A Woman Lost Read online

  “Are you looking for a job?” Ethan glanced sidelong at his phone again.

  “No. I’ve decided to take some time off and finish my dissertation. I’m thinking of writing a book. I don’t know if working a regular job is my thing.”

  “And you want to live in Boston to do this? Why can’t you do it here?”

  “I think a change of pace will help me concentrate more.” I was making crap up as I went along.

  “Have you ever been to Boston?”

  “Nope.” I was tiring of his interrogation.

  “But you want to live there?”

  I knew what he was doing. Ethan always lectured me about running away from my problems. What did he know? He quit his program early.

  The move to Boston may be perceived as rash to outsiders, but I felt that I needed to do it. Life was getting too comfortable. Too predictable. Stifling, in fact. What would become of me if I stayed?

  “I’m not being a coward?”

  “Would I say such a thing?” Ethan raised his eyebrows in mock amazement.

  “I know what you’re trying to do, Ethan.”

  “And what’s that, Lizzie?” he asked, searching my face.

  “I’m not running away.”

  “Of course not. You are just picking up and going to a city where you know no one, you don’t have any job prospects, and you don’t have a place to live. It all sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

  I mulled this over. No prospects. No, don’t listen to him, Lizzie.

  Stay strong.

  Do not let yourself get tied down.

  * * *

  “Fuck.”

  I rolled over in bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think something bit me.”

  I fumbled for the light switch on the hotel nightstand. Our flight to New York had been delayed, so we hadn’t settled down into our room until well after one in the morning.

  “Let me see.”

  Sarah held out her hand and pointed to her ring finger. I could see a slight red mark. That didn’t concern me as much as the fact that her finger was swelling. When I tried to remove the ring, she winced in pain.

  “Here, let me try.” Sarah yanked on the ring, but it wouldn’t budge.

  I called the front desk for a cab to the hospital.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Honey, we have to get that ring off your finger. I didn’t know you were allergic to insect bites.” I rushed around getting dressed and threw a pair of jeans and a sweater for Sarah to put on.

  “I didn’t either. Will they have to cut the ring off?” She sounded deflated and tenderly rubbed the ring I had bought her for Christmas.

  “I don’t know, baby. Let’s get you to the hospital, okay? We’ll see what can be done.” I kissed her forehead and whisked her downstairs to the waiting cab.

  When the receptionist in the crowded ER department saw Sarah’s finger, a doctor was called immediately. Within one minute, she was receiving treatment. No rooms were available, so they led her to a gurney in the hallway. As she was being seated, a nurse jabbed a needle into her arm. Sarah hadn’t even seen it coming. She jumped about a foot and cursed, but the nurse was too busy to apologize. The doctor explained he would have to cut the ring off. He was holding something I assumed was a ring cutter.

  Tears filled Sarah’s eyes. “Don’t let them cut the ring off.” She pulled her hand away from the nurse.

  “We have to get this ring off.” The doctor eyeballed me like it was my responsibility.

  “It’s okay, honey,” I coaxed. “We can get this ring fixed or we can get you a new one. But look at your finger; it’s turning blue.”

  “But you gave me this ring.”

  “And I can get you a new one. A better ring. Just let the doctor take care of your finger.”

  “What’s wrong with this ring? Why would I need a better ring?”

  I was astonished that she chose this moment to quibble about my word choice.

  “There’s nothing wrong with this ring, but I don’t want you to lose your finger! All you have to do is tell me whether you want it fixed or whether you want a new one, and I’ll make it happen.”

  “When can we replace it?” She looked up at me, tears streamed down her face.

  The nurse looked at me like I was an idiot, and her eyes screamed, Hurry things up!

  “We can go shopping first thing tomorrow. I promise.” I placed my hand on her shoulder tenderly.

  Sarah let them cut the ring off.

  After several hours of observation, she was released from the hospital. I wrapped her up in my coat and took her back to the hotel. I had requested that the bedding be changed completely, but the hotel staff felt so bad they had upgraded our room. We now had a fantastic view of Times Square, and an extra night if we wanted. Sarah fell asleep at seven in the morning. I noticed the swelling on her finger had finally subsided, and I fiddled with the damaged ring in my pocket. Exhausted, I leaned against the wall and watched her for some time before I joined her in bed and closed my eyes.

  * * *

  “You did what?” Ethan exclaimed.

  “I bought her a ring.”

  “No … No! Wait.” He shook his head. “You bought her a diamond ring?”

  “I know. I know. But what was I supposed to do? Her finger was turning blue, and I promised I would buy her a new ring. Ethan, her finger was blue … and the nurse‌—‌she looked like Nurse Ratched, by the way‌—‌was staring at me with a look that said I needed to act fast. So I acted: I promised her a new ring.”

  As soon as Sarah had woken up after sleeping off all the medication they gave her at the hospital, she had asked when we were going shopping. Before I knew it, we were at Tiffany & Co.

  “How big is it?” Ethan was clearly baffled.

  “It’s not that big. It’s only two carats.”

  “Two carats!” He slammed his cup down on the table. His high, falsetto voice rattled me.

  “Is that big?” I felt helpless and stupid when it came to these things.

  “I got my wife a one-carat, and I thought that was nice. How much did it cost?”

  “Let’s just say it was a lot more than the amethyst one.”

  “I bet.” He shook his head. “Did it come in a blue box?”

  “What?”

  “My wife told me that if the ring wasn’t in a blue box, it wouldn’t be good enough.”

  “Did you have to buy a blue box?” I saw a silver lining. I didn’t buy one.

  Ethan laughed. “Boy, you are a moron when it comes to this stuff. Tiffany & Co. has blue boxes. All women want their engagement rings from Tiffany’s.”

  “Engagement ring? What the fuck are you talking about?” After purchasing the ring, I had done my best to banish this thought from my mind.

  He stirred his coffee, smirking. “Did you buy the ring from Tiffany’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a diamond ring?” He examined me over the rim of his glasses.

  “Yes.”

  “What finger is she wearing it on?”

  “Her ring finger.” I whispered, deflated.

  “Yep, you’re engaged.” He got up for a refill.

  I pondered the new pickle I was in. When he came back I said, “But I didn’t ask her to marry me. Don’t I have to ask?” I was grasping for straws.

  “I seriously doubt she’s taking that technicality into consideration.” He laughed. “Can I be your best man?”

  “But we can’t get married! It’s not legal here, thank God.” I was suddenly flooded with relief.

  “It’s legal in Massachusetts, and you are thinking of moving there. It will be a legal marriage if you get married there.” His expression told me that he relished my situation.

  “But she doesn’t know that.”

  “You better tell her. If you pick up and leave, that will be considered abandonment.” He laughed some more. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want to commit, you sure know how to tie you
rself down. A mortgage, a cat, and now marriage‌—‌a legal marriage, I might add. What’s next, a kid? I know a good adoption agency.” He winked at me.

  So much for not getting tied down. I pulled my sweater off.

  “What’s the matter? Is it getting too hot for you?” He howled with laughter.

  “Oh, you’re so funny.” I rubbed my face.

  It was getting hot. I groaned.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ethan was running late, so I sat at a table and listened to my new iPod. When he walked in he started to laugh.

  “What?” I pulled the headphones from my ears.

  “You were actually rocking out. I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “You didn’t know I could bob my head?”

  “Nope. I didn’t think you had any sense of rhythm.”

  “Well, show me your moves.” I wiggled my butt in my chair in an attempt to dance‌—‌a pathetic attempt, because I nearly toppled over.

  “No way. The only time I showed my moves was on my wedding day. Never again. And I wouldn’t suggest using that move you just did.” He shook his head gravely. “By the way, has Sarah picked the song yet for your first dance as a married couple?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, startled.

  “You are a relationship idiot. Don’t you know you’ll have to dance at your reception?” He waggled his finger in my face.

  “Reception? Dance? What are you talking about? This isn’t what you call a traditional wedding.”

  “For some reason, I don’t think Sarah will see it that way. I think she’ll want the whole nine yards. I’m going to grab some coffee. Do you need anything?”

  I stared out the window. “What? Uh? No, thanks.”

  When he returned, I asked, “So you think I will have to help pick out a cake, china patterns, a dress, and all that shit?”

  “Yes, you knucklehead. You’re getting married. What did you think? You could just stand under the stars and make a promise. Weddings are a lot of planning and work. Who put the music on your iPod? I have a feeling it wasn’t you.” He pushed his glasses higher on his nose.

  “Sarah gave it to me as a gift. It’s great. She put music and audiobooks on it. And she even put the ‘Monster Mash’ on it. I love it.”

  “The ‘Monster Mash’?” He stared at me as if termites were swarming out of my skull. “You know that’s a Halloween song, right? When was the last time you dressed up on Halloween? Did you even go trick-or-treating as a child?”

  “Yes, you numbskull. I know it’s a Halloween song and I think I went trick-or-treating once or twice in my life. I like the song. Why does everyone question why I like the song? It’s fun, light-hearted.”

  “Okay, besides the ‘Monster Mash,’” he shook his head in disbelief and curled up the corner of his moustache. “Have you listened to all of the music?”

  “No. There are hundreds of songs on it.”

  Ethan picked my iPod up and started to scroll through playlists and artists. I sipped my chai and tried to fathom the mess I was in. A wedding?

  He chuckled. Then he placed the iPod on the aluminum-topped table in front of me. I looked at the screen, at a mix labeled “Our love songs.”

  “How did you find that?”

  “I’ve been married a lot longer than you, Lizzie. I know how love-starved women act. I bet those are the songs she’s considering for the big day.”

  I was flabbergasted. “But we haven’t even set a date yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I sighed, rose, and went into the bathroom. Staring at the mirror, I splashed cold water on my face. Then I went out and sat down again.

  “Feel better?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you got your shirt all wet.” He indicated my collar. “I haven’t seen you this messed up since you started grad school. You going to be okay?” Ethan’s face wore his “Cheer up, tiger” look, but I could tell he was enjoying my misery.

  I shrugged.

  “Do you think she wants kids?”

  “Oh, God.” I put my head in my hands. “I think I’m going to puke.”

  “Do you remember when you puked minutes before your orals after your first year of grad school?”

  I could tell Ethan was really enjoying himself now.

  “I bet you puke before you walk down the aisle. Or better yet, I hope you puke right when they ask you to say your vows. Will she make you write your own vows? I bet she does.”

  I pushed back my chair with a screech and ran to the bathroom. When I returned, a bottle of Sprite sat bubbling away on the table. I sipped it slowly, the bubbles and sugar nice and sweet in my mouth. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, puker. So when should we start writing your vows? I wrote mine. Maybe you could just borrow mine but change the name.”

  I ran back to the bathroom again to the sound of Ethan’s chuckling.

  * * *

  By the time Sarah had returned from her shopping excursion, I was recovering on the couch and watching a Cary Grant movie. I had vomited non-stop for several hours and I was struggling to keep my eyes open, let alone to follow what was going on. Hank was curled up next to me.

  “Hi, honey. I thought for sure you would be riding your bike. It’s such a beautiful spring day.” Sarah bubbled with perkiness. She pulled a candle out of one of the bags and placed it on the coffee table.

  I grunted.

  “Uh-oh … is someone crabby today.” She sat down next to me. The movement of the couch made me ill.

  I bolted to the bathroom, and Sarah followed.

  “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were sick.”

  When I finished vomiting, I leaned against the bathroom wall while Sarah wiped my pale face with a wet cloth. I closed my eyes to stop from puking again.

  She sat with me for several minutes. Finally, she said, “You ready for bed?” Her voice was so sweet. I wanted to crawl into her arms, but I was too weak.

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  She helped me out of my clothes and tucked me in. Then she went into the front room, where I heard her rustling through bags. She returned to set a new clock on the nightstand.

  “I got us an iHome, so we can listen to your iPod at night. What do you want to listen to?”

  “You decide, honey. I’ll fall asleep pretty quickly.”

  I prayed she wouldn’t play the love songs. Luckily, she chose jazz. Then she crawled into bed with me until I fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As soon as I heard the familiar “ping” on my computer, I knew Maddie couldn’t sleep as well. It was well past midnight, and Sarah had gone to bed hours ago. After she had fallen asleep, I had crawled out of bed in an attempt to get some work done. Instead, I ended up surfing the web, looking for places in Boston. Pipe dream or not, I still looked. It relaxed me.

  I opened up the email and read: Congratulations, you rat! I ran into Sarah and saw the rock! Nice job with the ring. I guess you decided to take the plunge after all. Why didn’t you tell me?!

  I sighed. I couldn’t write back that it was all a horrible misunderstanding. What kind of impression would that make? I was positive Sarah hadn’t disclosed all of the details as to why the ring had been purchased. I wrote back: Howdy, my fellow night owl. To be honest, I can’t take much credit for the ring. Sarah picked it out. What’s new with you?

  She fired a response right back: Don’t try to change the subject. Seriously, we need to have a party to celebrate your engagement. We can call it the “Plunge Party” and everyone can bring you a plunger.

  I tried to think of a stalling tactic, and wrote: Hey now, you have enough on your plate. We can think of a party after your wedding. Besides, Sarah and I haven’t worked out all of the details.

  Her response: Details … what do you mean details? You’re getting married, right?

  Goddammit! Why did she insist on cornering me on the subject? I replied: I guess I mean we haven’t set up a timeline
for the event.

  I felt better writing “event” than wedding; it seemed like that gave me a way out.

  Several minutes passed before I received her response: LOL … timeline … you are such a historian. I’m off to bed. I’ll discuss the party with Sarah the next time I see her. Sweet dreams!

  I shut down my computer and went into the bedroom. Sarah had kicked off all of the covers. My eyes lingered on her naked body for several minutes.

  Was our relationship what she wanted? Was it satisfying for her? Was it what she dreamed of when she started falling in love with me? Did reality ever fulfill our dreams? Or do dreams just continually set us up for failure and disappointment?

  Our engagement was clumsy at best. I hadn’t really whisked her off to New York City to propose. In fact, I still wasn’t convinced our engagement was even official. Sure, a ring was exchanged, but is that all it takes to seal the deal?

  I heard a mournful train whistle off in the distance.

  Finally, I got undressed, crawled into bed with her, and embraced her. She smelled of lavender, sweet lavender. I never liked the smell until I smelled it on her. I kissed the back of her head and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  “What if she thinks you’re having an affair with Maddie, or with anyone else for that matter?” Ethan rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  “How in the world would that be a good thing?”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for her to despise me? I’m no good for her. I can’t be what she wants me to be.”

  “And what does she want you to be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … a character in a Jane Austen novel, or something.”

  Ethan frowned. “I seriously doubt Sarah wants you to be like Mr. Darcy. She doesn’t seem to be putting that pressure on you. I think, my friend, you are putting that pressure on yourself. Stop watching Hugh Grant films. They aren’t real. And when have you read any Austen?”

  “All I’m trying to say is that I don’t think I am good enough for her. I’m not romantic. I don’t rush home every day with flowers and such. I like to work long hours. I like being by myself.”