Searching for the One Read online

  SEARCHING FOR THE ONE

  Gabriella Murray

  Gabriella Murray

  Gabriella’s fiction has been widely published in national literary magazines, and her work has been translated into 14 languages. She is also a successfully produced playwright and a practicing psychologist, specializing in relationships.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER l

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  Copyright © 2011 Gabriella Murray

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER l

  Dear Sunflower101:

  I saw your profile online and the minute I read it, I realized you were the One. Is it possible?

  Everyone tells me I'm a terrific guy. I'm fifty two, active, lonely and still have a full head of hair. My interests include hiking, magic, fine dining and riding my bike on the beach late at night.

  I'm a good man, Sunflower 101. You sound like you're a good woman too, so why not give me a call? You won't be disappointed, I promise. I'm a successful professional who's unencumbered. My search has been tremendous, but I know it's coming to an end. How about you? How come you're even reading my letter? Tell me all about you?

  Hoping,

  Greg

  When Melvin finally left Sara, after twenty three years of marriage, she heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

  "Gone," she whispered as she leaned against the expensive front door of their one hundred year old colonial home and watched him walk down the brick path that led from the doorway to the curb, one last time. As always, Melvin held his back exceedingly straight. He walked with the air of undeniable authority that he carried with him like a huge, black umbrella, for keeping off sudden rain.

  As Sara watched him depart she tossed her long, curly, dirty blonde hair back off her face, determined never to cave in again. At that instant Melvin spun around and yelled, "Damn it, Sara, I know I left my passport in the dining room drawer. How come I couldn’t find it anywhere?”

  “Get another one,” she yelled back.

  Melvin scowled. "I know you did something with it.”

  “I threw it up a tree, Melvin. Right now it’s flying in the wind.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. Even a year ago, you wouldn’t have said something like that.”

  She bit her lip, holding back the tears. “Like what?”

  “You’ve become a seriously off-kilter person and you’d better face it before it's too late."

  But Sara refused to face it one more time. “Is it up to me to keep track of your passport, Melvin, to insist that trains run on time, keep your shirts wrinkle free and make sure old age never comes?” She didn’t know if he could hear her and didn’t care. She just turned her back abruptly then, as if to completely reverse the direction her life had taken since they met when she was seventeen years old.

  It's in the pocket of your old raincoat, Melvin, she remembered suddenly. As the picture of his gnarled passport struck her, Sara wanted to fly down the pathway, grab his stubborn shoulders and shake them. Wake up, Melvin! she wanted to yell. Leaving me for her won't make you happy. Damn. She's only twenty four years old!

  But as she tried to call out, her voice caught, grew garbled, stuck in the pit of her throat. This only irritated Melvin further.

  "Speak up!" he yelled.

  The words wouldn't come.

  "All right," his voice grew gravelly, "I'll order another passport! Only do me a favor - turn around and smile if you can. I do not want my last memory to be of your back arched in fury."

  Sara turned. She felt no fury, only the longing to stop the pillage of time that had wreaked its havoc upon them. Out of respect for their last moment together, she did her best to smile, but couldn't. It's good that he's going, she intoned to herself. She'd been repeating that phrase, like a mantra, these past weeks as he packed. Standing there, Melvin looked tall, stately, almost as handsome as when she met him twenty three years ago. He had a way of not aging, with his craggy jaw and hazel eyes.

  "Good-bye, Melvin," she finally managed.

  He nodded in his clipped style, turned and flew, with his ridiculous umbrella, into his shiny, new, red convertible. Then he revved the engine, turned up the radio and before she realized what was happening, took off down the block in a whir of gas fumes, taking huge chunks of Sara's life with him.

  Melvin, she thought as she watched the car disappear around the corner, you're leaving for a passing fling. She's only a kid. You'll get bored in a month. It'll amount to nothing.

  It's good that he's going, she intoned again. She'd repeated that phrase as she'd exercised, did yoga postures, cleaned the house, and sat at the desk of law office she’d worked for, for the past 7 years as a para-legal, who could do no wrong, At least her tremendously overweight boss, Sam Helder, appreciated everything last thing she did. Over and over he told her she had a safe haven with him.

  Sara turned back to the house and the moment she did, saw Abel, their youngest son, barely ten, peering through the huge, slated blinds that covered the front window that ran from ceiling to floor. She was stunned to realize he'd been watching everything. Upon seeing her turn, he backed away from the window, opened the front door and stepped outside.

  "It finally happened," he said.

  "Dad will be back for visits, sweetheart," she said, her stomach clenching into a knot.

  "Some dads leave forever," Abel said.

  Sara looked down at him. She wanted to place the stray lock of hair on his forehead back where it belonged.

  The two of them stood in a moment of silence as Matt, the eldest son, sixteen, dark haired and angular - a lot like Melvin - walked through the open front door and joined Abel on the step. "Dad finally did it?" he asked.

  "For now," Sara said.

  "Where do we go from here?" Abel piped up.

  "We don't go anywhere, stupid," Matt replied. "We stay right here and wait for dad to visit. He said he'd be back once a week. Right?"

  A long silence claimed them all.

  "He said that, didn't he?" Matt repeated, as the huge, red maple in their front yard shivered in the passing breeze.

  Chloe, eighteen, the only daughter, blonde and willowy, walked out of the house and straight to Sara's side.

  "Maybe dad will come every week and maybe he won't," she chimed in.

  Sara said nothing, just let the whirl of words in her mind wind down to a soft rumble, as she stood there alone with three half grown children, one pet canary, and a pile of mixed memories that stuck in her heart.

  *

  One week to the day after he left, Melvin came to visit, gathering the children and taking them out for Chinese food, movies and then back to his new apartment which, the kids told Sara, he'd decorated in all blue and green. After the outing, he dropped them off in front of the house while Sara stood watching at the big picture window. One by one they piled out of the car, waving good-bye,
and marched single file up the walkway to a half-empty home, looking more sullen than usual.

  "How did it go?" Sara asked as they walked in.

  "Dad says he can have all the blue and green he wants now," Matt said. "He's relieved."

  "Big deal," Abel commented, crunching a fortune cookie he'd stuffed in his pocket.

  "Dad said you always hated blue and green mixed together," Matt continued. "He said it made you sea sick."

  "Not sea sick," Sara answered. "I always loved the ocean."

  "He said whatever he liked made you sick."

  "Dad re-writes history," Sara insisted.

  "Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

  "Am I on trial?" she pleaded as they all trailed off separately to their rooms.

  Sara returned to the dining room and curled up on the beige, leather sofa, wrapped around the wall. Over the past few years, as the children grew older, she made the house more inviting, more open to their friends, who stopped in unannounced. She had turned the dining room into a sitting room, put a sprawling couch along it, and tossed at least twenty red, orange, plum and burgundy textured cushions all over it. That had irritated Melvin. It also bothered him that the den too, was often occupied by hordes of teenagers, who filled the house with the din of music, chatter and high spirits. This did not disturb her in the least. She found the rumble of life that went on beneath her was oddly soothing. Sara never noticed how unbearable it was for Melvin.

  "They're locusts," Melvin used to come upstairs and cry out. "There's no place for me.”

  Sara had little patience for that. “So, go sit in the upstairs den,” she scowled. That was a spot Melvin used to love sitting in, working on model airplanes.

  “No. Make them go somewhere I don't have to see them," Melvin scowled. “I don't like being the oldest one around."

  "What’s wrong with the years passing?" You don’t want to see our children growing?"

  "What kind of ridiculous comment is that?" he yelled.

  As the children got older, Melvin scoured magazines and newspapers for articles on muscle building, herbs for youth, and old favorites. As the years piled their weight upon Melvin, he had grown more sensitive to aging, refusing the toll it would took on him. He played ball harder, stayed out later, worked out longer hours in the gym. After his workout he'd come home and flex his new muscles for Sara, but the sight of Melvin's bulging muscles had left her cold.

  "Look at this," he'd demand.

  "Very nice."

  "You don't mean it. You couldn't care less," he'd sulk away.

  Like separate stalks, they grew apart. As Melvin spent longer hours at the gym, Sara spent longer hours at the office, cleaning up old files, bringing cases home. Then, one night, arriving home late with Melvin gone, it struck her that a vast new space stretched before her. A half moon in the sky grazed through the trees and into her window, winking at her as she pondered what would become of her and Melvin now.

  It was time to take things apart and put them back together differently. Sara was not one to hide from reality. A master of detail she handled minute facts impeccably, could be counted on for precision and timeliness.

  Now, with even a hint of trouble coming, Sara had a strong foreboding that new action would be needed soon. The later Melvin stayed out at night, the more she spent time out with the girls and returned to an old love, pottery. Before long, she was spending more time alone in the shed, working with clay and studying Raku techniques that fascinated her. She'd attended workshops, met new friends, and told Melvin about them. He answered that those were the types of people who made him ill. She accepted their differences, but Melvin could not.

  "I'm not comfortable here anymore," he complained. Why are you always in that damn shed? Who are these new friends you're hanging out with? This is definitely not what I bargained for."

  "Nobody gets what they bargained for," Sara'd said as she'd cleared the dinner table.

  "My mother's house wasn't like this," he'd persisted, his thin, upper lip trembling. "Her house was perfect."

  Melvin's mother's home had been orderly, clean, and sensible;. Sara's was strewn with odd people, huge plants, garish cushions, and couches in all the wrong places.

  "I don't understand you anymore. You're growing stranger every day. Spending hours alone in that shed. And your pottery's peculiar. I don't care what people say and I have no idea why they buy it."

  As she'd plopped the dishes in the soapy sink water, Sara had realized there was little about her that Melvin could bear. She could not turn the clock back, though, or curl up inside their old, safe cocoon.

  "You've changed too, Melvin," she'd said, rinsing the sticky dishes.

  "I finally realized what's gone wrong. You invite chaos," he'd said, as if he'd found a strand of gold he'd been searching for. "You live off chaos. Ever think of that?"

  If only she'd realized he was flailing about, searching for a reason to walk out the door, she might have been ready when suddenly she saw his jaw tighten.

  "Sara," he'd begged, "you were not like this when I met you. This is not what I bargained for!"

  In a flash Sara had realized their time together was crumbling;

  "You're nothing like you were in the beginning," he'd intoned, as if life's changes had betrayed him.

  "Nothing is, Melvin!"

  For a moment he'd faltered. Despite himself, he knew Sara loved him and he loved her too. It wasn't enough, though, and neither of them had any idea how to stop the withering of life between them.

  "Why can't things go back to the way they were?" he'd pleaded, trying to regain the semblance of a life they'd lost years ago.

  "I don't know," she'd answered, her fingers dripping dirty water.

  Melvin's eyes had watered, too, and Sara had thought he was saddened. But thinking about it now, she realized that by then he'd met Alicia. At that time Sara had no idea about her; she'd felt certain the bond of children they shared would hold them forever in equilibrium. Deep within the vestigial part of herself, she still believed in the unshakable order of human life and unbreakable ties carved by family.

  "I can't live this way anymore," he'd finally announced two nights later, as he walked in the door, home from work late. His tie had been crumbled and his eyes had darted, looking for something to fix on. They finally fixed on Sara.

  "Look at yourself, for God sake," he'd said. "Look at your nails - they're crumpled and wretched."

  Despite herself, Sara had looked at her hands. They had been a little scruffy around the edges from working with clay. As she'd looked at her hands, she'd realized Melvin was simply looking for a way out of this worn-out, run-down marriage. The day before she had heard vague rumors from a friend that he was spotted in Manhattan, walking arm in arm with a young girl. At first she hadn't believed a word of it. It seemed silly, especially as the girl was supposedly twenty-four, with flaming red hair, pink lipstick, and a size twenty two waist.

  But that night the news registered. Sara had surveyed Melvin keenly, looking for evidence.

  "You're home so late," she'd said quietly.

  "I'm tired, Sara. To the bone. Give me a break."

  A vein had stuck out in his neck above the expensive blue shirt he was wearing. That had done it.

  ”You’ve got it, Melvin,” Sara said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dear Sunflower 101,

  Why haven't you answered my email? It's been a week and I still haven't heard from you.. I'm guessing you're on a vacation of some kind, or haven't had time to open my letter. Maybe you haven't gotten it yet?

  Time is a funny thing, isn't it? Sometimes one person is waiting for an answer and the other doesn't even realize they exist. But when the moment is right, the letter gets opened. I'm a patient man, Sunflower, that's one thing you're going to find out.

  Hoping to be yours,

  Greg

  Now that Melvin was gone, wherever Sara went her daughter Chloe was two steps behind - in the kitchen stirring soup,
pulling weeds in the garden, behind the French doors of her lilac bedroom. Sara would turn, and there she was.

  "Have I got a self appointed chaperon?" Sara asked, startled one day to see Chloe leaning on the wall outside her bedroom door.

  Chloe pranced in. "Someone has to keep an eye out for you."

  Sara wavered between laughing and crying. She'd been struggling to maintain the mother's role, but it was fast eroding since Melvin had dashed off in his shiny convertible. It was clear that Chloe now saw them as two equal women, on the verge of turning into friends. That worried Sara. Chloe still needed a strong mother behind her, a mountain she could lean against should she suddenly topple. A mountain like that was every daughter's birthright, Sara realized - and every son's. She was determined to be that, no matter how she felt.

  Chloe plopped down on the edge of Sara's patchwork quilt and tossed her blonde, silky hair out of her eyes.

  "You're not yourself since dad left, mom."

  Chloe had said this several times already. Sara tried to brush it off, but she was determined.

  "You stop in the middle of sentences, work with your clay until almost midnight... and there's a strange look in your eyes. We all notice it. Disoriented."

  "Re-orienting," Sara answered. "Getting a feeling for a new life."

  "Nah, ma. You're lonely. We all think you need someone."

  "Everyone thinks something," Sara quipped, unwilling to acquiesce to the pressure fast building around her to find a new partner, to fit nicely into the parade of life that went down the avenue of time, two by two. She didn't want that. She needed time to understand how loneliness worked, why and when it accosted her, and how to get out of its web.

  Chloe sat on the edge of the bed and pouted.

  "You know this is affecting all of us. It would be easier if you reacted like everyone else. Then we all wouldn't be so afraid."

  That stopped Sara.

  "Who's everyone else?" Sara felt pressured to make all of them happy, dispel fears, fulfill their images of how a mother ought to behave. But she couldn't.