The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 22
He looked a little abashed. “Well, OK, but I meant that I didn’t really have a fixed address. I go where the mood takes me, or, more important, where the surf is.”
His trailer was one of those cool silver things, shaped like a loaf of bread and about twenty feet long. It was attached to a very old Jeep, and the whole thing shouted California dreamer here! It could have been the long boards on the top, or maybe the bike rack on the back, or the skis attached to the sides. It was a Sports Chalet store on wheels.
Needless to say, the kids were astonished. Clare just kept going in and out, and laughing at all the tiny furniture, and Annabel set up at the table inside, coloring. This was cute for ten minutes or so, and then it got annoying because it meant someone had to stand out front and watch them. So we dragged them out and distracted them with the fairy house.
Edward and I found ourselves alone in the kitchen.
“How are you, Lilian? I have been thinking about you, of course.” I looked at him and realized I was making him unhappy.
“I’m fine.” I put the coffee on and made my voice calm. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out. You should probably give up on me.”
“Like you have?”
I frowned and turned to him, but he was already halfway out the door to the back garden. I finished making the coffee, and found my hands were shaking. I pulled it together and carried the tray out to the garden, ready to be distracted by Mike’s trailer tale.
Surprisingly, the story of the trailer itself was kind of boring. It had belonged to his parents when they were young hippies, and they had given it to him as a gift. However, things picked up after that.
“Did you go to college?” Frances was determined to find a story.
He shook his head. He was wearing ripped jeans and an old Bee Gees T-shirt, presumably ironically. “Not so much. Well, yes. Sort of.”
Frances clicked her tongue. “Did you or didn’t you?”
He looked embarrassed. “Well, yes. But I went early and not for the whole four years.”
“You dropped out?”
“No, finished early.” He gazed at his Vans, probably because they weren’t grilling him about his personal history.
Rachel had gotten interested, despite herself.
“Michael.”
“Yes, Rachel.”
“Did you attend an institution of higher learning?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
“Harvard?”
“MIT.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. You’re a geek?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m a nerd. Geeks bite the heads off chickens.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s fine. It’s a common error.” I noticed his surfer attitude was melting away somewhat. I hadn’t heard a bro in several minutes.
“And how old were you when you went to MIT?”
“Fifteen.”
“I see. And did you graduate having completed a degree?”
“Yes. In computer science.”
“And when was that?”
“When I was seventeen.”
“I see. So you are a surfing hippie nerd genius?”
“No. A genius is someone . . .”
“Michael.” Her tone was a warning.
“Yes, then. If you must have a label.”
We all sat and looked at him differently, as you do when someone has revealed something unexpected. The sound of mental gears clashing filled the air. Mike sighed. “Now you’re all going to look at me differently.”
We all shook our heads. Apart from Angela, who, for some reason, looked a little pissed off. She leaned back on her hands and tipped her head to one side. “I am, for sure. I thought you were a hippie dropout, and now I think you’re a hippie burnout. Here’s my guess: overeducated because you were supersmart, sent away to college before you were really ready, rushed through it because you could and because you were overwhelmed by all the big kids who were as smart as you, then two years hiding in your parents’ house trying to get your shit back together, then giving up on the whole thing and driving around from beach to beach. And you take courses like this one because your brain can’t stand to be idle for too long.” She regarded him coolly. “Am I right?”
We were all looking at him, and I think we all saw the same thing. His first reaction to this somewhat damning narrative was anger—a reasonable reaction, seeing as no one likes to be judged. And then he grinned.
“You couldn’t be more wrong, Miss Leapy Conclusion-son. Here, I’ll tell you what actually happened, then you really will look at me differently, I’m afraid, and then I’ll tell you your story.”
She nodded. I looked at Edward, who was already looking at me, it turned out, which was awkward, and then I looked at Rachel, who shrugged. I started to feel a little worried that this was going to get messy, but what can you do? One minute it’s all happy in the garden, pass the pizza, and the next minute it’s Lord of the Flies meets spin the bottle. But shit, they’d always had a somewhat prickly relationship, those two.
Mike lay back on the grass and folded his arms on his chest. I flicked a glance around. Everyone was interested except for the kids, who were just playing, and Gene, who was having a moment with Frank. I looked back to Mike, who was apparently reading something printed on the sky.
“Yes, I was supersmart as a kid, and so I went to college early. However, I graduated early because I came up with a way to change how the military processed information from troops on the ground, and the government asked me to go and implement it. My parents are dyed-in-the-wool Berkeley pacifists and weren’t having it until I graduated, so I finished my degree early, went to the Middle East, and implemented my system, which made things safer for our troops, most of whom were only a few years older than me. That was great. Then I got blown up in a truck with five other soldiers, three of whom died, which was less than great.
“They shipped me home with a shattered leg, and I spent a year in rehab in San Diego. That’s where I got into surfing. My parents gave me the trailer so I could travel around, surf, and work on my Ph.D., which is about the real-time processing of military intelligence.” He leaned up on his elbow and looked at Angie a little defensively. “But you were right about one thing. I took this course because my brain likes to be fed new stuff. And because I realized as I was lying in the hospital that life is too short to be lived entirely in your head.”
Well, there you have it. Not just a hippie übernerd but a supersmart war-hero nerd. I was clearing my throat to offer sodas to the shocked troops on the ground, so to speak, when he continued.
“And here’s my guess about you, Angela. Also supersmart but undereducated because of the crappy public school in your neighborhood, knowing you could do better but not being able to find a way. Maybe one teacher saw your potential, but too many others just looked through you, too tired to care. You met a confident guy with a plan of escape, and you accidentally got pregnant. Bam, there goes college for a while. Broke up with the dad because”—he looked over at Bash and saw that he could hear, although he was playing, and lowered his voice—“because, let’s face it, he wasn’t as smart as you, and then taking care of a baby and doing school was too hard, so you dropped out. When Bash got a little older, you put him in day care, or left him with your mom, got a job, got your GED, and enrolled in nursing school because you couldn’t afford medical school. Now you’re just trying to get qualified so you can get out of the ’hood and start building a better life. You’re fearless and determined, and I think you’re totally amazing and gorgeous, but the chance of you ever going out with someone like me seems like, approximately, fourteen million to one. Against.” He smiled at her, crookedly. “Am I right?”
I swear to God, we all held our breath.
She hadn’t changed her expression, but she waited nearly a full minute before replying. “Yes, and no. You’re scarily right about my life, which I suppose is reasonable, seeing as it’s as predictable as it gets, but you’re totally wrong about the other thing. I would love to go out with you.”
We all burst into applause, because, honestly, how often do you see romance like that played out in front of you? It was like being in the studio audience. The kids had no idea what was going on, but they cheered, too, which is one of the nice things about kids. They’re always up for a party.
• • •
After everyone had left, Rachel helped me put the kids to bed. They were still obsessed with the fairy house, in the way kids form deep obsessions from time to time. They carried all the fairies inside and washed them in the bath, drying each one carefully with a facecloth and cotton buds. Lining them up on their bedroom rug, they rearranged and named them all about five times. They wrote everything down, very carefully. There was much discussion of internal relationships and family trees. It was like an anthropology lecture.
Once that was sorted out, they consented to go to bed. Annabel looked up at me from her pillow, her pink face relaxed. “Is Bash’s mom going to go out with Mike now?”
Remember how I said kids pay attention when you don’t know they’re doing it? Here was another classic example. I swear to God, they weren’t even close enough to hear what was going on, but apparently Annabel had gone back over the transcripts. I gathered half a dozen soft toys from the top of the bed and moved them to the bottom. If they wanted to smother her, they’d have to work for it.
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s too early to tell. People often like each other but don’t end up together, and that’s totally all right.”
“Like you and Edward?”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not really ready to go out with anyone, but Mike and Angela both are.”
She looked at me thoughtfully, her face still calm. For once this conversation wasn’t worrying her, which felt like progress. It was worrying the shit out of me, but hey, like I said, baby steps.
“You can have a boyfriend if you like. Daddy wouldn’t mind.”
I tucked the sheet in around her. Rachel was on the other side of the room, reading a story to Clare, but I could tell she was listening. Clare could, too, and suddenly tapped on the book.
“Hey! You just read that bit wrong.”
Rachel fought back. “How do you know? You don’t even read.”
“I mostly read. And I know this book.” She recited the entire paragraph from memory. “You said ‘brown bear,’ when it’s actually ‘honey brown bear.’”
Rachel frowned. “That’s a pretty minor detail.”
“Not to the bear.”
I turned back to Annabel, hoping this had distracted her. But no, her eyes were still on me. Since when had my little kid turned into the Spanish Inquisition? Nobody expects that.
“OK, time to go to sleep.” I bent down and kissed her.
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
I stood up. “No, there’s not really anything to talk about.” Without waiting for an answer, I went over to Clare, gave her a kiss, and left Rachel to finish the story and turn out the light.
I started making more coffee, despite it being nearly nine. For some people, stress leads to drinking, or saying the rosary, or meditating. For me, it’s pulling out a filter paper and filling it with coffee grounds. To each his own, and at least I’ll be awake for whatever disaster is coming.
Rachel came in and exhaled loudly.
“Remind me, if I should ever be foolish enough to have kids, that I should keep them secluded from all human interaction. A closet, maybe. Or a convent.”
“Convents are full of humans.”
“Humans dressed as penguins, though, so not quite the same.”
“These are executional details. You haven’t said why yet.”
She sat down on a kitchen chair and immediately got up again to get herself some water. “I was freaked out by Annabel grilling you. I didn’t realize those little balls of poop and tears became people with opinions they are happy to express.”
“They do. Plus they also still poop and cry.” I poured some coffee.
“It’s scary.”
“And then, just when they wear you down completely and have you hanging on their every word, they piss off to college and never come back.” I sat across from her. “What’s going on with Richard?”
“Nothing. It’s good. It’s all good. Some of it is even great.”
“Are you going to introduce him to Mom?”
She laughed. “I said it was going well. Why on earth would I want to risk ruining it? Besides, it’s early days. Eventually experience will destroy the illusion that I’m a functional adult, but why rush it?” She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and shivered.
I sighed. “Mom and I had a nearly normal conversation on the phone the other day.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a wrong number?”
“Pretty sure. She knew a lot of details for a complete stranger.”
“Fair enough. Well, I’m not introducing him to anyone just yet. He may still turn out to be a psychopath.”
“You’re so optimistic.”
We went into the living room, and I began my previously described evening ritual of corralling toys.
“Do you get bored of your life?”
I looked up from the Fisher-Price Little People bucket and gazed at Rachel. “Which part?” I threw a horse into the bucket. “The tidying-up-toys part, the making-endless-meals-that-get-ignored part, or the continuous-whining part?” I sat back on my heels, pondering. “Although, before you clarify, none of it is actually any more boring or more interesting than any other part. Until you have kids, you work for yourself, so you can minimize the really boring stuff, and then you have kids and you work for them. It’s more boring, but it’s boring with a purpose, if you get what I mean.”
“I think so.” She started helping me tidy up but quickly got distracted by the dollhouse, which I’d brought in from the garage. I crawled over and sat next to her. After I’d pulled the house out of the garage, I’d found a huge plastic tub full of little furniture, which had blown the children’s minds completely. Now Rachel and I sat side by side and set up the house. Her rooms were more eclectic than mine, I’m not afraid to say. For example, she made a table out of two Playmobil horses and a ruler.
“You’re very creative,” I said.
“Only in miniature,” she replied, airily. “Look, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I started arranging tiny throw cushions. Poorly.
“When you first met Dan, how did you know he was the right one?”
This was a surprising question. She had essentially been there for the whole relationship; we’d all agreed Dan was awesome. As if reading my mind, she continued.
“I mean, we all knew he was great, but there are lots of great people in the world. How did you know he was actually The One?”
I shrugged. “Well, first of all, you’re assuming there is only one, rather than several. I don’t think there is only one.”
She looked at me. “Then why aren’t you interested in dating anyone else? I think he was your one, and you don’t think anyone else comes close.”
I thought about it, as I put very small cutlery in a very small drawer. “No, I’m just not ready yet. Think about it this way: If you break a leg, you give it time to heal, and you don’t run on it right away, right? Well, I’m still healing, and I’m not ready to run, that’s all. It doesn’t mean I won’t go out with other people in the future.” My back hurt, so I moved to the sofa. “Why do you ask, anyway? Is this about Richard?”
She nodded, still working on the house. “Yeah. I feel differently about him than I ever have about anyone else.”
“So maybe you’re ready. Maybe it’s not him, but you.”
She laughed. “It’s not you, it’s me?” She apparently changed her mind about the location of the bedroom, because she suddenly removed everything from two rooms and started over. She was really giving it some thought.
I curled up on the sofa and got comfortable. “Exactly. Here’s what I think: I don’t think there is just one person for everyone. I think there are actually lots. But think about how many people you meet, and how many people you don’t meet. Hundreds of people pass you on the street every day, and somewhere among them might be one you could fall in love with, have children with, or just live with in peace and harmony for your whole life. But what if they turn the corner before you do, or go back to get something they forgot, or take one minute longer to get coffee at Starbucks . . . you might never meet. And then what if you do meet but for some reason you’re having an off day, or they are, or they just broke up with someone, or they’re coming down with a cold, or whatever, so for whatever reason you don’t click right away. It’s amazing anyone hooks up at all, really.”
She was gazing at me. “You realize that in no way answers my question, right?”
I was disappointed. “It doesn’t? It felt so wise as I said it.”
“Sorry. Can you just answer the question: How did you know Dan was the right person for you, at that time, at that point in space, regardless of the astronomical odds against anyone ever finding true love?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. He just smelled right.”
She grinned, suddenly. “Now, that is actually helpful.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.” She regarded the dollhouse happily. “That makes sense to me. Richard smells right, too.” She looked over at me, slyly. “And Edward doesn’t smell good to you?”
I laughed. “Actually, he smells great to me. Maybe my brain is just slower than my nose.”
“You know, if we stick to your earlier metaphor, then you can only strengthen a broken leg by using it, not by staying off it.”
