you're sure you can handle it, make the appointment and I'll come along. But there's one condition.”

“What?”

“You come with me to my parents the next day for Christmas Eve dinner.”

I'm Jewish and I get to celebrate two Christmases. Normal? “As long as I don't have to stay over.”

“You won't. We'll take the train in and then come back that night.”

“Your family doesn't mind that you're not spending the whole holiday with them?”

“Who said I'm not? I'm leaving on Tuesday for a week in Bermuda with my parents. But I have to be here on Monday. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I finally asked Mark out! And he said yes!”

“Who's Mark?”

She shakes her head. “Don't you listen to me when I talk? He's the library guy.”

“Wow, good work. Where are you going?”

“Dinner. Fuck, I'm nervous.”

I'd be, too, if I were her. She tends to scare men off. “Just relax, and I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“I can't relax.” She gestures to her bookshelf of self-help books. “I've done a lot of reading on this. And the first date can set the terms for your entire relationship.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like, if the girl asks out the guy, you'll always be the one chasing him. Or if you offer to cook him a home meal, then he'll always expect you to cook. You have to be extra careful.”

“People evolve, Heather. Relationships evolve.” As I'm talking, I think back to my first date with Cam. It was a Thursday night, halfway through my senior year. Lila and I had been practically out the door when he'd called and asked me if I wanted to get a drink.

“I can't,” I'd told him. “My roommate and I are going to the movies.”

“Go,” Lila had mouthed. “Honestly. I'll catch up on my reading.” And I had. Had that set the tone?

“I'm just telling you what I read,” Heather says, interrupting my trip down role-cast lane. “So are you going to come to dinner?”

I'm still disturbed, but I try to shake it off. “Oh, yeah. Fine. But I have a condition of my own.”

“What?”

“I like you, Heather. I think we're getting along. But sometimes you scare me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like the whole Brad episode. I'm sorry he liked me instead of you. Really, I am. But if you didn't want me to go out with him, you shouldn't have thrown him at me. End of story. We're friends. And if we're going to stay friends, you have to be up-front with me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, with a sheepish smile. “I'm sorry. It's just that I've had such bad experiences with roommates, and now I tend to keep my guard up. But yes. Friends. And as a friend, I should tell you that you just dribbled toothpaste down your shirt.”

Shit. Indeed, there is a glob of white paste on my left boob. “Now what am I going to wear with these pants?”

“As your friend, I'm happy to lend you a shirt.”

Friendship does have its perks. Especially friendship with a fashion queen.

 

On Wednesday in Arizona, Cam and I visit the house again, this time to take all kinds of measurements. This time we also bring—you guessed it—Alice.

She, of course, bounces off the walls in excitement. I'd do the same if I were her. Her son is going to be living only a few blocks away. “You kids will be very happy here,” she tells us. She pats the walls of one of the empty bedrooms. “What a wonderful nursery!” Then she studies the kitchen. “All state-of-the-art appliances. Gabrielle, you can make some wonderful meals here. Cammy, has she made you my coconut shrimp yet?”

“I haven't had a chance,” I mutter.

“Yum, I love that shrimp,” Cam says, and then opens the sliding doors to the yard.

Then move back home with your mother, I almost shout. I follow him outside, feeling an overwhelming need to push him into the pool. And not in a fun, let's-play way, but in a jackass-why-don't-you-drown type of way. Wow. This is so no way to think about your soon-to-be husband. What is wrong with me? Of course, I know the answer to that. What is wrong with me is his mother.

I try to block out the uneasiness in my stomach and the agitation in my brain. The agitation is further aggravated by Alice's running commentary. “Lots of wall space to cover!” she's now pointing out. “You'll need to get a strong vacuum for these carpets! And what a terrific washer and drier! Gabrielle, you can do load after load!”

Am I ready for this? For a house? State-of-the-art appliances? A husband whose Siamese twin is his mother?

 

I buy the shrimp the next day. Now that I have it, I'm not sure what to do with it. I never did get around to practicing in New York. First of all, the shrimp had already gone bad. Secondly, with my lifestyle, who has time to cook?

He wants the shrimp, I'll make him the shrimp. It's not as if I have anything else to do with my time here in Arizona. Except pack up the apartment and plan a wedding. And buy Christmas presents. This year, I was put in charge of buying his family's gifts.

“I'm really busy with an insurance-company bankruptcy at work, plus I'm getting our financials together for the house,” Cam explained. “And you don't have a job. So it would be great if you can take care of them.”

“I don't mind. What should I get them?” Why did I tell him I don't mind? Believe me, I mind.

“I'm sure you'll think of something,” he said, making me want to flick him on the forehead.

I blamed my violent tendency on his remark about my unemployment. Sure, it's true I'm not working, but did he have to rub it in? I'm a little touchy about the subject. I called up my former boss Bernie this morning asking if he had any freelance projects that I could tackle. “Please,” I begged. “Anything. I'm becoming a desperate housewife and I'm not even married yet.”

But no. Nothing. Except work on Christmas and New Year's, which I obviously couldn't do without Cam and Alice and the whole family going berserk. We're expected at Alice's for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and we're going to a party with Cam's friends for New Year's.

In an effort to feel useful, I went to the grocery store. And bought shrimp. Even though it pained me to do so, after tossing five whole pounds of it into the garbage in New York. Next time I do a FreshDirect order, I'm freezing.

“Dinner in an hour,” I now tell Cam via the phone. “I'm cooking. Or trying to.” I cradle the cordless between my shoulder and ear. Before I get my hands all shrimpy, where did I put that guacamole? Oh, there it is. Yum. I'm so hungry in this life. Must be from all that not-working-out.

“Very exciting, baby. I'm sure it will be delicious. Did you put together your account statements for me? I need them for the broker.”

“Yes, everything's waiting for you. You know, I didn't realize how gross shrimp are. Did you know they were gray?”

“Yes, I did, hon. I've made this dish before.”

“Really? So why did your mother give me the recipe? You could have given it to me yourself.” Maybe because Cam asked her? Maybe he wants me to cook for him all the time, but doesn't want to tell me himself in fear of sounding chauvinistic?

“I was planning to make it for you myself, but I lost the recipe and you know me. Can't even boil water without a recipe. And nothing I found on the Internet even remotely resembles my mother's shrimp.”

Somehow that sounds a little icky. But still. How sweet is Cam? He was planning to make the shrimp by himself. For me.

He was planning to make
his
favorite dish for me.

“Oh, and hon?” he says. “Don't forget to devein the shrimp. That much I remember.”

“I don't have to worry about that. I got them deshelled.”

“You still have to take out the vein. Look at the back of the shrimp. There's a blue line. You have to take that out before you cook it. Things you should know.”

“That's crazy! Why would they go through all the trouble of de-shelling them and then leave in the vein? It's going to take forever. There are at least fifty shrimp!”

“So forget about the shrimp. We'll have something else.”

Cooking is so annoying. But I am no quitter. “It's fine,” I say. “I have plenty of time. When will you be home?”

“I'm leaving the office now, so I should be home in twenty.”

It's amazing how fast twenty minutes go by when you're in the process of deveining. By the time Cam walks into the kitchen, I've only just started to cook them. But shouldn't I hear some kind of sizzling sound? Oops. Helps if I turn the stove on.

“Something smells delicious,” Cam says a few minutes later. He's looking quite handsome in his pressed white shirt and brown pants that I picked up the other day from dry cleaner.

“It's either me or my cooking.”

“How did the deveining go?”

“Took forever.”

He peers at my platter. “That's because you got small shrimp.”

“Huh?”

“You should have bought the jumbo guys. More things you should know. No wonder it took you so long.”

“The recipe says shrimp,” I grumble. “It does not say anything about jumbo shrimp.”

“I'm sure it'll be good.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a soda. “Did you get me any more Cherry Coke?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“No. I thought maybe you'd notice we were running low.”

“Really?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you speak in questions?”

“Excuse me?”

He finishes off the soda and tosses the empty can in the recycling bin. “You answer my questions with questions.”

“Do I?”

He laughs. “You just did it.”

“So what?”

“You did it again.”

I am this close to throwing one of the miniscule shrimp at his head. “If my manner of speaking bothers you, I'll stop asking questions. I will begin by not asking you how your day was.” I contemplate rubbing my shrimp-smelling hands on his clean white shirt.

“I'm just trying to tell you, you should be more assertive. Don't kill the messenger.”

“I might if you don't stop nagging me.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “I'm not nagging you.”

“Ha!”

“Do I nag?”

“Yeah, lately you do. A lot.” He's not only nagging. Ever since I agreed to marry him, he's gotten so patronizing.

He leans against the counter and grimaces. “I don't mean to.”

“Well you do. You're starting to sound more and more like—”

He puts his hand against his chest. “Don't say it!”

“—your mother.”

He tilts back his head and howls, “Nooooooooooooooo!”

I can't help but laugh. “Oh, yes.”

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I don't mean it. Do you think it's hereditary?”

“I'm hoping it's nurture versus nature. Nurture that can be unlearned. Why don't you try thinking before you talk?'”

“See, you worded that as a question. You should have just said, ‘Think before you talk.'”

I roll my eyes.

He gives me a big fat kiss on the lips.

 

On Friday morning in New York, Curtis sits on the side of my desk, swinging her loafers.

I look up from my programming. It's only 11:00 a.m. and I'm already on my third cup of coffee. Who needs food when there's a Starbucks in the basement? Anyway, I'm pretty sure that the FDA made mocha lattes one of the food groups in their last nourishment pyramid. “What can I do for you?”

“I saw that you volunteered to help out around here on Christmas Day and New Year's Eve,” she says, eyeing me with suspicion.

“Yes. I'm not going anywhere and I know that the network is short-staffed. I'm happy to cover both.” The truth is, I'm happiest when I'm here. It's miserably wet and cold outside. Heather will be away for New Year's and it's not like I know anyone else. My dad is still in Brisbane, and my mom is spending the holidays with a new guy. What else am I going to do—go back to Arizona? Why pay for the flight when I travel free every night?