I was in love.
During one Christmas break, we visited Rachel’s grandmother, a card-carrying yenta from the old school, in a nursing home. The old woman took both our hands in hers and declared usbeshert which is a Yiddish word that means predestined or fated.
So what happened?
Our ending was not an uncommon one. We were young, I guess. During my senior year, Rachel decided that she wanted to spend a semester in Florence. I was twenty-two. I got pissed off and while she was away, I slept with another woman—a one-night stand with a featureless coed from Babson. It meant absolutely nothing. I understand that makes it no better, but maybe it should. I don’t know.
Anyway, someone at the party told someone else and eventually it got back to Rachel. She called me from Italy and broke it off, just like that, which I saw as something of an overreaction. Like I said, we were young. At first, I was too proud (read: too stupid) to beg and then, when I started soaking in the repercussions, I called and wrote letters and sent flowers. Rachel never responded. It was over. We were done.
I stood and stumbled to my desk. I fished out the key I had taped under the credenza and unlocked the bottom drawer. I lifted off the files and found my secret stash underneath. No, not drugs. The past. Rachel things. I found the familiar photo and pulled it into view. Lenny and Cheryl still have this picture in their den, which had, understandably enough, angered Monica to no end. It was a photograph of the four of us—Lenny, Cheryl, Rachel, and I—at a formal during my senior year. Rachel is wearing a spaghetti-strap black dress and the thought of the way it clung to her shoulders still takes my breath away.
A long time ago.
I’ve moved on, of course. Per my life plan, I went to medical school. I always knew that I wanted to be a doctor. Most doctors I know will tell you the same. It is rarely a decision you come to late.
And I dated too. I even had other one-night stands (remember Zia?), but—and this is going to sound pitiful—even after all these years, I never go through a day without thinking, at least fleetingly, about Rachel. Yes, I know that I’ve romanticized the romance, if you will, completely out of proportion. Had I not made that stupid blunder, I would probably not be living in some blissful alternative universe, still entwined on the couch with my beloved. As Lenny once pointed out in a moment of naked honesty, if my relationship with Rachel had been that great, it surely could have survived this most hackneyed of speed bumps.
Am I saying that I never loved my wife? No. At least, I think the answer is no. Monica was beautiful—right-away beautiful, nothing slow about the way her looks hit you—and passionate and surprising. She was also wealthy and glamorous. I tried not to compare—that is a terrible way to live your life—but I could not help but love Monica in my smaller, less bright, post-Rachel world. Given time, the same might have happened had I stayed with Rachel, but that’s using logic and in matters of the heart, logic need not apply.
Over the years, Cheryl grudgingly kept me informed on what Rachel was up to. Rachel, I’d learned, had gone into law enforcement and become a federal agent in Washington. I can’t say I was totally surprised. Three years ago, Cheryl told me that Rachel had gotten married to an older guy, a senior fed. Even after all this time—Rachel and I had been broken up eleven years by then—I felt my insides cave in. I realized with a heavy thud just how badly I’d messed up. I’d always assumed somehow that Rachel and I were biding our time, living in some sort of suspended animation, until we inevitably came to our senses and got back together. Now she had married someone else.
Cheryl saw my face and has never again spoken to me about Rachel.
I stared at the picture and heard the familiar SUV pull up. No surprise there. I did not bother walking to the door. Lenny had a key. He never knocked anyway. He’d know where I was. I put away the photograph as Lenny entered the room carrying two enormous, brightly clad paper cups.
Lenny held up the Slurpees from 7-Eleven. “Cherry or cola?”
“Cherry.”
He handed it to me. I waited.
“Zia called Cheryl,” he said in way of explanation.
I had figured that. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
Lenny hopped onto the couch. “Me neither.” He reached into his pocket and took out a thick sheaf of papers. “The will and the final stuff on Monica’s estate. Read it whenever.” He picked up the remote control and began to flip. “Don’t you have any porno?”
“No, sorry.”
Lenny shrugged and settled on a college basketball game on ESPN. We watched a few minutes in silence. I broke it.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rachel was divorced?”
Lenny grimaced in pain and raised his palm as if stopping traffic.
“What?” I said.
“Brain freeze.” He rode it out. “I always drink these things too fast.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”
I looked at him.
“It’s not that simple, Marc.”
“What’s not?”
“Rachel has been through some tough times.”
“So have I,” I said.
Lenny watched the game a little too closely.
“What happened to her, Lenny?”
“It’s not my place.” He shook his head. “You haven’t even seen her in, what, fifteen years?”
Fourteen actually. “Something like that.”
His eyes scanned the room and rested on a photograph of Monica and Tara. He looked away and sipped his Slurpee. “Have to stop living in the past, my friend.”
We both settled back and pretended to watch the game. Stop living in the past, he’d said. I looked at the photograph of Tara and wondered if Lenny was talking about more than Rachel.
Edgar Portman picked up the leather dog leash. He jingled the end. Bruno, his champion bull mastiff, clattered toward the sound at full speed. Bruno had won a Best in Breed at the Westminster Dog Show six years ago. Many believed that he had what it took to earn Best in Show. Edgar chose instead to retire Bruno. A show dog is never home. Edgar wanted Bruno with him.
People disappointed Edgar. Dogs never.
Bruno stuck out his tongue and wagged his tail. Edgar clipped the leash onto the collar. They would go for an hour. Edgar looked down at his desk. There, on the shiny veneer, sat a cardboard package, identical to the one he had received eighteen months earlier. Bruno whimpered. Edgar wondered if it was a whimper of impatience or if he could sense his master’s dread. Maybe both.