Falling, for Better or Worse

My parents met on a blind date, and that didn’t turn out so well. Let me clarify. After dating for a year, my mother proposed to my father. Now they’ve been married more than four decades, and each one phones me to complain about the other. I’m not sure I would call theirs a love–hate relationship; they simply tend to rub each other the wrong way. They don’t claim to be best friends as I’ve heard some couples say.

So, recently, when a married friend of mine, Mary Leigh, wanted to set me up with a single guy she knew, I was hesitant. She kept insisting that he was such a great guy. She gave me a little history. He and his girlfriend — they had dated since high school — got married just after they graduated from college. It was expected, he said, from both of their families. As an obedient son, he did what was expected. Several years later he and his wife divorced. He’s been divorced for a decade; he has no children; he’s thirty-eight years old.

“He’s never said anything bad about his ex-wife,” Mary Leigh insisted.

Okay, that’s to his credit, I thought.

I’ve never been married, and I haven’t even come close. At age thirty-six, it still baffles me how two people decide to marry. I’ve quizzed my married friends about this topic, and I’ve gotten a variety of explanations: (a) the two individuals think they’re in love, (b) they know they’re in love, (c) they think the other person will make them happy, (d) they want to make the other person happy, (e) they don’t want to be alone, (f) they imagine they’ll be happier with someone than alone, (g) they want a family, and (h) etcetera.

I had been a longtime witness to my parents’ tension-filled relationship, which had soured me on the idea of marriage. My brother said our parents would have been better off divorced, but I’m not certain either of them would have. Some people like tension and drama because it makes them feel alive.

After a few conversations with Mary Leigh, in which she gently pestered me, I finally said yes to the blind date with — what was his name? — Jamie. Right away, I wasn’t sure about his name because it was a gender-neutral name, like Terry, Tracy, Chris, or Stevie. Then again, I was being too judgmental. I was looking for an excuse to back out. There is nothing wrong with gender-neutral names.

Three years had passed since I’d ended a long-term relationship. Okay, technically, he ended it because he became psychotic and moved back home with his parents. What can I say about that? I didn’t see it coming. Okay, I had an inkling. I have an aunt and uncle who are clinical psychologists, and I’d heard enough talk at their dinner table to know bits and pieces about neuroses and psychoses.

My aunt is the one who first posed the question to me: “Ariana, do you think he’s psychotic?”

I looked her in the eyes and replied, “I suspected it when he told me he was one of the chosen two hundred people who would be left on earth after the Apocalypse.”

My aunt simply shook her head and looked at me as though I were an abandoned puppy.

So, I became cautious. I wondered if I could request that the next man I dated — if there was one — take a psychological exam to determine his mental stability. Mary Leigh laughed and said that probably wasn’t a good idea, although it might be helpful in my case. I tended to gravitate toward people who needed emotional help. (I don’t want to blame my parents for that, but . . .)

I must have asked Mary Leigh half a dozen times if this Jamie guy was stable.

“People call him ‘Stable Jamie’!” She grinned and winked.

“All right, when do we do this thing?”

“Not this coming Saturday, but the next one.”

“Okay, that gives me time to prepare,” I said.

“You’d better not back out,” she warned.

I rolled my eyes when she wasn’t looking.

That weekend I went jogging in a nearby park that semi-circled the local lake. The running trail was a bit damp because it had rained earlier in the morning. It was the last weekend in August, and we’d had a record rainfall for the month. I admit that I wasn’t paying attention to my feet or the ground because I was imagining what kind of excuse would get me out of the date with Jamie next weekend. What happened next is beyond me. One moment I was up, and then I was down. Literally, down, on the pavement, with my left leg underneath me and my right leg stretched in front of me; the palm of my left hand was skinned and bleeding.

Seconds later a man bent over in front of me. “Are you okay?”

My mouth was open, but I couldn’t say anything.

“Let’s see if you can get up — careful — let me help you.”

“Owww!” I screeched as I tried to put weight on my left leg. My ankle had begun to swell, and I knew the multi-colors of bruising would show up soon.

The man carefully lowered me to the ground as two passersby asked if we needed help. He told them, “Thanks. I think she’ll be okay.”

I was fraught with worry. What if my ankle was broken? How could I work at my landscaping job if that were the case?

“Is it okay with you if I carry you back to the parking area? Do you want to call a friend to pick you up and take you to an emergency room? I think you need an x-ray of your ankle.”

I uttered a second word, “Geez.”

“Take your time.”

He quietly sat a few feet from me. I shed a single tear and held back the rest. I didn’t want to seem like a baby. This guy was being such a gentleman — respectful and nonintrusive. I can’t tolerate intrusiveness.

After a few minutes, I told him I would phone my friend to pick me up. He said that was a good idea. I took my cell phone out of my fanny pack and called Mary Leigh, but she didn’t answer. Thank goodness, as I was leaving a message, she called me back. I told her what had happened. She said she’d be there in a jiffy, and why didn’t I let the nice guy carry me to the parking lot so I’d be waiting for her when she pulled in.

We had a plan. He picked me up, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. I hoped my new “fresh as mint sprigs” mouthwash was still working. Then I noticed his pleasant face and gentle brown eyes. His hair was dark, curly, and damp.

“I hope I’m not too heavy,” I sighed.

“No, not at all. This reminds me of carrying sacks of potatoes when I worked on a farm one summer.”

He smiled as soon as I laughed. I felt like I would be okay. I felt safe but wasn’t sure why.

“What else did you do on the farm?” I asked.

“Oh . . . mended fences, fed animals, mucked stalls.”

“Sounds like you’re a handy guy to have around.”

“I don’t know — that was twenty years ago, before college. It was a fun summer,” he said as though he remembered it well.

“Hmm, I’ve never worked on a farm,” was all I offered in response. I decided we should stop talking so he wouldn’t get winded.

After a few minutes, he said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Jamie.”

“Jamie?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Ari — Ariana.”

We stared at each other.

Jamie said, “Are you Mary Leigh’s—”

He was interrupted by Mary Leigh calling our names as she walked toward us in the parking lot. Her presence answered his question.

“I don’t believe it!” she shrieked. “Do you both realize who the other one is?”

“Yes,” we answered in unison.

Ever so cautiously, Jamie maneuvered me onto the back seat of Mary Leigh’s car.

On the way to the hospital, Mary Leigh asked, “Ari, what are the chances . . . ?”

“I know, right?”

“So?” she queried.

“He’s a good guy.”

“I told you,” she squealed as she slapped her right hand on the steering wheel in a celebratory fashion. Then she told me how sorry she was about my ankle.

As it turned out, my ankle was sprained and swollen but not broken. Jamie and I had our first date on the patio of Mary Leigh and her husband Jay. Mary Leigh and I are neighbors as well as friends, and we live in the same small condo community of traditional townhomes. All Jamie had to do was carry me from my back door and set me in a comfy chair on Mary Leigh’s patio. I wanted to use my crutches to walk the short distance, but he insisted on giving me a ride. It felt like old times.

I drank more wine than I should have but not as much as I would have if this had been a blind date. I wanted to feel relaxed, and the wine on a cozy patio, nestled beneath a wisteria-covered pergola amid evergreens and a magnolia tree, settled me. After the sun dropped and the patio lights turned on, the four of us ate blackberry cobbler with vanilla bean ice cream while the cicadas sang their scales from a high-pitched frenzy to a low-level, saw-like drone. The evening wasn’t perfect, but it felt complete.

Getting to know Jamie has been as easy as falling down. Although we met in atypical circumstances, I somehow managed to make a favorable impression. He considered me unflappable and stoic, like a noble horse. (I liked that comparison better than a sack of potatoes.)

He told me his parents were one of those couples who are best friends, and he believes that kind of relationship is possible, which fuels my current optimism.

The rest is up to us.