All I Ever Wanted(10)

The day I turned eight was a bleak one in my personal history. Dad had moved out the week before, and in all the distress, my birthday was kind of forgotten. Mom was not only pregnant, heartbroken, furious, but also trying to manage a double funeral for a couple who’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Hester was away for the summer at some mathlete camp, and the end result was that Mom had hurriedly poured me some Cheerios, then shuttled me over to my grandfather’s. Noah popped me in his truck and drove to St. Albans. I don’t remember the reason.

At any rate, the two men got talking, and I wandered around the drafty old barn, picking up scraps of wood, drawing my initials in a pile of sawdust, trying not to be bothered by the fact that no one remembered that I was eight years old, because even then I understood that grown-ups had a lot of problems. Then I saw the chair.

It was a rocking chair, the type meant for a front porch. Made from honey-colored tiger maple, it was truly a work of art, elegant and slender, almost glowing from within. With a glance at Noah and Mr. Morelock to ascertain that they were too busy to notice, I gave it a little nudge, and it glided back soundlessly. Could I sit in it? There was no sign saying I couldn’t. I sat. The seat and back were perfectly proportioned, curving in all the right places, and when I rocked in it, the movement was as gentle and slow as a quiet river.

Even then, I recognized that the chair was special. It was so…graceful. And so happy, somehow. Just sitting in this chair would make a person feel better. Even if her daddy didn’t live at home anymore. Even if her sister was far away. Even if her mom hadn’t baked a birthday cake. This was a chair that promised a better time ahead. The tightness that had wrapped itself around my throat the day my parents told me they were getting divorced seemed to ease as I rocked, the motion somehow tender and deep.

Closing my eyes, I pictured, perhaps for the first time, what I’d be like as a grown-up. I’d have a rooftop apartment in Manhattan overlooking the entire city. There’d be a garden up there with lemon trees and glorious flowers, and I’d work all day on theToday show, and at night, I’d come home and Bryant Gumbel, my husband, would bring me a drink that contained alcohol, and we’d hold hands and talk about really adult things, and he’d never leave me, a fact I’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“You like that chair, little one?” Mr. Morelock asked, and I jumped in guilt and opened my eyes, feeling my face burn.

“It’s…it’s very nice,” I mumbled, unsure if I was in trouble.

“Your grandpa here tells me it’s your birthday,” he said. I looked at Noah, surprised that he was aware of the date. My grandfather winked at me.

“Yes, sir. I’m eight,” I said.

“How’d you like this chair as a present?” Mr. Morelock asked, and suddenly, my eyes were wet, and I looked down at my lap and nodded, unable to speak. Then Noah picked me up and gave me a bristly kiss, told me not to go all sloppy on them, and did I thank Mr. Morelock? I wiped my eyes and did as I was told.

When Noah took me home that evening, he carried the chair up to my room. “You take care of this chair, young lady,” he said.

“It’s my happily-ever-after chair,” I said, quite pleased with the title. The chair gave my room an entirely new look, and suddenly my ruffled pink bedspread and unicorn poster seemed quite passé. Noah chuckled and ruffled my hair, then left me to worship my new treasure.

David Morelock died later that week. For some reason, his death hit me hard…it was like losing Santa or something, and I was raw anyway. Noah told me that my chair was the last one Mr. Morelock made, and more special and valuable than ever. I took Noah at his word. I didn’t want anyone to sit in it, even me… I saved it for those moments when I felt in need of the most comfort.

Like now. And as usual, the chair was working its magic. From outside came the rushing and gurgling of the Trout River. A distant owl called out. I rocked, the long, smooth glide always a shock of sweetness. Dear Mr. Morelock, how I loved him that day! Sending up a silent thank-you to my chair’s maker, I felt the tension in my shoulders surrender bit by bit.

Somewhere out there was the guy for me. Bryant Gumbel, alas, was spoken for, but somewhere in the Green Mountain state was a man who’d see me and love me and think I was the most wonderful person on earth. We’d get married, and there’d be days when I’d come home and we’d sit on the front porch, and all I ever wanted would have come true.

And so, shoving aside the feelings of sloppy misery and humiliation and summoning the relentless optimism I’d wielded all my life, I took a deep breath, causing Bowie to snap to attention as if I were about to announce something momentous and hugely brilliant. “Bowie,” I said, loath to disappoint, “let’s find you a daddy.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THURSDAY MORNINGS MEANT Senior Citizen Yoga. Granted, I was forty or fifty years younger than most of the other attendees, but since I was extremely unlimber and therefore made them feel good about themselves, I was welcomed. The fact that I brought my famous chocolate chip cookies was just gravy.

I never really got yoga. Indeed, I often dozed off during deep meditation at the end and had to be nudged back into consciousness by a classmate. Leslie, the instructor, often shot me disapproving looks as I blinked sleepily. Then again, I’d been getting those looks ever since I beat her out for prom queen. But I loved yoga class, because I loved the ladies and figured the exercise and chakra alignment (whatever that was) couldn’t hurt. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be the only one grunting as we moved into Upward Laughing Monkey.