Chapter 9
I will be civil to Orla.
I say this on repeat, like a prayer for serenity. Or a mantra from a twelve-step program.
Both feel appropriate.
I am dreading this lunch, but it’s a necessary step in forging a better relationship with Orla.
She insists on insinuating herself into every possible aspect of Rian’s life, and it feels far too much like Robin’s judgment and meddling for me to swallow it without complaint.
But with some ingenuity, maybe I won’t have to accept her busybody ways.
The best thing to do, like with any wayward toddler, is to redirect her energy.
Her help was absolutely necessary in the earliest days of Rian’s career, when residency had him pulling incredibly long shifts.
Things like grocery shopping and dry-cleaning runs were legitimately out of his bandwidth in those days.
Though he left residency behind years before, she continues to act like a concierge, maid, and secretary, despite his being perfectly able and entirely willing to do these things for himself.
It baffled me at the time, but I understand now, in a way I wasn’t able to then, that all the errand running and caretaking had given her a purpose.
Every task he took off her plate left a void in her life, and he was loath to hurt her.
I can see now that I didn’t deal with her interference all that well.
Though in my defense, Orla had enmeshed herself so thoroughly into our lives, I began to feel there was no room for me in the relationship.
I ended things with Rian when he refused to take my side in a heated argument with Orla.
But maybe it was unfair of me to put him in that position.
Ultimately, his relationship with Orla was his responsibility, but I could manage my own rapport with her on my own terms.
I would usually dress for a day off in yoga pants and a hoodie, but I have to do better for a lunch date with Orla.
I rummage through my closet and select what passes for a spring dress here: a lavender floral piece, but long sleeved and made from thick cotton, paired with a matching cardigan.
The ensemble would have been warm enough for winter attire back in Solvang, but the damp Irish weather has a way of seeping into the bones.
I add some ballet flats to complete the look and transfer my wallet and keys to a smaller handbag that had been a gift from Orla, who’s not fond of my habit of schlepping my beloved green backpack in lieu of a purse.
I acquired the bag right around this time from one of the better secondhand shops. I don’t think she appreciated my referring to it as my work “diaper bag.” I vow to be a little more circumspect with my humor in front of her.
This version of me looks a little older and wiser than me from 2009 but still youthful.
I slap on some lip gloss—nothing too flashy for Orla’s sake—and run down to the street.
This time I do indulge in a cab so I won’t look rumpled when I arrive at the restaurant.
McHenry’s is a cozy little place, not far from the hospital where Rian works.
I’d begun my blog about this time, but I had never given this favorite haunt of ours a write-up. I’ll rectify that later this afternoon.
Orla is already waiting for me at a table, her reddish-blonde hair perfectly coiffed.
She’s dressed in a pink pantsuit as though she’ll be off to a meeting at some fancy ladies’ society afterward.
Maybe that is precisely what she needs. A group of women, perhaps a little too proud of themselves, with some sort of charity mission to keep them busy and to give them a sense of purpose.
Her initial assessment of my appearance is apparently favorable, and she coos, “How lovely you look, dear,” as she kisses the air above my cheeks and I return the gesture.
I was right to dress up. Orla puts a lot of stock in appearances, and I’d been stupid not to put forth more of an effort before.
She eyes my dress more closely. “Is that Laura Ashley?”
I glance down at my outfit, trying to imply I’d even forgotten what I’d worn, and shrug. I know the brand but hadn’t thought to look at the label. “A lucky thrift find.”
Her lips purse and I wish I could pull the words back into my mouth.
She intensely dislikes my thrifting habit.
I consider buying well-made secondhand clothing to be the best practice, both economically and environmentally, but she sees it as lowbrow and borderline offensive.
Perhaps even unethical because I can afford new clothes, and my thrifting deprives those genuinely in need from access to the garments I buy.
She sees me as one small step above those who scour the thrift for discarded brand-name items and resell them for a giant profit.
That I couldn’t afford the same quality of clothing if I were buying new doesn’t seem to matter to Orla.
In her mind I should be happy to go into debt to look the part of a doctor’s girlfriend.
Time to deflect. “Your pantsuit is so chic. You look ready to run for public office.” I don’t add that the office is probably the treasurer of the neighborhood garden club, given the color. The key is planting the seed of ambition in her mind outside of Rian’s life.
She sniffs, much the way Robin does when she’s displeased. “Oh, I consider meeting my son’s . . . special friend . . . for lunch is an occasion worth dressing for. I would hope anyone who feels they’re worthy of my son would feel that way about themselves.”
I restrain a snort. If I disagree with her, I’m diminishing my own worth.
If I agree and imply that I am worth the trouble, she’ll tell Rian and anyone who will listen that I’m a terrible snob and incredibly self-important.
“Taking a notion” as Rian said. There is no winning here.
“How kind. Of course, the same is true for meeting with you,” is the only response that feels somewhat safe.
Or at least confusing enough she doesn’t respond.
She clears her throat. “I’m glad you were able to get away from the restaurant today. You work such erratic hours. I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone.” She reaches over to pat my hand. I fight the urge to recoil from the gesture that comes across as insincere.
“Oh? I’m all ears.” I hope my face comes across as enthusiastic rather than reluctant.
She takes in a pained breath as she gathers her words.
“I just worry that a demanding and constantly changing schedule isn’t going to mesh well with a serious relationship.
I know many young men these days are taking on more responsibility in the home, and I am all for that, but Rian’s work simply won’t permit him to participate equally at home.
And there’s also the matter of you two not having time off together as often as you should. ”
I force a smile. Just yesterday she implied that two days off in a row was an unthinkable indulgence and clearly I sit at home watching soaps and eating bonbons all day. Now I work too many hours. She can’t have it both ways.
I take a steadying breath. “Rian came into this knowing we’re both busy people.
We try not to put too much pressure on each other’s schedules and are committed to being fully present when we do get time together.
It’s forced us to communicate our expectations, and I think it’s worked very well so far. ”
She pauses to consider this a moment. “That may be true, but Rian won’t have me around forever.
He’ll need someone willing to keep the home fires burning.
You have loads of ambition, my dear. And I admire that.
Truly. I’m sure it’s part of what attracted Rian to you in the first place, but professional ambition won’t keep a home running smoothly. ”
I feel the heat emanating from my pores, surprised she can’t see the steam billowing from me so violently that the chef in the kitchen could prepare the broccoli if he held it up to one of my ears.
I’m grateful for a brief reprieve as the waiter comes to take our order.
Orla orders a side salad for her entrée, and I follow her lead, ordering a small soup despite being hungry enough for a proper meal.
I’ll see to that later. This, as it turns out, is a business lunch, and in the grand tradition of business lunches, food is an afterthought.
It’s anathema to me, wasting the opportunity to sample something new, but I will play along. So much for the blog entry.
Once the waiter is well out of earshot, I take a moment to collect my thoughts.
“Orla, I know you have Rian’s best interests in mind.
You and I both love him and want the best for him.
We’re on the same team. But he and I aren’t engaged or living together.
I think you’re looking farther down the road than we need to be. ”
She leans back, her brow knitted as she considers my words.
I continue. “I don’t think it would be all that .
. . seemly . . .” I dislike the word, but it’s one Orla is fond of.
It’s a bit too close to Robin’s affection for the word appropriate for my comfort.
“. . . to presume that a future together is a fixed thing. I hope Rian and I will settle down someday. Perhaps soon. But it wouldn’t be right or .
. . prudent . . . for me to alter my life before promises are made. ” Prudent, another word she loves.
Rian, at least in my original timeline, popped the question not long from now, despite Orla’s misgivings. But Orla doesn’t know this, and I hope my line of reasoning makes me seem levelheaded and forthright.
“You know, you’re quite right. Very sensible, dear.” She takes a sip of her tepid tap water, her eyes scanning the room before settling back on me. “I do worry so about him. Those long hours and the demanding work.”