When You're Expecting Something Else (12 page)

It was the day young Jared’s parents had died, and he’d gone to live at Pappy’s house.

Chapter Fourteen

Anne tells me that wine is not about drinking, but about
tasting
. We are having so much fun laughing and talking at the Purple Grape Wine Bar in downtown San Jose that I’m on the verge of hysteria. “Just a little more left.” Anne pours the last of the bottle between our two glasses.

After a couple hours, our tasting has definitely turned into drinking. At least it’s educated drinking. I’ll go home with a full-bodied vocabulary, using words like aroma, bouquet, tannin and texture to describe my evening. Yes, I’m drunk and so is Anne.
 
Rather than feeling crude or vulgar, I feel artsy and chic.

I tell her all about Alex and Sandy. I want to just forget the whole broken engagement, but how can I? It’s my life. I have to own it. For the first time, though, I’m not crying. Mostly, I’m laughing. Anne is really funny. She’s easy to talk to, and she’s so free. I really like having her as my friend.

“People like those two just aren’t worth your energy,” Anne says. “If you weren’t so hell-bent on having kids, I’d say just have fun with the dating. But, if you want kids, you’re right, you have to make hay while the sun shines.”

I laugh again. “Make hay? Where do you come from, a farm?”

“Okay, I guess I should have said, make love whenever you can, and without protection,” she laughs with me. “You don’t have to get married to have a child anymore. Here in the San Jose area, there are so many men to sleep around with; you won’t have any trouble finding one. Or two, or three… like, Sal…” Her voice slurs just a smidgen. I’m sure mine does, too. I’m really not used to drinking so much.

“Alex doesn’t drink. We never drank wine, or anything when we went out. Some of our friends wanted us to have an open bar at the wedding, but Alex nixed that idea,” I say, and then add an explanation. “I think because he’s a doctor, he likes to stay in control, and alcohol makes him feel too loose.”

“You can do whatever you want now, Connie. Alex has no say over you. You can drink, or sleep around, or swear, or even stay straight-laced,” Anne says, taking a sip of merlot with purple lips, and pointing a professorial finger at me, the whole effect making me to feel like a stupid child.

I think about Pinocchio, the story of the wooden puppet who lets the naughty boys influence him to smoke. It makes me laugh, thinking that I can even smoke if I want. If I feel like a stupid child, then Anne is a like a naughty one. I want to be influenced by her. When I tell her, she laughs.

“I don’t think you should take up smoking, just sex,” she says.

She’s serious about wanting to meet Sal, so I write down his handle, the name he goes by on
datesforall.com
. In exchange she writes down the handle of three guys she thinks are too straight-laced, guys she thinks I might like, but I refuse to take the paper. “I think I want to meet guys somewhere in between,” I explain, and I really mean it. I promise myself that in the morning I’m going to think about everything she’s said; in the morning when my head is clear.

Emptying her glass of its final sip, Anne announces that she has to work in the morning, a twelve- hour shift. We’re both a bit wobbly when we stand, and I’m glad we walked downtown from my apartment. It seemed like a long walk coming, but Anne insisted. I’m glad now because the fresh air feels wonderful and neither of us has any right behind the wheel of any car.

We walk in silence, the heels of our shoes clickity-clacking on the sidewalk, a cadence to feed my thoughts. I shiver ever so slightly in the cool night air as I remember the feeling of being in love, how familiar Alex felt to me, and how right I always felt walking with him, my smaller hand tucked securely into the gentle pressure of his grasp. I breathe deeply, taking in the coolness, breathing out the breath of purple wine. The street light glows lighting our way, and sadness settles, but not too deep, as I swing my arms, my hands free of Alex’s touch.

When we get to my apartment where Anne’s Toyota is parked, she says she’s refreshed and clear-headed, safe to drive home. Hearing it makes me think about my parents and their car accident, and then about Jared.

“Have you heard anything more about how Jared is doing since he’s been discharged?” I ask.

“He just went home the other day, but Dr. Matthews has already made a couple home visit. He said he thinks Jared is getting good nursing care and he expects him to make faster progress in his own home,” she replies.

“Good news. You know, I still have Isabella, his cat,” I say, wondering if I should try to visit Jared at his home this soon after his discharge. Then I decide to delay thinking about it until morning when my head is clear.

When morning arrives, Isabella sits as dead weight on my chest, purring. My head feels clogged from drinking so much wine the night before. I vow that I’m going to pay closer attention to alcohol consumption in the future. One glass of wine will do me just fine. “I’m a weakling, Isabella,” I say, pushing her off.

I still have another week to go before I start my new job. I feel restless and bored, think about looking for new hits on my dating profile, but I’m not ready to meet any new guys, yet. Instead, I decide to take a hike. I used to enjoy hiking in Connecticut before I met Alex. Then Alex said he didn’t like being outdoors. That fact, coupled with great California weather, makes the idea of hiking seem really worthwhile. I Google
bay area hiking trails
and hit the jackpot, finding a whole list of local trails to explore.

An hour later, I’m clearing my head at a county park that has a working farm associated with it. A mile in, following a mostly flat trail, I arrive at a shingled red building where a farmer in overalls swings a pitchfork to stack loose, golden hay. I stifle a laugh remembering how Anne told me to make hay while the sun shines. Last night I might have wondered if the farmer was single or married, but, fortunately, I’m sober now.

I see a brown and white cow grazing in a grassy field, three black and white goats romping and butting heads behind the slats of a wooden pen, and ten baby piglets suckling on a mother pig stretched out in the mud behind the squares of a wire fence. Chickens wander freely, clucking and pecking in the dirt. Mothers push babies in strollers on a paved path. Pre-school children chatter to the goats and point to the piglets. Older children ride bicycles. Hikers and joggers are everywhere. It’s Wednesday. Don’t people work in Silicon Valley? I’m awed by this new lifestyle. The sky is bright blue with wispy white clouds. A slight breeze rustles through the leaves of a sweet scented bay tree. The surrounding air carries the aroma of spaghetti sauce.

I walk past the farm to an area where wild turkeys strut in an empty field bordered by a woodland forest. Birds flit and sing from one large oak tree to another. I walk across a wobbling, wooden footbridge above a bubbling creek onto a single-track trail, the dirt path moist and graded. I marvel at the pristine trail, free of litter, and well maintained without jutting tree roots. I’m used to weather worn trails from back east. Once, as a teenager, I hiked and camped a few days on the Appalachian Trail with my father, starting in Dalton, Massachusetts. The trail was rutted with rocks and roots threatening to trip me up nearly every other step. Burnt wood and charred cans that served as pots littered the sides of the trails. There’s nothing like that here.

 
A half-mile later, a wise old owl stares down at me, almost hidden behind the green leafy branches in a tall, still oak. Nearby, I see evidence left by woodpeckers, hundreds of holes pecked in gray bark, remnants of a dried up old tree pole without any limbs; a snag, looking like a human leg bone ravaged by osteoporosis.

I follow a narrow, zigzagging trail uphill. I’m sweating and breathless when the trail levels out onto a ridge that overlooks rolling, verdant hills. In the distance I see a hawk circle and dive into the grassland and come up again with a small, brown mouse in its clutches. When I stop to catch my breath I see an empty bench under a shade tree, an invitation to sit.

I don’t really know where I am, but I’m not really lost. I’ll just go back the way I came, down the hill, across the bridge, and through the farm. It’s been so therapeutic, this hiking. I pull a bottle of water and an apple out of my daypack and sip and munch while my brain sorts my thoughts. I pull out a notebook and pen; jot down some ideas, such as, change my
datesforall.com
profile to include hiking under my favorite activities. Then I add wine tasting to that same list. On another page I write my grocery list because my cupboards are bare.

Then I turn a new page. I write
baby???
The pen in my hand takes on an energy of its own. I see a list of thoughts, phrases and ideas come to life:
Not without marriage, no artificial insemination, no sleeping around, no guys like Sal, no conception under influence of alcohol, okay to remain childless.
Then, that same autonomous pen appears to review the list. It crosses out:
No sleeping around
, and
okay to remain childless,
and adds,
remember STDs!
That pen, mightier than my conscious thoughts.

A little brown nose suddenly appears from the underground not far from where I’m sitting, a flurry of loose dirt preceding it. Twitching whiskers, followed by dark, darting eyes appear next. “Hey, you cutie,” I say to the gopher as it digs all the way out of the hole, “Watch out for the hawks.” Then I stuff my clutter into my daypack and retrace my steps back the way I came, feeling energized, organized, and rejuvenated.
 

*****

“My cat?” Jared pulled himself taller using his one good hand on the triangular trapeze bar positioned above his bed. “Isabella,” he called gently, peering around the foreign looking medical equipment altering his familiarity with his bedroom.

Hearing the sounds from where she sat reading in her own room down the hall, Marta dropped her book and rushed to Jared not knowing what to expect. “What are you doing? Be careful, you don’t want to overdue it,” she said, surprised to see Jared looking so alert.

“Where’s my cat?” Jared asked, his voice stronger and projecting deeper than Marta had heard before.

“Oh, your friend the nurse, who was in the accident with you, she has your cat for now. Don’t worry,” she said, fluffing his pillows and guiding him back to a more relaxed position.

“Who has Isabella?” Jared asked, puzzled.

“The lady you were with, the nurse. She has your cat.” Marta said, stroking his face with cool fingers.

Jared recoiled from her touch. “Don’t,” he said, pulling abruptly back, looking angry. He wasn’t sure what was making him feel so agitated with her, but somewhere deep in his gut, he felt the wrongness of her touch.