Chapter Eight #2
“What?” She picks up her mug. “I’m not allowed to celebrate the coming days? The closer I come to end of life, the sooner I can be with Saul again.”
My breath catches, and I swallow. This, right here, is the cruel side effect of love. Yet another reminder why I can’t let myself open my heart to someone. I’ve been where Bernice is at. Well, not the searching for wheelie toilets on . But I’ve been paralyzed by grief.
“When my mother died,” I say, “people told me that time heals all pain.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty sure I was one of them.” Bernice shakes her head. “Sorry about that. Now I know it’s a big fat lie.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I nod. “Honestly, some days I think it gets worse with time.”
Bernice shakes her head. “Don’t quit your day job, kid. Grief counseling doesn’t suit you.”
I laugh. “You’re right, I suck at this.”
“Eh, it’s okay. You make a great cup of coffee.”
“Thanks, Bernice.”
“You think we need therapy?” she says.
I cringe. Nothing sounds worse than baring your soul to some stranger only to hear them tell you that you’ve got issues. “I don’t.”
She nods. “Yeah, I don’t either. Therapy is for people who don’t know that they’re crazy yet. I already know we are, so what’s the point?”
“Thanks, Bernice.”
“And we don’t need to talk to heal from our pain. That’s what bourbon is for,” she replies.
I snort a laugh. “You know what you need?” I say, getting up to wash her plate.
“A nap.”
“A man,” I say, waving the sponge at her.
“Not this again,” she groans.
“I’m not saying that this person would replace what you had with Saul,” I say, pumping soap onto the sponge. “But I really think it might help heal you.”
“If that’s the case, why aren’t you dating?”
“It’s different. My grief is for my mom.” And for my dad. Not that I’d say that. There’s something especially embarrassing about grieving for someone who clearly didn’t love you back. And yet, I can’t seem to help it.
“So what?” she says. “It might still help you.”
“I will eventually,” I lie, just to get her off my case. “But we’re focusing on you right now, and you need to get back out there, girl. Take the bull by the horns. Get back on the saddle.”
“You’re mixing up metaphors,” she says, handing me her empty mug. “And don’t talk to me like I’m some woman who just broke up with her boyfriend,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m a widow. I was married to Saul for fifty-eight years.”
I shut off the faucet and turn to her. A wave of shame washes over me as I realize how insensitive I’ve been. “I’m sorry, Bernice. I’ll drop it.”
“Good.”
“Do you want a hug?”
“Do I look like a hug-me-Elmo doll to you—ach!” she squeals as I put my arms around her. “And if I do ever decide one day to go on a date, I’m dragging you with me,” she adds.
“That’s fine.”
“And you’re going to have your own man there too. It’ll be a double-date.”
“That’s not fine,” I say quickly and step back.
“I’m not interested anyway.” She glances around the kitchen. “I could sell my house and move in here,” she says, looking around. “It might be a squeeze to move in all my furniture, but it’ll be fun. We’ll keep each other company and you’ll do all the cooking.”
OMFG.
“And if I want sex,” she adds, “I’ll call your hot brother.”
I don’t know whether I’m more bothered by the idea of her moving in with me or her fantasizing about my brother.
“Still gay, Bernice.”
She makes a face. “Still?”
“Yup.” I massage my pounding temples. Living with this woman would be the death of me—or her. I could definitely see the makings for a murder-suicide.
She makes a harrumph sound. “Well, anyway. I was thinking just the other day how we’d make excellent roommates. It’d be us two old maids, kind of like The Golden Girls—”
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll go on a date,” I say quickly. I’d walk over hot coals at this point if it helped her find someone else to move in with.
Her eyebrows rise with surprise. “Oh?” The disappointment in her voice shows that she was just messing around with me. That’s her modus operandi when she’s bored.
I nod. “A hundred percent.”
“But this isn’t for a while, if ever.” She has a sudden twinkle in her eye as she adds, “and my guy better be hotter than yours.”
“That goes without saying. Are we sooo excited?” I tease, gently bumping my hip against hers. “Should we get our hair and nails done and wear matching sparkly outfits?”
“You’re being ridiculous. And anyway,” she sniffs, “not everyone is meant to wear sequin jumpsuits.”
“No,” I say, tapping my chin. “I suppose not.”
But my imagination goes there anyway; Bernice and I, all dolled up and wearing matching outfits and go-go boots, drinking champagne in a Porsche convertible—well, not in this weather. A stretch limo, then.
I smile as I picture introducing Bernice to her second bashert.
There’s a lot of mixed opinions in Judaism regarding soulmates, but everyone seems to agree that you can have more than one in the same lifetime.
Some sages say you can have up to seven, and some say that there are two different levels of soulmates.
While others believe that because there’s freedom to choose, it’s possible to spend your entire life without marrying your soulmate.
Imagine having seven possible basherts, and still somehow managing to screw it up.
And despite the lack of romance in my own life, I still get a thrill when I foster it for others.
There’s no better feeling than helping two halves of the same soul come together, and I’m buzzing now at the knowledge that there’s a man out there just waiting to be introduced to Bernice.
I guess you could say I live vicariously.
“You got any Desitin?”
Geez, talk about a buzzkill.
“No,” I say, “isn’t that for diaper rash?”
“I got diaper rash, all right. My tushie is as sore as an eight-day-old’s penis.” I cringe and she adds, “Get it? Because of the bris. You know how the foreskin gets—”
“Aaaggh! I’ll go to the store now and get you some.” I shoot up from my chair and make a beeline for the door. Her chortle of laughter follows me as I grab my coat and purse.
Whoever her second soulmate is, I sure hope he has a sick sense of humor.