Things I can’t Explain (23 page)

Coincidence? Collusion?

Potato? Patahto?

“I understand
you've
found yourself a real catch. Music producer, is it? Genelle says that your mother raves about him. Is he another one of your DIY entrepreneurs? You certainly have a knack for these boys.”

Fortunately, Nick and I are good … right?
Off-again, on-again
no more? But doubt lingers now that Dartmoor will be there. Too many malevolent forces are gathering in a confluence of events that is making my head spin. What exactly have I gotten myself into? A storm is brewing and I can feel it.
My stomach lurches.

The good ship
Nuzegeek
pitches and tosses, buffeted by heavy gales. The gray cubicles slide down the deck and over the railing into the deep churning seas. On-again and off-again waves flooding across the ship and back out into the ocean. Where's Nick when I need him? Oh no! There he is, bobbing up and down in the black water! Up and back down again. Will he disappear among the waves? Block and tackle lines swing dangerously, pendulum-like across the deck as sheets of rain fall slant-wise. Drenched again, it feels as though I could be thrown overboard at any moment, dropping into the turbulent depths. Grabbing a nearby backstay to lash myself to the mast, I hear a loud snap. The line breaks free from the cleat and I am flying, swinging out over the dark churning waters, out of control.…

“In any case,” Dartmoor says as I transition back to reality and try to wring out my brain, “this Mr. Wonderful of yours has
got
to be better than that lovesick skate freak. Speaking of which”—he leans down and adds in a conspiratorial whisper—“seems like MT is getting in touch with her inner Avril Lavigne.”

He looks up and I follow his glance to see MT skateboarding down the Nuzegeek office hallway with Norm running by her side to steady her.

“That—I'll never forgive you for,” Dartmoor says.

 

CHAPTER
24

I decide to take a breather on my Nuzegeek article. Between the momentary lessening of tensions with Dartsy and all my diligent work, I'm feeling almost comfortable about meeting my delivery date. A quick stop at Amarcord Vintage to see what they've got in the way of dresses I might wear to a wedding is on my agenda. Amacord is a mecca for “pre-loved” clothing. It's upscale without being snooty, and even though it might be the teensiest bit out of my usual price range, I think it's going to be worth it.

No matter your economic condition, you have to at least try to dress for success at work and socially. Considering what a big deal this wedding is shaping up to be, I figure it's worth dressing the part. I refuse to consider the psycho-sociological implications of shopping as a sedative or nerve calmer. Besides, as long as it's secondhand or on sale—it's a bargain, right?

I head for Lafayette Street.

Inside the tidy shop, I let my fingers trickle along the rows of hanging garments. I have to smile, contemplating what the soon-to-be Mrs. Wendell Fleckerstein would think if she knew I'd be wearing a “used” garment to her wedding. She'd consider it gross, like maybe I'd catch a disease from the residual microscopic flakes of skin that might be clinging to the fibers. She'd also assume my decision was money-based and that I couldn't afford a brand-spanking-new frock from Bergdorf's—which is true. So on that score, she's right. But I have far better reasons than thrift and a love of classic couture for preferring vintage clothing.

For me, every dress tells a story. Every pair of hand-sewn trousers and every satin-lined skirt tells a tale. When I see a mid-'60s Pucci mini sheath, I know there's history deep within the fabric. Somebody fell in love in that dress, or kissed a stranger on New Year's Eve, or learned to dance the Watusi. History lives in every cuff, every hemline. I get to imagine all kinds of past adventures my clothes enjoyed.

Bungee jumping into your own past has its drawbacks, but time travel is another, and it's way more satisfying. Diving through the vintage racks, it feels as though the further I go back in time to another world of glamour, the smaller the sizes are. Lots of black dresses that say they're my size aren't.

I've always felt that trying to understand how clothes are sized requires advanced trigonometry and higher calculus. Something that Rodgers is way better at than I am. Curiously, I've never seen Rodgers in a dress. There must be a connection there.

She's probably insulted by the concept of vanity, as in “Vanity Sizing.” A brilliant marketing idea, but really, shouldn't it be called “Feel Better Sizing”? Women don't like to think that they're bigger, so that's where the vanity part comes in. Just to give you an idea: Marilyn Monroe was a size 14 in her day, and today she would be a size 8. Would that have made Norma Jeane feel better? Who knows. No matter, you have to ignore the silly numbers and go by sight and feel. Not that I expect anything to be actually ready to wear. I always have to pull out my trusty Singer to snug up the fit.

As I meander through hanger after hanger, everything seems too expensive or too stodgy. I run the names of the other vintage stores nearby in my mind, prepared to jump ship for an alternative. I'm about to give in to disappointment, when I see a shimmer of black hanging across the store two rows down. It's the sexiest little wisp of an LBD.

I hustle over and stake my claim. The smart little dress has a structured corset-shaped bodice while the bottom half is an embellished small skirt above the knee. Not exactly tea length, but let people like Genelle worry about that. It takes me a moment to realize that this simple little scene-stealer is a Reiss Saskia and more contemporary than everything else in the rack. I wonder what society darling sold this one. I cringe, afraid to look at the price tag. Dare I hope? I sneak a peek. No
way
. A little pricey, but not too bad. The vintage gods have been kind today.

In the dressing room I slip it on and when I come out to look in the mirror, the girl at the register has envy in her eyes. She's almost exactly my age and size. I see her brow knit ever so slightly and I know what she's thinking:
How did that little gem escape my scrutiny?
I figure I better hurry up and buy it before she makes up some excuse as to why it costs more or grabs it for herself.

I snap a photo with my phone and text it to Jody for her approval. She responds almost instantaneously with a winky smiley face fashioned from punctuation marks. As a writer, I'm always pleased to see the general public embracing the semicolon, regardless of how they choose to employ it. I'm amazed that she hasn't made the transition to emojis. Hard to believe there's a history of making faces with punctuation marks and Jody is old-school.

I slap my cash on the counter and while I wait for the clerk to bag my treasure, I begin to picture Nick and I together.
He smiles when he sees me in the dress and puts his arms around me, his hand running down my spine. I turn and put my fingers through the curls of hair at the nape of his neck and
 … I have to stop myself.

See, this has always been one of my personal issues—my alt fantasy life. By definition, it has almost nothing to do with what is actually going on. I'm good at imagining whole futuristic scenarios, ambitious possibilities, and in many ways, that's been a plus. It's helped me find my goals and go for them. But there's a downside. I tend to imagine relationships before they happen, every phase of them, including how they might end. And most of the time, they don't turn out the way I imagine. Or worse: I'm so tied up in what I imagine that I don't know what is actually happening. Sometimes I'm so worried that the relationship might end, looking for all of those negative signs, that I think it's over before it's over.
No predicted endings
, I tell myself, and try to listen this time.

I wonder if that's why I'm so confused about Sam. See, after our notorious high school reunion … ahem, union in the red pickup, Sam and I fell in love. Even though there was a female-to-male ratio of almost 18 to 1 at his college, he spent every spare weekend he could in the city with me. He had this awesome dog named Pie, a mixed border collie and shepherd, and the three of us would go everywhere together. Pie was like our guardian angel. We'd go out to Montauk on weekends and while Sam taught me to surf, Pie would wait on the shore watching us until we came in. If we got separated on the beach or in the street, she'd go back and forth between us until we were together again.

Meanwhile, Sam's marine biology professor Miquelo Archipenko selected him for a prestigious summer internship in Italy at Istituto Superiore per la Conservazione ed il Restauro, the Underwater Archaeological Operation Unit in Naples.

It turns out there are more sunken, “drowned” cities in the world than you could ever imagine. Although they haven't found Atlantis (yet…), there are the ruins of ancient submerged sites in Yonaguni, Japan; Pavlopetri, Greece; Heraklion, Egypt; Atlit-Yam, Israel; and many others. If you believe that's all fantasy, think about what almost happened to New Orleans after Katrina or NYC after Hurricane Sandy. Cities get submerged. That's the way of the world.

Near Naples, there's an underwater city that is an archaeological park and where they have been undertaking the preservation and restoration of buildings over the years—all beneath the water. It's called the Underwater Archaeological Park of Baiae, and “going to work” there means slipping into a diving suit and strapping on an oxygen tank. The town is called Baia, named after Odysseus's navigator. It was the Hamptons of the ancient world, the place where Caligula built a pleasure villa and where Nero murdered his mother, Agrippina. Lots of scandal and excess, just like any good resort community. That's where Sam and I spent our summer of bliss.

Sam's dad offered to take care of Pie and staked Sam some living expenses. Sam flew ahead a month in advance and found a little apartment on Via Laura that was pretty cool—all stucco and tile with a tiny kitchen. He began his total-immersion Italian lessons and his brotherhood of diving comrades opened every door for us.

Normally, I'm not much for cramming my butt into a wet suit, breathing like Darth Vader, and strapping sixteen pounds of weight around my waist in order to sink to the bottom of the ocean. But having Sam for a guide and the chance to see the wonders he had told me about made even that claustrophobic nightmare tolerable.

After a beginners course in the Parco Piscini, aka the public swimming pool, I had the basics covered for a short dive. But the first time I jumped in I sank like a stone and immediately freaked out. Fortunately, Sam was there for me with a safety rope. He grabbed my mask and made reassuring eye contact while I continued to breathe, slowly calming myself down.

As we dived beneath the translucent Mediterranean through the entrances of underwater villas, the sea horses scurried between the marble nyphaeum (fancy talk for nymphs) and the statues of Polyphemus (the one-eyed son of Poseidon) and Dionysus (famous Greek party boy). It was exquisite and otherworldly.

Every morning at work, Sam explored the wonders of ancient drowned atriums and colonnades with seaweed and fish swimming through them. I've never seen him happier.

Every evening on dry land, we were joined at the hip, learning how to eat and cook—way more than I ever learned from Mom. In Italy, we ate the most extraordinary meals in tiny ordinary
trattorias
and
rosticcerias
.

The next day we'd try to figure out how to prepare what we had eaten the night before. Italian food is great that way—you taste every ingredient and you can find those same ingredients in the nearby open-air market, the same markets where the restaurant chefs shopped. We only had to follow our taste buds to learn how to prepare the most delectable food. We bought wedges from wheels of Parmigiano rather than shaking those cardboard containers of Kraft cheese, we made our own spaghetti and pizza dough. Sam would buy homemade sausage and pancetta and every week we'd take our five-litre bottle to the local wine store and fill it up from a pump like at a gas station. It was a lot more exciting than shopping at the SuperSaver in Springfield.