How to Love an American Man (21 page)

“That's good, she'll be able to get home more often instead of dressing windows during crazy weekend and holiday hours.”

“That's true.” Grandma sits quiet a second, then says, “I'm really happy for you girls and your careers. It makes me sad sometimes that you're all going your own ways in the world. You're leaving.”

“Grandma, that's what grandkids do. If we don't leave, then we'll just keep hanging around, driving our parents crazy. They need a break. And you've had more time with your adult grandchildren than most grandparents ever see.”

“I know, I wasn't finished with my thought. Because when I think about it, it's much better today than when I was young.”

“
Better
than when you were young?” This is the first time she's ever acted wishfully about what it's like to be a girl my age.

She looks at me. “Yes. It is.”

That's all she'll say. To fill the silence I tap on the base of my wineglass, then nibble on a few almonds, sitting back into the noisy leather of Grandpa's old recliner to fully appreciate what she has just said.

Then all of a sudden she announces, “I think I'm going to go away for a trip.”

“Yeah?”
I put down my glass. For months we've all been telling her that a change of scenery might snuff out the last of her grief. We've even offered as a family to pay the cost of her flight if she wants to go visit Aunt Marie in St. Louis. “Grandma, I think that would be wonderful for you. You'll be amazed at how a vacation changes your perspective.”

She slaps her knee in epiphany, suddenly upbeat. “That's what I've been thinking.”

“Remember my first vacation to Italy, how refreshed I was when I came home? I felt like a new person. Grandpa said I had ‘the Roman glow.' ” Then it dawns on me, and I ask, “Grandma, have you ever traveled alone before?”

“No, but . . .” She begins talking quickly, as though the idea's coming together right before her mind's eye. “Tricia said if I want to go in June when she moves to California, we can fly together and she'll make the stop in St. Louis so that I have a travel companion.”

“That's perfect! Then you'll come back and we'll all be at the Landing for the Fourth of July, then first weekend in August we have bocce, then two weekends after that is, geez, that's Zach's wedding already.”

“I'm looking forward to seeing Uncle Bill at Zach's wedding.” Uncle Bill is Grandpa's favorite brother. He never had any children and he lost his wife—my dad's favorite aunt—to cancer fifteen years ago. Uncle Bill loves being with our family, and even though he's always lived hours away, I think he considers my cousins and me to be like grandkids. I raise my eyebrows. “You think you and Uncle Bill will dance?”

“Kristine!”

“What, Grandma, it's an innocent question!”

She shrugs irreverently. “I told you once that I found all your grandpa's brothers to be handsome, didn't I?”

I gasp in mock shock. “Gloria Delores!”

“I need to look forward,” she says. “My puzzle club tried to talk me into going to Florida, but all our friends down there live in our old neighborhood, and I don't want to face that place without Grandpa.”

“Your puzzle club?”

“Yes, it's new. We meet down at the community center once a week.”

“Are there any single men? Think you'll find your missing piece?”

“That's enough, young lady. This wine is getting to us both.”

“Oh Glo, lighten up. So in St. Louis you and Aunt Marie can shop and go to museums, and Uncle David will probably take you out to eat and to a Cardinals game.”

“Right. I don't want just a few days. I'm thinking two weeks.” I think of the burden this will take off my dad, who calls Grandma most nights before dinner, after working a full workday and then his marathon training. This will also be a relief for my uncles, who chip in and take a lot of responsibility for Grandma's loneliness and well-being too. She looks at me. “I'm done with the antidepressants.”

I sit quietly a second, then smile gently. “I think that's really positive, Grandma.” The pills have helped her get through the worst of her grief, but it's true: we're not women who are content to depend on outside sources to make us feel happy.

When I go to hug Grandma goodbye, she's still perky and lit up. Never before had she hinted to me that she wasn't perfectly accepting of the life she lived; that there are parts of her granddaughters' lives that women her age may actually envy. Also, never before had she taken ownership of her own independence or even dreamed of traveling without my grandpa. The conversation makes me all the more okay with the fact that Chris wasn't part of today: I discovered my grandmothers all over again.

A
WEEK LATER
Chris rings me to ask if I can come in and work at his satellite office for the next week or so. “Chris, I'm sorry,” I tell him. “I'm on four deadlines, and they're intense.” I tell him I know a college student who's looking for summer work, and he hesitantly agrees to take down her number.

Two nights later he calls me again. “Hey, the girl you sent me is decent, but I really need you,” he says. “Nobody sees a project through like you do.”

“Chris,” I say, firmly, “I wish I could.” I pause. “Look, I have a light at the end of the tunnel next week. If you get in a jam with Kylie, let me know and I'll see what I can do.”

“Awesome. Kris, I really need you.”

“Well,” I say, “we'll have to see.” Geez, Grandma's don't-chase theory works!

“Well, then when are we going to have another one of our grandparent brunches?”

I laugh. “I don't know, you're leaving in two weeks, aren't you? How long is it this time?”

“Four months.”

Yikes.

One night Mom and I are heading out to meet Dad for dinner when my phone rings. “Is he calling every night now?” Mom asks.

“Just about.”

“Honey, he needs your help,” she says. “Oh,
fine
.”

I answer the phone. “Hello, Dr. Christopher. Are you calling to inquire about my assistance?”

The next morning I put on a blue dress and pastel heels. Chris picks me up in my driveway and opens my car door. “You want me to drive so you can make calls?” I ask him.

“Good idea.” We do a Chinese fire drill around his SUV. “You know,” he says, climbing into the passenger side, “you're more than welcome to keep my car for the summer while I'm gone. I realize it can't be fun sharing wheels with your parents.”

“Oh, Chris, thank you,” I tell him. “That's so kind of you, but really it's not necessary.” It would be an honor, he insists. I tell him, “Listen, how about this: if you bring it up again, then we'll discuss it.”

That morning I sit at his desk, plowing through everything he'd had on our to-do list—paying invoices, booking flights, picking up his suits from the tailor. “So you're all set!” I say. “You could leave the country tonight and everything would be taken care of.”

His eyes go wide and panicked, and he asks me can I please return in the morning. “There's more,” he says.

But the next morning our agenda takes me only an hour—I fill most of the day catching up on my e-mail and making changes to an article.

At lunch he pops his head in. “Kris,” he says. “Can you join me for dinner tonight?” The question catches me off guard, until he explains that he's meeting with his accountant this evening and would like me to be there as an extra set of ears.

Ah.
“Yeah, I can join you. Besides, you're my ride.”

Speaking of that, he says, he meant what he said about my using his car this summer. “You should take my laptop too,” he says. “Yours looks like it's on its last legs.” I glance over at my Mac with its perpetually dim screen and the external keyboard I've been using since last summer when I spilled a bottle of water, frying my keys.

“Okay,” I tell him. “It's a deal.”

Before we leave the office he changes out of his scrubs into a button-down shirt and slacks. He dresses just around the corner from me so we can keep talking, and I can hear the rustle of clothes, the zip of his zipper. He peeks around at me. “Do I need a tie?”

“No,” I smile. “He's an accountant, not an investor.”

He carries both of our briefcases out to the car. “Ooh, Kris, you carry this thing around?”

“Heavy, right?”

“Yes, a little.”

“I have a strong back.”

When he climbs into the driver's seat, I feel like we're headed out for a date instead of a business meeting. “Where should we tell him to meet us?”

“Luigi's,” I say. “If you're up for Italian.”

He calls his accountant. “Well, it's DuBois, so it's Luigi's or Luigi's.” He whispers over the receiver to me, “I have to stop at the hospital first.”

I nod.

In the hospital parking lot Chris walks around my side of the truck to help me down. “I love those shoes,” he says, pointing to my satin heels.

“Oh, thank you,” I tell him. “We have the same taste, don't we?”

“In shoes?”

“In general.”

The nurses point us back to his patients' room. The man is in his early fifties and just had his gums grafted. “Dr. Christopher?” he lisps as Chris removes the tongue depressor from his mouth. “I'm really feeling some stress about something. I don't like the dentures my dentist designed for me.”

“Okay,” Chris says, slipping out of his rubber gloves and crossing his arms to listen. “Let's talk about that.” The poor fellow says that the dentures just look too big, and he's afraid to spend a couple thousand dollars on something he doesn't like.

“If I may interrupt?” I say, sitting on the chair in the hospital room.

“Sure, Kris,” Chris says.

“Is it that you don't know what your options are?”

“Exactly!” the patient says.

Chris tells him that as a doctor, there's only so much he can do for a patient's health and satisfaction. “When a patient's not happy,” he says, “I want them to tell me. And I know your dentist, and he's the same way.”

The guy is in much better spirits when we leave, and he winks at Chris as he shakes my hand. “She's a looker,” he says.

Chris smiles and shuffles me out the door.

When we get back out to the car, I buckle into my seat belt. “Chris, you are . . . an
amazing
doctor.” That patient was so distraught about his appearance and the money he was about to spend on something that didn't suit him. “I mean look at you: you've been with patients all day and you're headed to a business dinner, and your concern is to make sure your patient feels heard.”

“That means the world to hear you say that, Kris. I was glad you spoke up the way you did.” He pulls the vehicle onto Interstate 80. The evening sun is shining down on the cornfield ahead of us, and, my God, this is the same road we traveled home from our first date.

I feel that we're even more connected right now than we were that night, when we shared Swiss gum and music and an intimate dinner and the wind blowing through our hair; the night I fell into bed trying to memorize his face. Over the last year there have been moments when I felt I knew him better that first evening than at any other point in our friendship—this complicated character who requires so much support and understanding in his quest to share his talents with the world. If I weren't so happy to be riding in his co-pilot's seat right now, I'd be devastated. After he leaves for Asia next week, it's possible I'll never see him again.

That reminds me. “Hey, do you need a ride to the airport on Tuesday?”

“Yes!” he says, and grabs my hand in my lap, gripping it excitedly in his. “Thank you for asking!” He gives me a solid squeeze, then lets go. I pretend to nonchalantly look out the window, even though the feel of his hand has left a sensory impression in mine.

He calls a patient from the restaurant parking lot, so I go inside to meet his accountant at the bar. “His name's Dick,” he says.
Great.

Dick and I introduce ourselves and make small talk, but by the time Chris joins us, my head is already spinning. “He seems to think I'm managing your books, Chris,” I seethe as the bartender takes Dick's drink order. “I'd do it if push came to shove, but I'm afraid it would be over my head.” He tells me not to worry. We muddle through the conversation, which covers international tax law and other totally foreign topics.

“Exactly when are you planning to turn in your payroll report?” Dick asks.

I lean in to Chris. “Dick, it will get done when it needs to. Chris never leaves things unattended.” Somehow my hand has found its way to the warm spot between Chris's shoulder blades. It lingers there, and I can feel the toned muscles under his shirt. Chris doesn't move a millimeter . . . but
maybe
two chardonnays are enough for me. I do some quick math, figuring it's been eight hours since I've eaten anything. “I'm starving,” I whisper.

He nods. “We'll eat after he leaves.” But Dick doesn't leave, and Chris and I wind up scarfing down dinner as a waitress runs the vacuum under our bar stools.

On the way out I show him the picture of me with my arm around Giada De Laurentiis that hangs on Luigi's front wall. “Our families are from the same region in Italy,” I tell him.

“That's unbelievable. You know, you two could be sisters.” As I turn out the exit door, I laugh and tell him that he's just paid me the highest compliment anyone can pay me because I think Giada De Laurentiis is the most beautiful woman in the universe.

“Well, like I say,” he says sheepishly, “you two could be sisters.”

This is the first time he has ever made any reference to my looks or whether he finds me attractive. For a year his approval of my appearance has been an obvious detail missing from the prospect of romance with this man. I share a longing with every woman in the universe to be wanted by the man I want; to be desired for my beauty and my spirit. It's the female's core need, and it's taken what feels like a long time for Chris to fulfill it . . . but he just has. He opens my car door and holds my hand as I get inside, same as he did on our first date. “Thank you, Chris.”