Finding It: And Finally Satisfying My Hunger for Life (8 page)

“That’s my point,” he said. “By then it’s too late. I’m talking about preventive medicine.”

“Got it,” I said, hoping to end the discussion there even though I knew that was unlikely.

“Aside from the Q, which is a lemon, we don’t have a lot of car breakdowns. Right?”

I nodded.

“And why is that?” he asked.

“Because you’re in love with the guy at the service station.”

“Very funny, but not quite,” Tom said, smiling briefly. “It’s that both of us believe in preventing stuff before it happens. If you replace worn parts or take care of a rattle or strange noise before they give you a problem—”

“
If
is the operative word,” I interrupted.

Tom knew what I meant. He scratched his head in thought, deciding whether or not to continue explaining his point with a metaphor that had, as far as I was concerned, run out of gas. He made the wrong decision. He kept going.

“You’re a perfect example,” he said. “Your marriage.”

“Watch it—”

“Okay, never mind your marriage. Your weight.”

“Watch it—”

“No, wait, hear me,” he said. “How many years did you allow yourself to eat and gain weight before you did something about it? How many years before you realized you couldn’t keep going the same way?”

“I get it.”

“See, V, you’re a procrastinator.”

“Really? Thank you, Mr. Moto.”

“How many years was your warning light on before you did anything?”

He had a point, but I refused to say anything more. I looked at him and nodded in complete and utter amazement. I almost felt like applauding. He appeared to be very satisfied with himself. I could picture him at the service station the next day, telling his buddy that he had set me straight about taking care of cars and life
in general. I loved him for it, and yet I also wondered what it was that I liked about men.

The next week, Tom and I left for another stint on the road promoting my book. The tour was like being in a state of suspended animation. It was surreal to go someplace and meet hundreds of wonderful people who just wanted to say hello and tell me how much they had enjoyed my work or been inspired by me. Except for one or two creepy stalkerlike guys, people were wonderful and warm. At one bookstore, a woman showed up with a container of gazpacho.

“Why gazpacho?” I whispered to Tom, who had spoken to her.

Tom shrugged.

“She said it was delicious.”

“But soup at a book signing?”

“We don’t know her,” he said. “I don’t think we should have any.”

I agreed and went back to signing books. A few minutes later, Tom returned to the table where I sat. He leaned close enough so that I could smell garlic on his breath as he whispered in my ear.

“You didn’t?” I asked.

“She was such a nice woman,” he said. “And it was incredible. I saved some for you to have later.”

Each stop was like that. They put me on a high. How could they not? Then I would return to the hotel room, look at Tom or glance at myself in the mirror, and think, Really? What am I not getting?

But people saw something I didn’t see at the time. They genuinely wanted to connect, and more than that they wanted information and answers. I was reminded of the famous coffee shop scene
in
When Harry Met Sally
, when an older woman played by Estelle Reiner watches Meg Ryan’s character feign an orgasm and then tells the waitress, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

I was delighted to talk about my diet and wanted everyone to have the same success. I had a hard time, though, whenever someone asked, “What’s next for you?”

“Maintenance,” I would respond, but then I would fall silent, pretending that was the complete answer even though I knew it wasn’t. I didn’t know what else to say. They would nod as if they understood. In the meantime, I would find myself thinking about Tom’s damn car analogy. Maybe I would just keep going till a warning light came on.

Or would I? As Tom pointed out, even with proper warnings I couldn’t be trusted. For instance, he got on me for not having made a dentist appointment for months even though I had a tooth that hurt off and on. He also wondered why I had continually put off seeing my asthma doctor, given the complaining I did about breathing whenever I stepped up my exercise. Then we walked through the front door at home to myriad problems, including a broken air conditioner, a back stairwell that looked further decayed from dry rot, and new cracks along the living room walls.

“Is that crack bigger?” I asked.

“I quit looking a year ago,” Tom said, shaking his head disgustedly.

“Hmmm,” I said.

As Tom headed into another room, I heard him say something. I couldn’t quite make it out, though.

“What’d you say?” I asked.

“Nothing.” Then he cleared his throat and added, “Nothing about maintenance.”

•   •   •

A few nights later, I was awakened in the middle of the night by a strange, scary noise. I listened and then nudged Tom until he propped himself up on one elbow and listened with mounting curiosity. We agreed that it sounded like dead bodies groaning from underground, even though neither of us had ever heard that sound.

Moments later, we were in the backyard, following the noise down the hill toward the swimming pool. All sorts of wild animals make their way through our backyard day and night, including deer, coyotes, bobcats, raccoons, skunks, and other creatures I didn’t want to think about. In the dark, Tom tried umpteen ways to scare me. He succeeded each time, too.

Despite such creepy thoughts, both of us suspected that a problem with the pool was responsible for the noise. It had been leaking water for three years. Ordinarily, I kept a hose in it on a slow trickle, which I knew was terrible for both the water shortage plaguing the city and my water bill. But apparently someone had turned it off while we were out of town and the water level had dropped to the point where the filter had started sucking in more air than water, and was making the hideous noise that had awakened us.

“Phew, that’s a relief,” I said after Tom flipped the filter off.

“What is?” he asked.

“We don’t have dead bodies groaning underground.”

“We have a dead pool instead,” he said.

As we walked inside and got back into bed, I knew that I was experiencing a massive lesson in maintenance. Directly and indirectly, I was being shown that it could be difficult whether it had to do with weight, cars, or a house. Had I thought about it, I would have seen that I had hit my goal when I bought the house, when I
purchased that Q7, and when I lost 40 pounds; and I would have realized that in each case those were the easy parts. The upkeep was much harder. It didn’t end.

This was all a metaphor for a much bigger lesson I was supposed to learn: take action earlier and not wait until there was a problem.

I had to have my own “Holy shit” moment before I got the message. Until then, I had my ever-vigilant boyfriend, who was more than happy to keep me on track. Tom rolled into the kitchen one afternoon looking pleased with himself. The only thing he liked better than having things under control was explaining to me exactly what he had done to get everything in its rightful place, and this was one of those moments. He had just come back from the Audi dealer. They had finally taken back our lemon, but because we loved the car itself, Tom had negotiated for a new Q7.

He led me outside to see it. He ran his hand across the side like a salesman proud of the shine and then opened the door so I could get a whiff of that wonderful new car smell.

“It’s nice,” I said.

“Want to know something even better?” he asked.

“I do.”

“I figured out why I’m in your life,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s so I can tell you when your warning lights are on.”

One afternoon before Wolfie left to go back on tour, Tom came downstairs from the boys’ room making a face and shaking his head in a way that I knew meant trouble. Neither Wolfie nor Tony was home, so I couldn’t imagine the reason, other than maybe he had found cigarettes, booze, or drugs, which he quickly assured me he hadn’t. It was worse: he had gone into the boys’ bathroom. Sparing me most of the details, he simply termed it a disaster.

“They pee like horses,” he said. “I mean, I’ve heard about blended families. But it doesn’t have to be in puddles on the floor!”

“Gross!” I squealed.

“Seriously, it’s like using a water cannon on a house plant. Would it be bad if I asked them to sit on the toilet?”

I looked up at Tom with a blank stare. He had asked one of the few questions that could render me silent. Not about the guys sitting on the toilet, which seemed like something he needed to talk
to them about among themselves. But the implicit question was about how best to have your kids live together. Ordinarily, I have plenty to say when the subject turns to blended families. Long before Wolfie was born and even more so afterward, I was clear that family is the most important thing in my life. I have been quoted often as saying that motherhood is my favorite role. When I met Tom, who has four children, the part got way more complicated.

In fact, after Tom’s rant about the pee in the boys’ bathroom, my thoughts suddenly lit on the plans I still needed to make before his children arrived for spring break. I feared that if anything was going to cause me to lose control in the kitchen late one night (hey, the warning light was on!), it would be the stress of dealing with all those kids.

Mind you, much of this stress was self-imposed. From the moment Tom told me that he had four children, which he shared on the night we met, I told myself that I wanted to be the best step-mom in the world. I would bet that a lot of women in similar situations say the same thing. But I may as well have decided to become an astronaut, too. It was impossible. There were too many complications. Five years later, I just wanted to come out a survivor, with my sense of humor and waistline intact.

The first summer that the kids stayed with us, I was determined to make every day spectacular. I made pancakes for them in the morning and three-course meals for lunches and dinners. When they arrived the next summer, I put cereal on the table for breakfast, served sandwiches for lunch, and hoped for a hot dinner at night. By the third summer, I was out of recipes. I let everyone make his or her own breakfast, and midway through their visit I groaned, “They’re staying the whole summer?”

•      •      •

Now, as we looked ahead to the fourth summer, I had nothing planned. But in my heart I knew without a doubt that I loved the children. Tom’s oldest, Tony, had moved in with us midway through his junior year of high school. He quickly grew close to Wolfie, who surprised me by immediately adjusting from his previous existence as an only child. Rather than have separate bedrooms, they moved two beds into one large room. Tony also plays the bass, and the two of them jam endlessly.

Tom’s youngest, Dominic, now ten, is an adorable, energetic boy who walks on the balls of his feet. He’s always ready to play or snuggle. But he’s the only boy in history who hates French fries. He doesn’t like cheese either. Yet he loves quesadillas. Go figure.

Next up is Angela, the family’s Italian beauty. When we are out in public, people mistake her for my daughter. An A student, she has the preternatural savvy of a child who grew up quickly. She’s fourteen going on twenty-four. Then there’s Andie, a coltish seventeen-year-old with the biggest eyes and best legs I have ever seen. She has a passion for creative writing and a fascinating imagination that has Tom and me wondering how she will use it as an adult.