Page 9 of Alarm Fatigue

I start to remind myself as we are eating our respective meals that this is just one date and I could consider trying to relax or have fun. I think of one of my mother’s favorite expressions, which she would never apply to people, but she would recite when trying to encourage me to attempt new things. In her small voice she would say, “It’s okay to enjoy the milk; it does not mean you have to buy the whole farm.” Thinking of farming and milking cattle while trying to listen to Seth leads me to trouble when this brings to mind how much I would not mind rolling in the hay of a barn with this man. At this point I realize I have again lost track of what he was saying, and I start to blush again, furiously.

“Are your brussel sprouts too spicy? You seem flushed.” He looks genuinely concerned and I am mortified with how much I am objectifying him. In turn I can feel my mortification increasing the heat in my face and I am quite sure I am a splotchy crimson color at this point.

”Oh no, they are perfect,” I grin, trying to think of anything but his arms lifting me up against the wall of a farmhouse, not to mention whatever he could do with those hands of his. Apparently my brain has unhelpfully decided to pick now to hyper-focus on the intimacy that has been lacking in my life for nearly a decade. What is wrong with me?

Having no idea what to say that he would not find unpleasant, I try to change subject, hoping it resets my brain as well as my cheek color. Nearly grabbing at a passing waitress by her arm, I am desperate for a distraction for the entire table while I pull myself together. “I think I will have another glass of wine, it is delicious.”

The waitress kindly takes the order but does so wordlessly, so that was not useful for my real purpose of getting a reset for my brain. So I blurt out the next thing to pop into my mind. “I don’t often have more than one drink of wine, unless I am at home, since my father was…” Shut up, I think furiously.

“Your father was…” Seth, bless him, is looking expectantly at me.

”He was…he drank too much.” He was a narcissist who ruined my childhood and my self-esteem, turned my mother into a neurotic, kept us on food stamps, and we once lived in our car for a month before he killed her in that car in an accident while intoxicated. Maybe my traitorous brain would have ruined my life anyway even if my dad was loving perfection like the heroes of my favorite shows and movies. Because my brain…my eyes must look like saucers and I feel myself start to sweat.

“I see.” Seth, however, looks as though he does not see or, at worst, he does see and wishes he did not. That tiny frown is back between his brows and I quickly attempt to change the subject again.

”So,” I say louder than I meant to, “What are your top three vacation spots?” I sound like a talk show host. I am such a weirdo. Probably because he wants whatever has happened to his date to stop now, Seth fortunately takes the bait and we move from the gutter that my mind has apparently become.

I relax again, as our conversation turns to the safer talk of Paris in the fall, that perfect time when summer crowds have dispersed, and it turns cool but the rains have not yet washed everything out. Something occurs to me then and I take this time to mention a dear friend who lives in Paris with his husband and I wait for a reaction. Sending a feeler out about my friend on the subject seems safer than mentioning my middle daughter has a wife. I am surprising myself, thinking I would love a second date—as exhausting as this is—but this is something I need to know up front. Bigotry towards my daughter would completely shut down any chance of dating someone who harbored those beliefs. I may be prone to people-pleasing but on that subject, I am the fiercest of allies. He just smiles at the reference and asks what type of work enables my friends to afford to live in Paris. I smile back as we move over that hurdle.

As we are finishing the meal it is Seth that asks about my late husband.

“Dr. Eli Mendes. Eli was incredibly kind. The type of person that had a natural talent for putting people at ease. He was a physician, working in the ICU, as I do. We actually worked together and we were one of those disgusting couples that could be together for long stretches and get along well and…he was my best friend. We have three daughters, as I said, and they were aged 15 to 19 when he died quite suddenly.” I hesitate and remember that non-medical people also do not like too many details at the dinner table. “Something sudden happened with his intestines and it was a real shock when he died.”

“I am sorry, Rachel.”

“Thank you. And your wife?”

“My wife, Devorah, she died of breast cancer. It was the third time she had had it and it had spread too much for her ever to get well again. She had it very young the first time, early in our marriage, and it was why we could not have children—because of the side effects from her treatment. I do not want to make it sound like she was sick for years, she just was sick until the treatment would work, for a time, and in between she had a real love of living. She and I were able to travel all over the world. She had this incredible attitude that each day was the day to make as many of your dreams come as true as possible, and so that is what we did. Anyway, it has been nearly seven years and it was just easier to work, become a partner in our firm, than deal with going back to living. You know?”

“I do know, and I am sorry too.”

At that moment the waiter appears to clear our plates and offer dessert menus.

“Do you want dessert?” we both say at the same time, and then laugh at our synchronization, pushing aside any residual sadness from before.

Of course, I already know what I want for dessert but I pretend to look at the menu as I take a moment to survey the man across from me. He is gorgeous, he is not opposed to gay marriage, he keeps kosher and has an amazing sense of style and poise. His manners are impeccable but underneath that he seems to be genuinely kind. We both love Paris in the fall.

On the other hand, he does seem to want to keep the narrative light, which is harder for me than I realized. Part of what I have done in my isolation is to surround myself only with people that I can really speak openly with. I know how to carry myself as a professional, but in my personal life I am not accustomed to keeping a lid on my thoughts and feelings. This does seem to pull at a small thread on the fabric of the evening but I cannot trust myself to know what is normal. This may just be a first date thing, or maybe what he is doing is normal and I am the outlier. I mean that would certainly track for me.

As I close my menu I suddenly remember that I have to face that man again at work. Looking at Seth, I should not be thinking about Mark Levy at all. Waiting to order a dessert and working to push thoughts of Mark aside, I notice that, as much as I cannot stand Mark, the thought of him recalls that dream. Again, I have no idea what actually happened in it, but there is no doubt of the general context. I am my own worst enemy, I think as I select a parve chocolate mousse. I really and truly am.

Chapter 8

Amalie is perched on my sofa, waiting for a post-date debrief, her computer on her lap and files sprawled around her. She is looking cozy in her pajamas, my cats curled up by her feet, and a mug of coffee steaming nearby. I quickly change, work to get the mascara off my face and join her. Even in her pajamas she is striking. Petite, blonde, with nearly waist-length hair and dark brown eyes, she always looks put-together with camera-ready makeup and effortless style. She is one of those women who is so beautiful that it does not occur to some people to take her seriously, which would definitely be a mistake. She is, and has been since I have known her, a force to be reckoned with.

Amalie told me when we were in college that she is, in fact, asexual. She enjoys being a part of my family but has no interest in attaching herself to anyone romantically. At one point she considered raising a child on her own, but decided against it, in favor of enjoying my children, and now my grandchildren. All of them call her Aunt Ami and she is more like family to me than my own father ever was. Ami was incredibly blessed when it came to her family. Her parents have loved and accepted her as she is rather than how they would have her be. In fact, it was her parents who agreed to take me in when it became apparent my father no longer could. Her parents are still alive but live in Sweden, where her mother grew up, and we do not see them as much as I would want to.

By the time I return to the living room, she has put all of her work away and has a glass of wine in front of her. I am not five minutes into describing how I kept objectifying my date in my mind, while trying to keep it socially acceptable on the surface, when she is practically crying with laughter at my inner dialogue. I cannot help but laugh with her as well. The way I kept devolving into primal thinking about Seth, is so not my usual vibe. Sure I am awkward and have a brain with more than a few corrupted files, but I have not had my thinking go in that direction about any man in years. At least that was true before these last two dates. It is clear to me that the blame for this unwanted transition in my thinking lies with the deplorable influence of Dr. Levy, of course. Amalie, however, does not readily agree.

“If that is what you want to tell yourself, by all means. I would just point out that you more likely had this drive in you all along, and going out on that first date just triggered you enough to be set free.”

“First of all, it was hardly a date. Second of all, he may have triggered me but not in that way.” As soon as it is out of my mouth, however, I know it is a bold-faced lie. I literally dreamed about the man that very night and of course we both know it is true. Amalie just looks at me knowingly but elects not to push it, for which I am grateful.

Amalie is my fiercest friend, and has been since the moment she caught me crying by myself at Camp Ahava, the summer after fifth grade. It was the day my parents were the only ones not to show up for Parents’ weekend. I told Amalie the truth about everything. My father being drunk or on drugs most of the time, how he hurt my mother and sometimes me and was so mean to both of us, how we would have money and a home and cars one minute and then go hungry for days on end the next, how afraid I was to go back home after camp and how much I loved being able to come to the camp, even if it was just for a few weeks. I had never told anyone any of those things in my entire life. Even back then, Amalie projected a confidence that made me feel safe, and I knew I could tell her the truth about me. Once I started talking about everything, of course, I could not stop. I still remember her kind and patient face and she sat, cross-legged, in front of me on the floor of our bunk.

When I was finished, she looked at me thoughtfully and asked me if she could say a few things. I remember I was dumbfounded that she asked my permission to tell me what she thought. It was the first time I remember feeling empowered by another person.

“Sure.” I had said to her. “Go ahead.”

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