She says, “That depends.”
More silence.
“Depends on what?”
“Do you want to be over Will?”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
I
was
, but…
“Yes,” I say, less forcefully, because obviously she thinks I’m not sure, so, um, maybe I’m not.
Silence.
Dammit. I hate it when she makes me feel wishy-washy.
“I
want
to be over him,” I offer.
“Do you?”
“Don’t I?”
“Don’t ask me, Tracey, ask yourself. I wonder if you just want to be over the pain. If perhaps there’s a part of you that isn’t ready, yet, to let go of Will.”
Okay, there’s another thing I hate about Dr. Schwartzenbaum. When I try to answer
her
questions with questions, she won’t let me.
Now she’s waiting for a reply, sitting there in her silk suit with her legs crossed and her fingers steepled, as though she has all the time in the whole damned world.
Technically, she only has—
I check my watch—
Thirty-five more minutes.
But I guess that’s enough time for me to answer the question. Which was…
Oh, yeah. She wonders if there’s a part of me that isn’t ready, yet, to let go of Will.
Which isn’t necessarily a question. It’s more like a comment.
But, apparently, she expects me to respond.
So I try.
At first, I pretend to think about whether I’m ready to let go of Will.
Then, I really
do
think about whether I’m ready to let go of Will.
I try to force myself to think about all the horrible things Will did when we were dating, but for some reason, all I can think about are the handful of nice things.
Nostalgia sweeps through me as I remember how he held
me after I slept with him for the first time, and how he took me to see
Rent
right before he left for summer stock, and how much I missed him when he left….
To my horror, tears are coming to my eyes.
I wipe them away.
They come back.
“I guess I’m not ready,” I say, sniffling. “I mean…I really loved him. I don’t know why, but I did. And he really hurt me. It still hurts.”
“Yes.”
“And as much as I try to forget all about him, I can’t get over him that easily.”
“No.”
I pluck a tissue from a strategically placed box by the couch and blow my nose. Hard. “So does that mean I’m not ready for a new relationship?”
“What do you think?”
“If I’m not ready for a new relationship now, when
will
I be? Next month? Next year? Please tell me.”
“I can’t. There’s no formula for something like this, Tracey.”
“I know, but…I really like Jack.”
“Your boss’s roommate.”
“Yes. Transition Boy.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s what my friend Kate calls Jack. She says that when you break up with somebody, you need a transitional relationship. You know—that it’s too soon to fall in love with anyone for real.”
“I see.”
“Do
you
think that’s the case?”
“Do you think you’re in love with Jack?”
Dammit, I’d get more satisfying answers out of Kate. At least she gives me explicit instructions on what to do and what not to do.
Bossy, yes, but ultimately effective.
Then again, maybe not, considering I haven’t exactly followed her advice.
“Of course I’m not in love with Jack,” I inform Dr. Schwartzenbaum, wishing I could smoke in here. The tension is getting to me. “I just met him. I just wanted to know if it’s impossible to fall in love with him—or anyone—right after a breakup. You know, like if we kept on dating.”
“Nothing is impossible, Tracey. The question is, are you emotionally ready for a new relationship?”
Well, duh. She acts like she just thought of it, but that’s the question
I’ve
been asking
her
for the last five minutes.
I pretend to scratch my chin so that I can sneak a peek at my watch. We still have thirty-two minutes to go.
I sigh and look at Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum. She—and her trusty prescription pad—were so helpful getting me over my panic attacks.
Too bad there isn’t some kind of drug she could prescribe to heal all my other problems….
“Tracey?” she prods.
“I guess I’m not emotionally ready for a new relationship, Dr. Schwartzenbaum.”
“You can call me Trixie if you’d like,” she inserts.
Why won’t she take the hint?
I go on. “I think maybe just I’m so afraid of being alone that I want to be with someone.”
I suppose that’s as good an answer as any, because she nods.
“Or maybe I am ready,” I say, testing her. “Maybe the only way I can get over Will is to find someone new.”
She nods again.
“But maybe I can’t find somebody new until I’m over Will.”
Nod.
“Which means I’m not emotionally ready for a new relationship.”
Double nod.
Damn her.
Is she just going to sit here like a bobblehead while I talk myself in circles? For this, I’m paying her a hundred bucks an hour out of pocket?
I need answers.
“Do you think I’m trying to convince myself that I could fall in love with Jack because he keeps asking me out and I’m afraid to say no because I’m afraid to be alone?” I ask her.
“Does that make sense to you?”
“Well, it does sound like something I’d do. Or maybe I’m so into Jack because I know that he’s supposed to be off-limits since he lives with my boss.”
No reply, other than a thoughtful tilt of head.
“And what about Buckley?” I ask. “Do you think I’m attracted to him just because he’s there? And he’s available? And I’m lonely? Or because I know he’s off-limits because he’s my friend?”
“Is a friend off-limits?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is a boss’s roommate off-limits?”
If I knew, would I freaking be asking her?
Okay, I’m starting to get the picture.
The answers I need are not going to come from Dr. Schwartzenbaum aka Trixie.
Not from Kate, either, though she’s a lot more forthcoming than the shrink.
It looks like I, Tracey, need to take charge of my life. Only I can decide what’s best for me—and the sooner I figure it out, the better.
O
n the fourth day of Christmas, my Secret Snowflake gave to me:
Two orchestra seats to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.
I am so not kidding.
On the fourth day of Christmas, Myron’s Secret Snowflake gave to him:
Fudge.
It was
good
fudge.
It even had nuts in it. Pecans.
One skimpy piece cost me almost five bucks at a French chocolatier off Fifth Avenue. They wrapped it up in a little white box with a red satin bow.
The Radio City tickets, however, were close to two hundred dollars. And they were tucked into a beautiful hand-embroidered pink velvet Christmas stocking somebody
hung from my bulletin board, from the empty tack that used to hold Will’s headshot.
I examine them, then look around, half expecting to see a camera crew from one of those reality television prank shows. But there’s nary a lurking lens to be seen, which means the gift is for real.
That does it.
Just yesterday I decided I’m going to take charge of my life, and it’s time I did just that.
I’ve got to put a stop to this madness.
I pluck the stocking and the tickets off the board.
I am about to march down to Merry and tell her we’ve got ourselves a
situation
when the phone rings.
It’s my line, and it’s Buckley.
“You never called me back,” he says.
Oops. I never did. He left messages for me at work and at home yesterday. He e-mailed, too. I didn’t bother to reply.
Will called, too, and left me a message. I didn’t call him back, either.
Will rarely e-mails. He claims he doesn’t believe in it. He says it’s an impersonal form of communication, but really, it’s because he’s dyslexic and has a hard time with reading and writing and is too proud to admit to being less than perfect in any way.
But enough about Will, dammit.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Buckley. “I’ve been really busy. How are you?”
“Life pretty much sucks,” he says flatly. “Sonja and I tried to patch things up Tuesday. It didn’t work. We broke up again for good.”
Is it just me, or wasn’t the first time they broke up supposed to be for good?
I’m so not in the mood for this. I’ve got my own problems to worry about.
But okay, Buckley’s my friend and I owe him an ear and a shoulder.
“Did you tell her you’re willing to compromise about living together?” I ask him, plopping down in my desk chair, still clutching the stocking and the tickets.
“No, I didn’t tell her that. Because I’m not willing. How do you compromise living with somebody?”
“I don’t know…you live together during the day but not at night?” I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“It’s a joke, Buckley.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He fake-laughs.
Well, this sucks. Time for a subject change.
“You think you’ve got problems,” I say. “My Secret Snowflake is making me feel like shit.”
“Your…what?”
“Secret Snowflake. It’s this thing in the office which somebody lied and told me was mandatory, only, I found out that it wasn’t but I had already signed up. First, my Snowflake gives me Godivas, then a poinsettia, then a gift certificate and now two tickets to Radio City. In the orchestra. What’s next? A villa in the Cayman Islands? Meanwhile, what do I buy for my Secret Snowflake? Fucking fudge. That’s what.”
He laughs.
“That’s not a joke, Buckley.”
“It struck me as funny. Sorry.” He sounds completely un-apologetic.
“What’s funny about fudge?”
“Not just fudge. Fucking fudge. And that’s not what’s funny.”
“Then what’s funny?”
“For one thing, Secret Snowflake is funny.”
“What’s so amusing about it?”
He snorts. “What isn’t amusing? The phrase ‘Secret Snowflake’ is amusing. The concept itself is pretty damned amusing, too. So is the fact that you thought it was mandatory and it wasn’t. And that you actually give a damn what you’re getting.”
“It’s not just what I’m getting, it’s what I’m
giving,
” I say, irked by his mirth. “I’m
giving
crap, and I’m
getting
game-show prizes. Why the hell isn’t my Snowflake sticking to the limit? Does everyone go over the limit and nobody told me? I feel cheap,” I wail.
“Calm down, Trace.” Buckley’s laughing. Not fake-laughing, either.
“This isn’t a joke, Buckley.”
“Tracey, if your biggest problem in life is that your Secret Snowflake is showering you with extravagant gifts—”
“It’s not my biggest problem,” I protest.
“What is?”
I hesitate.
I don’t want to go there. Not now.
“Never mind,” I tell him. “So what are you going to do about Sonja?”
“Get over her. Want to help me drown my sorrows this weekend?”
“I, um…when, this weekend?”
“Saturday night?”
“Sorry, I’ve got, um, a date.”
A pause.
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“With that Jack guy who knows all the state capitals?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Long pause.
“I know all the state capitals, Tracey,” Buckley says, and laughs.
We’re back to the fake, forced laugh.
“Try me,” Buckley says, as I try to think of something to say.
“Okay. Montana.”
“Helena.”
“Right!”
“Now will you go out with me on Saturday night instead?”
“Buckley—”
“Just kidding. It’s okay. I just…I don’t really want to sit around my apartment by myself.”
“Why don’t you go out with the guys?”
“Yeah. I could.”
“You should.”
“Okay.”
“And then maybe you and I can, uh, do something on Sunday.”
“Yeah?”
“Well…let me check something first. Oregon.”
“Salem,” is the prompt reply.
I grin. “Right again. Yeah, so…Sunday.”
“It’s a date.”
I tell him that it is.
Except, it’s not.
A date, I mean. Hanging out with Buckley on Sunday is not a
date,
date.
Mike’s line is ringing.
“I’ve got to get that,” I tell Buckley.
As I disconnect the call, I ask myself whether I wish it were a date, date.
I listen carefully for a reply, but apparently, my inner self isn’t speaking to me.
I guess, when you come right down to it, despite my vow to take charge of my life, my inner self is no more useful than Dr. Schwartzenbaum.
At least I don’t want to be called Trixie or charge me a hundred bucks an hour
after
insurance.
I press Mike’s extension and say, “Mike Middleford’s office.”
“Tracey, it’s me, Dianne.”
“Oh, hi, Dianne. How are you?”
“Great. I’m on my way to a sale at Barneys. If you haven’t finished your Christmas shopping, you should try to get over there on your lunch hour.”
As if.
I’ll be doing the rest of my Christmas shopping at Wal-Mart when I get to Brookside, thank you very much.
But I tell Dianne, “Sounds great. Maybe I will. You’ll have to let me know if you get any great bargains.”
It’s a little more difficult to make pleasant chitchat with Dianne now that I know she’s a one-woman axis of evil.
“In the men’s department?” she asks.
At least, that’s what I think she asks. She’s on her cell phone and the line is crackling.
In the men’s department
doesn’t make sense.
“What was that?” I ask. “I can’t hear you very well.”
“I said, I’ll let you know if I find any bargains in the men’s department.”
Oh, crap. Does she think I’m going to buy something for Mike at Barneys? I was planning to get him one of those desktop executive golf games. You know, the kind that cost twenty bucks in the quick gift department at JCPenney. If there even is a JCPenney in Manhattan. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen one here.
“Yeah,” Dianne says, “Mike said you and Jack are a couple now.”
Gulp.
“He did?”
She laughs. “Yeah. At first I didn’t believe him, because it just seemed so—”
Crackle, crackle.
So
what
?
Crackle, crackle.
I hate cell phones.
“—but he says it’s true. Is it?”
“Well, I’ve gone out with him a few times.”
She laughs again. “Sorry I called him an asshole.”
That comes through loud and clear. She doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic.
“Oh…uh, no problem,” I say, because what else is there to say?
“Listen, is Mike there?”
“Hang on.”
I go check. He’s not.
“His light is on so he’s in, but I don’t see him anywhere,” I tell Dianne.
“Oh. Well, can you check again? I really need to talk to him.”
Clenching my teeth, I say, “Sure.”
Like I have nothing better to do than hunt down her boyfriend every time she calls.
Take charge of your life, Tracey.
I put her on hold again and sit there for a few minutes, flipping through this morning’s
Post
.
Then I pick up again and say, “I checked everywhere, Dianne. He must be in a meeting. I’ll tell him you called.”
“Okay, thanks,” she says, but she doesn’t sound very happy about it.
After hanging up, I push back my desk chair and head off down the hall with the Christmas stocking and the two tickets to Radio City.
They’re for next Friday night, right before I leave to spend Christmas in Brookside.
Since it’s on the way to the elevator, I decide to stop by Latisha’s cube on my way to find Merry.
She’s on the phone, but she motions for me to wait.
“Okay, baby,” she says into the phone. “I will. Love you, too, baby.”
She makes kissing noises, then hangs up.
“Derek?” I ask, and she nods.
“You know, you were on the rebound when you met him, Latisha.”
“Huh?”
“You had just broken up with Anton after a couple of
years together. Then you met Derek, and the two of you fell head over heels, and nobody was saying you shouldn’t go for it.”
“Honey,
everybody
was saying we shouldn’t go for it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were so busy wallowing in a piss pot of self-pity after Will dumped you that you didn’t say anything at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a horrible friend, not to mention ashamed of wallowing in the piss pot.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I understand.”
“So you’re saying nobody was rooting for you and Derek when you got together?”
“Right.”
“But you made it work.”
She shrugs. “Well, it’s only been a few months, but—”
“So you mean he could just be a Transition Boy?”
“Boy, nothing,” Latisha says, with a sassy wave of her hand. “And Derek’s not going anywhere, and I’m not, either.”
Suddenly, I feel better about the whole Jack thing.
“What’cha got there?” Latisha asks, gesturing at my hand.
“Check this out.” I hand over the stocking and the tickets.
She’s all eye whites. “From Jack?”
“No. From my Secret Snowflake.”
“You’re bullshitting me.”
“I’m not bullshitting you.”
“Maybe I should’a gotten in on this Secret Snowflake thing after all. I was thinking it was all about candy canes and bubblegum, and—”
“It is!” I cut in. “I mean, it’s supposed to be. But my
Snowflake is some kind of overzealous freak. What am I going to do?”
“If you don’t want the tickets, give ’em to Yvonne for a bachelorette party gift. She used to be a Rockette. She can take Thor and tell him all about the old days.”
Uh-oh. The bachelorette party. I almost forgot about it. It’s less than a week away, and I still haven’t found the stripper. They’re all way too expensive for our budget.
After assuring Latisha that I’ve got Raphael working on the stripper situation and making plans to meet her, Brenda, and Yvonne for lunch, I head for Merry’s desk.