My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) by Rene Gutteridge Page B

about Kate was he attracted to? What made him think that bringing her home would fulfill his mother’s dream? Maybe his parents were dead. That was a reasonable explanation. Or maybe in an insane asylum. There were too many possibilities to consider at this point.
    I realized Mother was waiting for me to agree with her. “I think it’s great,” I said. That’s what she wanted to hear. In my mind’s eye I could see that thin smile of satisfaction spread over her lips.
    â€œWell, we’ll see.” Always the diplomat.
    I looked at my watch. “Mother, I’d better go. Like I said, I’m meeting Edward.”
    â€œSomething fun, I hope?”
    â€œAs fun as it can get with a physicist,” I said jokingly. I almost said psychiatrist. Wouldn’t that have been something.
    â€œWell, have a good time. We’ll talk soon.”
    I hung up the phone and grabbed my handbag, checking to make sure I’d put the paper with the directions in it. I stopped at the door of my apartment, keys in hand, and stared at my watch. How could I agree to do this? How could he ask me to go to therapy with him by way of a flower bouquet and a coupon? This wasn’t even insanely expensive therapy. This was discount therapy!
    My hands were actually trembling. A sick feeling washed over my stomach. Maybe Edward would take a hint if I didn’t show up. Maybe he would see what a moron he was for how he reacted to the pink dress.
    But that was just a fantasy. I couldn’t bear the prospect of harming our relationship. So how could I not go? The sickness slowly faded. My stomach started rumbling with hunger instead. I hadn’t eaten much all day, but there was no time to eat now. I closed my eyes and stepped outside, shutting the door behind me.
    Waiting for the elevator, I had a sudden craving for focaccia.
    I wasn’t a fan of public transportation. I liked to drive. It was the Southerner in me. Edward thought I was insane. He took the T everywhere. But I liked my car. As I drove the short distance toward downtown Boston, fighting the mad and rushed crowd of cars on this Tuesday evening, I couldn’t help the memories that flooded my mind. I recalled the first time I’d brought Edward home to meet my parents. I had been nervous, wanting him to make a good impression, wanting my parents to approve. Edward, whose excitement level could be measured by how far up his eyebrows rose on his forehead, even looked more anxious than normal. We held hands and walked up the long sidewalk and steep steps that led to the gigantic wooden door of my parents’ five-thousand-square-foot manor. Dad had worked years and years in Washington so they could live peacefully in a house too big for them and too formal for any grandchildren they might someday expect. I’d always hoped they would move back to the South, where our Southern accents could really shine. Mother had opened the door, a pleasant and inviting smile on her lips. She shook Edward’s hand, and she invited us in. Dad came down the spiral staircase, stoic and mannerly, his tall shadow leading the way.
    We enjoyed a pleasant dinner, filled with predictable and easy conversation. Edward’s long and impressive credentials took us through the first two courses. Dad’s carried us through the third and fourth. The fifth course included a short explanation about the sister I hadn’t mentioned. Over dessert we discussed favorite movies.
    And that was it. That was the evening. Back then it seemed perfect. Everything had gone as planned. But as I drove now, something recurred in my mind. It was Mother’s expression. There hadn’t been a bit of surprise in her face when she met Edward. It was as if he was everything she’d ever expected me to bring home. Why was that bothering me now? Was it because over the phone I’d heard a hint of tantalized excitement in her voice when she was talking about Dillan?
    I focused