She hurries off in the direction of the ladies’ room while I dab my upper lip with a napkin, confirming that I did, in fact, have a frothy white beer mustache.
Well, that’s that, then. The Millhouse boys it is.
“Liam! Come over and meet Abby!” Peter calls.
No. Please don’t. I swivel my stool to face the bar, and in my overly enthusiastic effort, I swing it too far and bang my left knee on the wood bracket. The force of it causes my body to jar and jerk back to my right and I plant my left hand in what’s left of my pie. I’m a regular Princess Di this evening, all elegance and grace.
Check, please.
Nettie gives me a concerned look. “You all right, love?”
“I’m fine. I just remembered I have to make a phone call. Can you put this on my room?” I smile too brightly as I slide off the stool and start for the side door as fast as my legs can carry me.
“Well, come back when you’re done so you don’t miss the music!” Nettie calls.
“And you still need to meet Liam!” Peter yells.
“I most certainly will!” Not.
Chapter Six
Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart.
~ Erma Bombeck
Ten minutes later, I’m lying in the tub with steam rising up around me. Mr. Whitman sits on the ledge, dipping his paw in the water, consumed by his own reflection. Poor guy. No matter how many baths I take, I don’t think he’ll ever figure out he’s the cat who appears. “It’s just you, Walt.”
My mind wanders back to Liam walking into the pub, and my cheeks burn at the memory of the horrified look on his face. Why I care, I have no idea. It's not like I was looking to be the next Mrs. Wright. Or Mrs. Anything for that matter. I’ve got Walt, and when I sleep, I’ve still got Isaac to stare at me lovingly. He didn’t recoil when he first saw me. Mind you, I was twenty-two and didn't have a frothy white mustache.
I try to imagine what I looked like all those years ago, sitting in the faculty lounge, a young teacher’s assistant, shamelessly gazing at Professor Isaac Carson as he and my mentor, Professor Juanita Rodriguez, debated the rightful winner of the Booker Prize. I soaked in his words, not understanding the nuances of their discussion, but loving the sound of his deep voice.
He finally glanced at me, and when his eyes met mine, I knew love at first sight was not just a myth. It never bothered me that he was nearing forty, the sprinkle of gray hair and the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled making me sigh like a fool. I didn’t understand those were signs that much of his time on this earth had passed by already. I was too young to think about any of that. Too naïve to understand what it would mean to be left behind.
Instead, I looked forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays when Juanita and I would go to the faculty lounge after her office hours. I’d wake early to shower and blow out my hair, then stand in front of my tiny closet, searching in vain for something sophisticated to wear.
It took a year for Isaac to resign himself to the fact that he would actually date from within the pool of graduate students. It was my writing that did it—a short story Juanita had asked him to read that I wrote about a birdcage. Before that, he was convincingly disinterested in my fluttering eyelids. Although, after we were solidly a couple, he admitted otherwise. He confessed he had done his best not to notice me or to inhale my perfume whenever I sat next to him. It turned out Isaac had also anticipated seeing me at lunch and got up early to shave and put on something that might make him look more hip.
I smile, thinking of that time in our lives—the thrill of it all. Sneaking around so we didn’t get found out. Going on dates far off campus. Making love until the early morning hours at his apartment. He would drop me off at the train station nearest the university, and we would kiss like a couple of fools before I would reluctantly peel myself from his embrace and the warmth of his car, only to see him in the hallway of the English Literature building twenty minutes later.
The passionate first few years turned into a very real and beautiful partnership. Something rich and easy and supportive. Isaac was the first to encourage me to write a novel. As soon as I finished my graduate degree, he told me to take a year and write. I didn’t have to work. We could get married, and I could live off him until I made it big, then he could quit teaching and live off me. That was how he proposed. He made it sound casual, like I could take it or leave it depending on how I felt at that moment.
I took it, of course, jumping into his arms in Central Park and kissing him wildly. We were married a month later in that same spot, tucked away at the back of the Shakespeare Garden. A small ceremony under an old maple tree that stretched its arms out to shelter us from the heat of the June sun. We had two dozen guests, including my parents, who accessorized their Sunday finest with sour expressions. They expected me to come home to Portland when I finished school. Instead, I married a man nearly twice my age, intending to stay two thousand miles away from them for the rest of my life. They certainly couldn’t wrap their heads around my plan to ‘sit around daydreaming and expect to earn a living.'
But even worse than my career choice—'a long shot at best,’ as my dad called it—they were horrified to find out Isaac and I didn’t want children. He was not the man they would have chosen for me. But he’s the one I chose for myself. He’s the one I miss with every cell in my body.
Through the open window in my room, I hear a guitar being tuned while people chat and laugh. Soon, the talking stops and the sound of a lone, low voice wafts up from the pub. The words aren’t in English, but both the voice and the tune are hauntingly beautiful and I know it’s about love lost. More voices join in, then a flute. Next is a violin, and I can't help but wonder if it's Liam. Apparently, he's a hell of a fiddle player. The thought of him brings another flash of embarrassment, and I long for a third pint to distance me from it. This is why I prefer cats. They don’t make you feel things you don't want to feel. Humiliation. Rejection. Longing.
This song is making me miss Isaac so much it hurts.
That's it. I'm shutting the window.
I step out of the water, wrap my hair in a towel, and slide on my robe. Hurrying to the window, I start to shut it but don't. Instead, I listen as the song builds to a crescendo, torturing myself a little longer for reasons I don't understand. I sigh and lean on the window ledge as the torment continues. The sun sinks into the sea as the first stars appear. Walt rubs against my leg, and I pick him up so I can stroke his soft head. "You're my people, Walt. Everyone else can just suck it."
* * *
The next morning, I wake having dreamed about Isaac. For a moment, I’m blissfully unaware that he’s gone, because we’ve just been strolling hand in hand down 7th Avenue, and he’s been patiently listening as I try to decide on furniture for our new house. I love the caramel leather chair, but I think the dark brown one might fit better in the room. In the end, he suggests waiting until the carpet is ripped up to see what’s under it. Better to have no chair for a few extra weeks than the wrong one for a decade. I tell him he’s so sensible.
I open my eyes, and the unfamiliar ceiling causes my stomach to drop. My bliss evaporates abruptly as the last twenty months of my life come rushing back at me. I don’t want to get up. I want to go back to sleep, in case he’s still there. Rolling over, I close my eyes, praying for sleep to come, but after a few minutes, I give up. He’s lost to me again. At least until tonight. Maybe if I go to bed early, I’ll find him waiting.
