Вдова Хана. Ульяна Павловна Соболева
saw in her face how much she needed my acceptance of this latest turn of events in her life, and though for various reasons I wasn’t ready to swallow it whole, I was ready to start seeing her hopes and dreams in a more sympathetic light. “I understand. And I’m happy for you, Mom. In fact, I’ve got a stack of ideas with me on just how we can make wedding number three the charm.” Then I laughed, not able to end things without some kind of ironic touch. “Because you know as well as I do, Mom, it isn’t really about who you marry. It’s how you marry.”
And with that, we dug into lunch, as well as the stack of wedding-day dreams I had packed into my tote bag. Things were pretty much on an even keel after that, which is why I didn’t understand the lump of emotion that emerged once our salad plates had been cleared away and we sat poring over the last few pictures of brides gazing thoughtfully into the camera as they stepped beneath various archways and gazebos that could be rented and transported to the location of your choice.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt something inside of me go slack. And before I knew what I was saying, I had told my mother everything. About Derrick’s disastrous departure and my newfound misery. And after we shed some tears and angsted together over the “whys” behind the breakup—my mother is especially good at this type of relationship analysis, having submerged herself in self-help books as each relationship ended in her own life—we indulged in giant slices of Mad Mocha Mud Cake for dessert. Even ate it with heaping clumps of vanilla ice cream on the side.
“You know what you really need,” Mom said, when we’d finally emerged from our dessert dishes. I stared at her, sensing some significant bit of wisdom would be forthcoming.
“Highlights.”
Confession: There are some ailments only good hair can cure.
Though agreeing with my mother is not my strong suit, I had to admit, she was right—I had relationship hair. Long brown locks that spoke of Saturday nights at home, wrapped in Derrick’s sweatshirt and boxers while we watched videos and stuffed ourselves full of whatever goodies we had managed to find at the bodega on the corner. In order to remedy the situation, I did what I had done in the Pre-Derrick Period when dye jobs were a regular part of my regiment. That night I called Sebastian, my erstwhile hairdresser.
“Emma, what a surprise!” he said, a hint of censure in his tone, when I got him on the phone. This is the problem when you first befriend the person who ultimately becomes responsible for your hair. They expect you to adhere to the boundaries of friendship, even when all you need is a few blond streaks. And since I hadn’t spoken to Sebastian in more than six months, I had to smooth things over by inviting him out for drinks.
“Oh, I don’t drink anymore, Emma. Tea, perhaps?” he said, naming some veggie joint on West 3rd Street and suggesting we meet there the following evening.
The nondrinking stance should have forewarned me, but I was so focused on my forthcoming transformation, I missed the signs. So as I headed down to West 3rd Street after work the next day, I looked forward to catching up with Sebastian and swapping zany stories of New York men and other strange creatures. When Sebastian and I first met, he was dating a college friend of mine, Keith. And though Keith and Sebastian lasted no longer than a semester, it was enough to seal the bond between Sebastian and me. I held his hand through the breakup, downed some serious drinks with him and bitched about the sad state of the male species, excluding Sebastian, of course. And when all was said and done, Sebastian started dyeing my hair.
It was a difficult relationship from the start, though my hair never suffered. Sebastian took me through every shade of blond, a few hues of red, and even a rich chocolate-brown—which, coming from his magic hands, even seemed a bit dangerous and exciting. He was an artist, but like all artists, he was temperamental. He insisted his friends didn’t have to pay, then complained he was being taken advantage of. It got to the point where I was forced to surreptitiously leave money on his countertop as I left his apartment after a color session, like a lover leaving secret gifts for his inamorata. And he was alternatively open, then secretive, about his love life, so I never knew when it was a good time to ask how things were going between him and whatever luscious boy—and they were always gorgeous—he had in his life.
“Emma,” he called, waving lazily at me as I detangled myself from the velvet drape hanging between the juice bar and the dining area where Sebastian sat, presiding over his surroundings like the queen that he was. Somehow Sebastian had managed to find a place that matched his unique look—a mixture of wholesomeness and exoticism. Amid gilt-framed pictures of various plants and herbs and swaths of rich fabric hanging from the windows and walls, Sebastian, with his lush golden curls and Asian eyes set in a cherub’s face, looked at home.
Once I reached his table, he enfolded me in a hug—a departure from the practice of kissing both cheeks he had instituted the last few times I saw him.
“Sit, sit! Isn’t this place fabulous?” Sebastian insisted, studying my face with a mixture of reverence and concern. Whenever I was with Sebastian, the same insecurities came over me that I felt when ever I was in the presence of a beautiful woman—that my eyebrows needed shaping, my lipstick updating. In short, I felt woefully sub-par in the femininity department.
“How are you?” he asked once we were sitting across from each other, giant scarlet menus—in some textured fabric that was clearly impractical for a food environment—before us.
“Good, good. How are you?” I said, peering at him over the top of the menu. “You look…relaxed.”
“Do I? Oh! I have so much to tell you.”
“Can I take your order?”
Turning away from my menu, I was confronted with a pierced belly button and low-slung jeans. The waitress, a lanky girl whose bored expression spoke of her utter indifference to our needs, stood beside our table poised and waiting. She looked exhausted and I noticed a faded ink stamp on the back of her hand, probably from some East Village club. Had it not been for her softly spoken question, I might have thought she was going to lie down on the bench beside us.
“Darjeeling for me,” Sebastian said, naming some substance I assume was tea.
Noticing a woeful lack of caffeinated beverages on the menu, I ordered chamomile, deciding that if I wasn’t going to get a jolt, I might as well go to the other extreme.
“So, tell me, tell me, tell me. How’re things? Derrick?” Sebastian asked, settling into the cushions surrounding his seat.
“Things are fine. Derrick’s…gone.”
“Gone? As in…?”
“Got a job offer, moved to the West Coast.”
“Oh, dear.” Sebastian’s pretty little nose scrunched up in sympathy.
“Yeah, well, I guess you can’t say he didn’t warn me.”
“That’s the trouble with ambitious, creative, gorgeous men. They’ve always got something better to do than you.”
Picking up my glass of water, I clinked it into Sebastian’s. “Here’s to slackers.”
“Slackers with trust funds,” Sebastian replied, picking up his glass to drink. “Men without money are no fun.”
“It’s true,” I agreed. “I’ve been thinking of going upscale in the man department. I’ve got the boobs, all I need is the dye job. What do you say, Sebastian? Are you up for it?” I laughed, trying not to sound too desperate. I needed to be blonder, and Sebastian was the only one I trusted to take me to that next level.
“Oh, Emma. I’ve discovered that hair color—even good color—can’t solve all your problems.”
Now this is where I began to realize that Sebastian had changed in some elemental way. Fear began to invade me. “Do tell,” I replied, trying for a light tone.
“Remember John? Impossible John?”
“Are you guys back together?” I asked with disbelief.