Read Online Once Upon a Time, There Was You by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Berg
Ads: Link
And then he’d try to cheer her up like he used to when she lost a game.
“Please believe me, Sadie.”
“I do.” Only she doesn’t, not completely. Oh, it’s awful to care about someone this much.
“Anyway,” she says. “I just wanted to say good night. And … I don’t know. Nothing. Good night.”
“Good night.” His voice is soft, sleepy-sounding. It makes her curl her toes. Why won’t he say something about Tuesday? Is he beginning to grow tired of her?
But now he says, “Sadie? You know those songs, those stories, that talk about how people feel they were made for each other? I feel that way about you. I feel like … I don’t know. Like we are the exact right people for each other. I don’t know why, or at least I can’t say why right now. But … Sleep with that, okay?”
“Okay.” Now she feels better. “I guess I should hang up.” She says this in a way that she hopes will make him say, “No. Let’s talk until morning.” But he doesn’t say that. He says good night, and then he is gone.
She holds the phone over her heart. She has just been with him, she has just talked to him after having been with him, but she feels bereft. She lies still for a while, watching the play of shadows against her bedroom wall, listening to the faint sounds of the traffic outside. She thinks of her father, who must be sleeping now; she imagines him in his T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and she misses him. It unfolds in her chest: she misses him. He’s a nice guy. He’s such a nice guy! He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s creative. He’s nice-looking. If her mother were to meet him now for the first time, she’d love him. The irony.
She hears her mother’s bedroom door open, then the sounds of the toilet flushing, the water running. She thinks about her mother asking Valerie to give her an objective opinion on her body. God! She needs to stop trying so hard. Sadie could actually teach her a thing or two about men, if her mother would listen. Which she wouldn’t.
Sadie has learned a lot of things not to do, in her efforts to help her parents. But what to do? She feels sorry for them, both of them. Sometimes she looks at her mother standing at the stove making something for dinner, and what is it that she sees? She doesn’t know, but it kills her. Her mother’s forehead wrinkled with her efforts. Her dumb apron, her socks falling down; she buys silly socks all the time, then holds them up before Sadie saying, “Aren’t these cute? Kind of funky, huh? I thought they were so cute.” Now and then Sadie still brings her mother presents, like when she was a little girl. A gift for no reason: A cupcake. A scarf. A book. And her mother is always so grateful. Too grateful, like a dog. Then Sadie gets angry that she gave her anything, yet she’ll go out and get her more.
She looks over at the book on her dresser, the one she offered to read to her mother and her mother promptly declined. Sadie knows why. She was sorry the moment she suggested it. The memories it would bring back of the days when they were still together, and her mother didn’t need to sit scowling at the calculator when she did her taxes, when her father got to eat homemade pie at his own kitchen table instead of buying those pathetic single slices entombed in plastic.
People are stupid. Why are they so stupid? There is an algorithm for the way humans were designed: love and be loved. Follow it and you’re happy. Fight against it and you’re not. It’s so simple, it’s hard to understand.
Sadie closes her eyes and sees Ron’s face, his long lashes, hisfull mouth, the way his hair slides over one eye. His long legs, the slow way he puts his jacket on. It makes her full of a feeling that’s close to tears, a desire that is in large part frustration. Her feelings for him are so huge, so complicated, so demanding.
“I trust you,” she whispers. Sometimes saying it makes it so.
7
O n Monday evening, John and Amy are sitting at
“Please believe me, Sadie.”
“I do.” Only she doesn’t, not completely. Oh, it’s awful to care about someone this much.
“Anyway,” she says. “I just wanted to say good night. And … I don’t know. Nothing. Good night.”
“Good night.” His voice is soft, sleepy-sounding. It makes her curl her toes. Why won’t he say something about Tuesday? Is he beginning to grow tired of her?
But now he says, “Sadie? You know those songs, those stories, that talk about how people feel they were made for each other? I feel that way about you. I feel like … I don’t know. Like we are the exact right people for each other. I don’t know why, or at least I can’t say why right now. But … Sleep with that, okay?”
“Okay.” Now she feels better. “I guess I should hang up.” She says this in a way that she hopes will make him say, “No. Let’s talk until morning.” But he doesn’t say that. He says good night, and then he is gone.
She holds the phone over her heart. She has just been with him, she has just talked to him after having been with him, but she feels bereft. She lies still for a while, watching the play of shadows against her bedroom wall, listening to the faint sounds of the traffic outside. She thinks of her father, who must be sleeping now; she imagines him in his T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and she misses him. It unfolds in her chest: she misses him. He’s a nice guy. He’s such a nice guy! He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s creative. He’s nice-looking. If her mother were to meet him now for the first time, she’d love him. The irony.
She hears her mother’s bedroom door open, then the sounds of the toilet flushing, the water running. She thinks about her mother asking Valerie to give her an objective opinion on her body. God! She needs to stop trying so hard. Sadie could actually teach her a thing or two about men, if her mother would listen. Which she wouldn’t.
Sadie has learned a lot of things not to do, in her efforts to help her parents. But what to do? She feels sorry for them, both of them. Sometimes she looks at her mother standing at the stove making something for dinner, and what is it that she sees? She doesn’t know, but it kills her. Her mother’s forehead wrinkled with her efforts. Her dumb apron, her socks falling down; she buys silly socks all the time, then holds them up before Sadie saying, “Aren’t these cute? Kind of funky, huh? I thought they were so cute.” Now and then Sadie still brings her mother presents, like when she was a little girl. A gift for no reason: A cupcake. A scarf. A book. And her mother is always so grateful. Too grateful, like a dog. Then Sadie gets angry that she gave her anything, yet she’ll go out and get her more.
She looks over at the book on her dresser, the one she offered to read to her mother and her mother promptly declined. Sadie knows why. She was sorry the moment she suggested it. The memories it would bring back of the days when they were still together, and her mother didn’t need to sit scowling at the calculator when she did her taxes, when her father got to eat homemade pie at his own kitchen table instead of buying those pathetic single slices entombed in plastic.
People are stupid. Why are they so stupid? There is an algorithm for the way humans were designed: love and be loved. Follow it and you’re happy. Fight against it and you’re not. It’s so simple, it’s hard to understand.
Sadie closes her eyes and sees Ron’s face, his long lashes, hisfull mouth, the way his hair slides over one eye. His long legs, the slow way he puts his jacket on. It makes her full of a feeling that’s close to tears, a desire that is in large part frustration. Her feelings for him are so huge, so complicated, so demanding.
“I trust you,” she whispers. Sometimes saying it makes it so.
7
O n Monday evening, John and Amy are sitting at
Similar Books
