Something Borrowed (22 page)

to our shared armrest, elbow to fingertip. He drinks and turns the

pages of his magazine with his left hand so as not to lose ground.

The pilot announces that the skies are clear and we will be landing

ahead of schedule. Darcy announces that she is bored.

She is the

only person I know, over the age of twelve, who says with great

regularity that she is bored.

I glance up from my book. "Did you already read your Martha

Stewart wedding issue?"

"Cover to cover. There's nothing new in there. And by the way,

you're the one who should be reading it. There's an article on

favors you promised you would help me think of an original idea

for favors," she says, as she adjusts her seat the whole way back

and then up again.

"How about matchbooks?"

"You said original!" Darcy crosses her arms.

"Everybody does

match-books! That's just a given. I need a proper favor, in

addition to matches."

"What does Martha suggest?" I ask, marking my place in my novel

with my thumb.

"I dunno, hard stuff to make. Labor-intensive stuff."

She looks at

me plaintively. "You have to help! You know I'm no good at

crafts."

"Neither am I."

"You're better than I am!"

I turn back to my book, pretending to be engrossed.

She sighs and chews her Juicy Fruit more vigorously.

And when

that doesn't work, she hits the spine of my book. "Raa-chel!"

"Okay! Okay!"

She smiles, unabashed, like a child who doesn't care that she's

made her mother miserable, only that she got what she wanted.

"So you think we should do something with d?"

"D?" I ask, playing dumb.

"You know, a d for Dex and Darcy. Or is that cheesy?"

"Cheesy," I say, which would have been my answer even before

the D and R days.

"Okay then what?" She checks the number of fat grams in her

snack mix before casting it into the seat-back pocket in front of

her.

"Well, you have your sugared almonds in netting tied with pastel

ribbons or mints in a tin with your wedding date," I say as I

exert slight pressure with my left elbow, trying to wedge it in a

tiny crevice on my armrest. In my peripheral vision, I see Crew

Cut flex his bicep in resis-tance. "Then you have permanent

keepsakes like Christmas tree ornaments"

"Can't. We have too many Jewish guests and honestly, I think

some people who celebrate Kwanza," she interrupts, proud of her

diverse guest list.

"Okay. But you get the point. That genre. Permanent keepsakes:

ornaments, homemade CDs with your favorite songs."

She becomes perky. "I like the CD idea! But wouldn't that be

expen-siver

I give her a look that says, yeah, but you're worth it.

She eats it up.

"But what's another few hundred dollars in the scheme of things,

right?" she asks.

I'm sure her parents would love this statement. "Right,"

I

patronize.

"So we could have, like, The Darcy and Dex Soundtrack and put

our all-time favorite songs on it," she says.

I wince.

"Are you sure it's not cheesy? Tell me the truth."

"No, I like it. I like it." I want to change the subject but worry that

this will spark a discussion of my maid-of-honor shortcomings. So

instead I strike a thoughtful pose and tell her that although the

CDs would be time intensive and expensive, they would make a

lovely, special favor. Then I ask her if Dex would like the idea.

She looks at me as if to say, who cares what Dex wants? Grooms

don't matter. "Okay. Now help me think of some songs."

I hear Shania Twain singing "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been

Under?" Or maybe Diana Ross belting out "Stop! In the Name of

Love!" No, all wrong, I think. Both songs cast Darcy in the role of

noble victim.

"I can't think of one song. My mind's a blank. Help me think,"

Darcy says, her pen poised over her napkin. "Maybe something by

Prince? Van Halen?"

"I can't think of any either," I say, hoping that Bruce Springsteen

doesn't make the cut.

"You sure it's not cheesy?" she asks.

"It's not cheesy," I say, and then whisper, "This guy next to me is

really pissing me off. He won't give me any of the armrest." I turn

to quickly survey Crew Cut's smug profile.

"Excuse me! Sir!" Darcy leans over my lap and pokes his arm.

Once, twice, three times. "Sir? Sir!"

He casts a disdainful eye her way.

"Sir, could you please share the armrest with my friend here?" She

flashes him her most seductive smile.

He shifts his arm one centimeter. I mumble thanks.

"See?" Darcy asks me proudly.

This is the part where I'm supposed to marvel at her way with

men.

"You just have to know how to ask for what you want,"

she

whispers. My mentor in dealing with the opposite sex.

I think of Dex and July Fourth.

"I might have to try that," I say.

My parents call my cell right after we land, to confirm that Darcy's

father picked us up and to ask if I ate on the plane. I tell them yes,

Mr. Rhone showed up, and no, they stopped serving dinner on the

New York to Indy flight about ten years ago.

As we pull into our cul-de-sac, I spot my father waiting for me on

the front porch of our two-story, white-aluminum-sided, greenshuttered

house. He is wearing a short-sleeved, peach-and-gray plaid shirt and matching gray Dockers. By any measure, it is an

"outfit," and it has my mother written all over it. I thank Mr.

Rhone for the ride and tell Darcy that I'll call her later.

I am

relieved that she does not ask if we can all get together for dinner.

I've had enough wedding talk and know that Mrs.

Rhone is

incapable of discussing anything else.

As I cross Darcy's yard into my own, my dad throws up his arm

and gives an exaggerated, overhand wave as if signaling a far-off

ship. "Hello, counselor!" he belts out, all grins. The novelty of

having an attorney daughter has yet to wear off.

"Hi, Dad!" I kiss him and then my mother, who is hovering at his

side, already examining me for possible signs of anorexia, which is

ridiculous.

I am nowhere near too thin, but my mom does not accept New

York's definition of thin.

As I field their questions about my flight, I notice that the hall

wallpaper has changed. I advised my mother against wallpaper,

told her paint was the way to go for a fresher look. But she stuck

with wallpaper, switching from tiny floral print to slightly tinier

floral print. My parents' taste has not evolved since around the

time that Ronald Reagan was shot. Our home still has lots of

country touches cross-stitched expressions of good cheer like

"Back-door friends are best," a scattering of wooden cows and

pigs and pineapples, stencil borders throughout.

"Nice wallpaper," I say, trying to sound sincere.

My mom doesn't buy it. "I know you don't like wallpaper, but

your father and I do," she says, motioning me into the kitchen.

"And we're the ones who live here."

"I never said I liked wallpaper," my dad says, winking at me.

She shoots him a practiced look of annoyance. "You most certainly

did, John." Then she tells me in a whisper, designed for him to

hear, that, in fact, my father picked the new paper.

He gives me a "Who, me?" expression.

They never tire of their routine. She plays the fearless leader,

corralling her unruly husband, the good-natured fool.

Although I

spent much of my adolescence irritated by the monotony of it,

particularly when I had friends over, I have come to appreciate it

in recent years. There is something comforting about the

sameness of their interaction. I am proud that they have stayed

together, when so many of my friends' parents have divorced,

remarried, morphed two families into one, with varying degrees of

success.

My mom points to a plate of cheddar cheese, Ritz crackers, and

red grapes. "Eat," she says.

"Are these seedless?" I ask. Grapes with seeds just aren't worth

the effort.

"Yes, they are," my mom says. "Now. Shall I throw something

together or would you rather order pizza?"

She knows that I'd prefer pizza. First, I love Sal's pizza, which I

can only get when I'm home. Second, "throwing something

together" is an exact description of my mom's cooking her idea of

seasoning is salt and pepper, her idea of a recipe is tomato soup

and crackers. Nothing strikes fear in my heart like the sight of my

mother strapping on an apron.

"Pizza," my dad answers for us. "We want pizza!'

My mom pulls a Sal's coupon off the refrigerator and dials the

number, ordering a large pizza with mushrooms and sausage. She

covers the mouthpiece. "Right, Rachel?"

I give her the thumbs-up. She beams, proud to have memorized

my favorite combination.

Before she can hang up, she is inquiring about my love life. As

though all my phone updates informing them that I have nothing

going on were just a ruse, and I've been saving the truth tor this

moment. My father covers his ears with feigned embarrassment. I

give them a tight-lipped smile, thinking to myself that this

inquisition is the only part of coming home that I don't like. I feel

that I am a disappointment. I am letting them down. I am their

only child, their only shot at grandchildren. The math is pretty

basic: if I don't have children in the next five years or so, it is

unlikely they will see their grandchildren graduate from college.

Nothing like a little added pressure to an already stressful pursuit.

"Not one boy out there?" my mom asks, as my dad searches for

the ideal slice of cheese. Her eyes are wide, hopeful.

The probe

might seem insensitive, except she truly believes I have my choice

of dozens, that the only thing keeping me from her grandchildren

is my own neurosis. She doesn't understand that the simple,

straightforward, reciprocated love she has for my father is not so

easy to come by.

"No," I say, lowering my eyes. "I'm telling you, it's harder to find a

good guy in New York than anywhere." It is the cliche of single life

in Manhattan, but only because it's true.

"I can see that," my dad says, nodding earnestly. "Too many

people caught up in that rat race. Maybe you should come home.

At least move to Chicago. Much cleaner city. It's because Chicago

has alleys, you know." Every time my dad visits New York, he

harps on the lack of alleys; why would they make a city without

alleys?

My mom shakes her head. "Everybody is married with babies in

the suburbs. She can't do that."

"She can if she wants to," my dad says with a mouthful of cracker.

"Well, she doesn't want to," my mom says. "Do you, Rachel?"

"No," I say apologetically. "I like New York for now."

My dad frowns as if to say, well, then there is no solution.

Silence fills the kitchen. My parents exchange a doleful glance.

"Well. There is sort of someone" I blurt out, just to cheer them

up a bit.

They brighten, stand up straighter.

"Really? I knew it!" My mom claps giddily.

"Yeah, he's a very nice guy. Very smart."

"And I'm sure he's handsome too," she says.

"What does he do?" my dad interrupts. "The boy's looks are beside

the point."

"He's in marketing. Finance," I say. I'm not sure if I am telling

them about Marcus or Dex. "But. .

"But what?" my mom asks.

"But he just got out of a relationship, so the timing may be

imperfect."

"Nothing is ever perfect," my mom says. "It is what you make of

it."

I nod earnestly, thinking that she should cross-stitch that nugget

of wisdom and hang it over my twin bed upstairs.

"On a scale of one to ten, how much do you dread this baby

shower?" Darcy asks me the next day as we drive to Annalise's

shower in my mom's '86 Camry, the car I learned to drive in. "Ten

is total, total doomsday kind of dread. One is I can't wait, this

thing will be really fun."

"Six," I say.

Darcy makes an acknowledging sound and then flips open her

compact to check her lipstick. "Actually," she says, "I thought it'd

be higher."

"Why? How much do you dread it?"

She closes her compact, examines her two-point-three-carat ring,

and says, "Mmmm I don't know Four and a half."

Ohhh, I get it, I think. I have more reason to dread it. I am the one

going into a room full of married and pregnant women many of

whom are fellow high school classmates without so much as a

boyfriend. Only one of us is thirty and totally alone, a tragic

combination in any suburb. That is what Darcy is thinking. But I

make her say it, ask her why she supposes that I dread the shower

by a full point and a half more.

Shamelessly and without hesitation to consider a tactful wording,

she answers me. "Be-cause. You're single."

I keep my eyes on the road, but can feel her stare.

"Are you mad? Did I say something wrong?"

I shake my head, turn on the radio. Lionel Richie is wailing away