{"id":3722,"date":"2020-07-05T14:47:12","date_gmt":"2020-07-05T21:47:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/?p=3722"},"modified":"2020-07-05T14:47:12","modified_gmt":"2020-07-05T21:47:12","slug":"the-same-woman-donna","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/archives\/3722","title":{"rendered":"The Same Woman (Donna)"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Every so often in his life, Andrew meets a woman he feels he already knows, though he has never met her before. The first time<\/a> this happened was in 1955 when he was six-years-old, the second time<\/a> in 1962, the third<\/a> in 1966, the fourth<\/a> in 1970, the fifth<\/a> in 1978, the sixth<\/a> in 1987, the seventh<\/a> in 1993, the eighth<\/a> in 1998.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

2002. Andrew and his wife Luisa are both fifty-four\nand have been married for fifteen years. Successful writers of stories, plays,\nand screenplays, they live in a beautiful house ten miles north of Vancouver,\nBritish Columbia. Their children Owen and Lily are both twenty now. Owen is studying\nDrama at Julliard and playing clarinet in a modern jazz quintet called\nSentimento. Lily is a Psychology major at nearby Simon Fraser University and\nstill lives at home, though her burgeoning career as a movie actress has\ngreatly slowed her academic progress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Six years ago, a movie based on Andrew\u2019s play Their Summer Holiday<\/em>, was made by the\nDanish filmmaker Nicolas Thorsen who became Andrew and Luisa\u2019s good friend. When\nLuisa\u2019s autobiographical novella Rainy\nRiver<\/em> was published four years ago, Nick bought the movie rights, Andrew\nand Luisa wrote the screenplay, Nick directed, Lily starred in the role of the\nyoung Luisa, and the movie was both a critical and financial success.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since then, Nick has made two more movies from original\nscreenplays by Andrew and Luisa, Low\nOverhead<\/em> and Yum City<\/em>. Low Overhead<\/em> is a romantic comedy set in\nan anarchist bookstore in Toronto and Yum\nCity<\/em> is a dramedy revolving around the denizens of a Bohemian caf\u00e9 in\nMontreal. Both films did well in Canada and England and Europe, but neither\nfilm did much business in America. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now Andrew and Luisa are back to writing stories\nand plays and staying out of the limelight, which neither of them cares for. Lily,\non the other hand, has had several movie and television roles since starring in\nRainy River <\/em>and is seriously considering\nmoving to Los Angeles. And Owen recently announced he will either stay in\nManhattan after he completes his studies at Julliard or move to Berlin with his\nGerman girlfriend Sophie who is also studying Drama at Julliard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On a drizzly September morning a few days after Lily\nreturns from five days in Burbank playing the part of a clairvoyant\nskateboarder in a television murder mystery, Andrew and Luisa and Lily are\nhaving breakfast together and Lily says, \u201cYou don\u2019t want me to move to LA, do\nyou Papa?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course not,\u201d says Andrew, gazing forlornly at her.\n\u201cI want you and Owen to live nearby for the rest of your lives. But I know that\u2019s\nunreasonable, so if you want to move to LA, I give you my blessing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt just makes so much sense right now,\u201d says\nLily, who has blossomed into a rare beauty, tall and slender with honey brown\nskin. \u201cI don\u2019t want to live there forever, but with the parts coming so fast\nnow it seems like a smart thing to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMakes perfect sense,\u201d says Luisa, who left home at\nsixteen. \u201cAnd if you want to continue your studies, you can always transfer to\na university in Los Angeles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I don\u2019t want to make you sad, Papa.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLife is sad,\u201d says Andrew, remembering how sad\nhis mother was when he was twenty-one and told her he was moving from\nCalifornia to Canada, his mother who died two years ago just a few months after\nhis father died. \u201cI want you to live your life the way you want to. I\u2019ll eventually\nadjust to you not being here and write you lots of letters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd we can talk on the phone every day,\u201d she\nsays, her eyes full of tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs this move imminent?\u201d he asks, having imagined her\nmaking the transition to Los Angeles over the next year or so.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSoon,\u201d she says, crying. \u201cNext week.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Andrew keeps up a brave countenance while Lily\npacks to go and when Lily\u2019s friend Janelle arrives to drive with her to Los\nAngeles, but as their car grows small in the distance, Andrew breaks down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Andrew\u2019s grieving continues unabated for\nseveral days, Luisa suggests he see a psychotherapist, which he does for a few\nweeks, but he gains no relief. The psychotherapist refers him to a psychiatrist\nwho prescribes an anti-depressant Andrew doesn\u2019t want to take.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two months pass and Andrew remains deeply depressed.\nDesperate to help him, Luisa asks Andrew\u2019s best friend Cal to encourage Andrew\nto give the anti-depressant a try. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cal comes for a visit, he and Andrew chat for a\nwhile, and Cal says, \u201cI think you should talk to our rabbi. I think she could\nhelp you. I really do. She\u2019s very insightful, very kind, and I know you\u2019ll like\nher.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes she see people who aren\u2019t in your shul?\u201d\nasks Andrew, who is descended from Jews but never practiced the religion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure she\u2019ll be happy to talk with you. Shall I\ngive her a call?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d says Andrew, wearily. \u201cThat would be good.\nThank you.\u201d   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome in, come in,\u201d says Donna, ushering Andrew\ninto the spacious one-room studio adjacent to her house in a neighborhood of\nnewish houses on the northern outskirts of Vancouver. \u201cSit anywhere you\u2019d like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCal brought me,\u201d says Andrew, unable to decide\nwhere to sit. \u201cI\u2019m not driving right now. Wouldn\u2019t dare.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re depressed,\u201d she says, taking him by the\narm and leading him to the sofa. \u201cSit down. Or lie down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sits and faces her for the first time. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCal said I would like you,\u201d he says, smiling painfully,\n\u201cbut he didn\u2019t tell me you were gorgeous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop it,\u201d she says, her eyes widening in delight.\n\u201cYou came to solve your problems, not hit on the rabbi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t hitting on you,\u201d he says, laughing for\nthe first time in many months. \u201cI just wasn\u2019t expecting you to be so\nbeautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo now we know you like tall middle-aged redheads\nwith big bosoms,\u201d she says, her Los Angeles accent influenced by the Yiddish\ninflections in her parents\u2019 speech. \u201cI\u2019ve seen pictures of you on your books,\nso I knew in advance you were handsome.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI feel better already,\u201d he says, closing his\neyes. \u201cNot really.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, you feel awful,\u201d she says, sitting in a\nhigh-backed armchair, her red Hawaiian shirt featuring green and yellow\nparrots, her skirt long and black, her red hair in a braid. \u201cOld demons have\nrisen up and taken control of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOld demons?\u201d he says, opening his eyes. \u201cI\u2019m sad\nabout my children moving away, but I don\u2019t think this is anything old. I\u2019ve\nnever been depressed like this before. Well\u2026 I had a little breakdown sixteen\nyears ago when my first wife left me, but I wasn\u2019t depressed, I was just very\nupset.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn my experience,\u201d she says, watching him\ncarefully, \u201ca depression as severe as what you\u2019re experiencing is almost always\nrooted in some old sorrow. Sometimes so old it began before you were born and\nwas passed down to you. Was your mother depressed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe worried a lot,\u201d says Andrew, nodding. \u201cAnd I\nguess, yeah, sometimes she was depressed. But who isn\u2019t sometimes depressed?\nIntroduce me, please?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI like it when your Jewish self comes through,\u201d\nshe says, smiling. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy is that good?\u201d he asks, feeling certain he\nknows her from somewhere else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause being Jewish is a big part of who you\nare. And I happen to think the more we inhabit our true self, if there is such\na thing, the happier we will be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think we\u2019ve met before,\u201d he says, frowning.\n\u201cDid you have a child at the Montessori kindergarten in the old Methodist\nchurch in Squamish?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have one child who grew up in Los Angeles,\u201d\nsays Donna, thinking of her daughter, a veterinarian in San Francisco. \u201cAnd\nI\u2019ve only been in Vancouver for nine years, so I know we didn\u2019t meet at the\nMontessori.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure I know you,\u201d he says, wondering if they\nmight have been briefly involved in the days before his first marriage. \u201cI just\ncan\u2019t remember how?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know me and I know you,\u201d she says, after looking\nat him for a long moment, \u201cbecause we have what I call a soul bond. I\u2019ve only\nhad a few of these in my life, and I\u2019m just being honest here, but if you\nweren\u2019t happily married and I wasn\u2019t happily married, we\u2019d probably fall in\nlove and have a relationship. Who knows if it would be any good or how long it\nwould last, but we might have one. However, you are<\/em> happily married and so am I, so why not use our special connection\nto get to the bottom of what\u2019s haunting you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHaunting,\u201d he says, relaxing a little for the\nfirst time in eons. \u201cAnd old demons. You think I\u2019m possessed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re all possessed by something,\u201d she says, pleased\nto see him relaxing. \u201cThe ideal is to be possessed by thoughts and feelings\nthat make us glad we\u2019re alive, and not by visions of gloom and doom or thinking\nwe\u2019re not good enough.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think I\u2019m good enough,\u201d he says, most\ndefinitely not feeling good enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo what\u2019s going on in your life right now?\u201d she\nasks, handing him a glass of water. \u201cYour children have moved out. What else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBefore Lily left we were writing, my wife and I, and\nenjoying being home and not being so crazy busy making movies and travelling\nall over the place, just, you know, working. Yeah, things were fine. And then\nLily moved to Los Angeles and I just\u2026 gave up.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGave up,\u201d says Donna, considering Andrew\u2019s choice\nof words. \u201cWhat does that mean to you? Giving up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt means I gave in to my sadness.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Andrew wants to say stop striving<\/em> but he\u2019s afraid to say those words out loud. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s not a right or wrong answer,\u201d she says,\naware of his reluctance to say what he\u2019s feeling. \u201cWe\u2019re just looking for\nclues.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, well, giving up could mean\u2026 taking a break\nfrom writing. From\u2026\u201d He struggles. \u201cStriving.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re striving for?\u201d she asks,\nnoticing how his chest barely moves as he breathes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he says, shrugging. \u201cHappiness?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you not happy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot right now,\u201d he says, looking down.\n\u201cDefinitely not now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen was the last time you can remember feeling\nhappy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLong time ago,\u201d he says, his heart aching. \u201cNot\nthat I have any reason to be unhappy except for the kids being so far away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean by a long time ago? Before you\nwere depressed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh long before that.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA year ago?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reacts as if someone slapped his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat was that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think I know what this is.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you like to tell me?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been writing things I don\u2019t want to write,\u201d\nhe says, afraid to look at her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHmm,\u201d she says, considering this. \u201cI think maybe\nthat\u2019s a symptom and not the cause.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI mean why<\/em>\nhave you been writing things you don\u2019t want to write?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He freezes. \u201cWhy do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she says, smiling at him. \u201cThat\u2019s\nsomething we can delve into next time if you haven\u2019t figured it out by then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m better now,\u201d he says, looking around the room\nas if a blindfold has just been removed from his eyes. \u201cThe fog is lifting a\nlittle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood,\u201d she says, getting up from her chair and\noffering him a hand up. \u201cI have homework for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He takes her hand and she pulls him to his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s my homework?\u201d he asks, the word homework <\/em>making him laugh. \u201cI really do\nfeel better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvery day until I see you again on Friday, four\ndays from now,\u201d she says, walking him to the door, \u201cI want you to spend at\nleast an hour naked in bed with your wife, not when you go to bed at night, but\na separate time during the day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause?\u201d he says, smiling curiously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I want you to,\u201d she says, opening the\ndoor and stepping out into a light rain with him. \u201cJust be naked with her and\nsee what happens.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That afternoon, after telling Luisa about his\nsession with Donna, Andrew suggests they take off their clothes and get in bed\ntogether, and Luisa is happy to oblige.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After holding each other for several minutes, he\nkisses her and she returns his kiss and they make love for the first time in many\nmonths.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Preparing supper together, Luisa says, \u201cI\u2019d like\nto go see Donna. If you don\u2019t mind.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d love you to,\u201d he says, sensing his depression\nhovering nearby, waiting to take him over again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning after breakfast, Luisa makes some\nbusiness calls and Andrew walks the mile to Cal\u2019s house to pose the question: Why have I been writing things I don\u2019t want\nto write?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cal, who is usually home on Tuesday mornings, has\ngone to deal with a crisis at the university where he is a professor, so Andrew\nchats with Cal\u2019s wife Terry and they commiserate about their children living so\nfar away, Terry and Cal\u2019s daughter living in Hawaii, their son in England.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And while telling Terry about his session with\nDonna, Andrew asks the question he was going to pose to Cal: Why have I been writing things I don\u2019t want\nto write?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy do we do any<\/em>thing?\u201d\nsays Terry, pressing down the plunger of her French Press. \u201cWhy did I become a\nphotographer? Because I fell in love with taking pictures and then figured out a\nway to make a living from it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut then you gave up photography,\u201d says Andrew,\nthinking of his guitar and how he hasn\u2019t played in years, though he used to\nlove playing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, because I hated shooting weddings and\ntaking pictures of people I didn\u2019t know.\u201d She serves him a cup of coffee. \u201cI\ngot into photography to take pictures of rivers and clouds and birds and\ninsects and people I loved. And now I don\u2019t even want to take a picture of my\ngrandchild. If I even touch<\/em> a camera\nnow I feel physically ill.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Terry,\u201d he says, remembering her as a\nyoung woman so in love with taking pictures she brought her camera everywhere.\n\u201cI had no idea.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing to be sorry about,\u201d she says, adding\ncream to her coffee. \u201cI\u2019m just giving you my two bits. Why did you write things\nyou didn\u2019t want to write? Maybe you thought you had to, or you thought you\nwanted to and then you changed your mind but it was too late, or you needed to\nprove something, or you wanted to make a ton of money. What difference does it\nmake? To me, the more important question is how do you want to live your life\nfrom now on?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Andrew walks home lost in thought and finds a note\nfrom Luisa on the kitchen counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I called\nDonna to make an appointment and she said come right now. See you this\nafternoon. Me   <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Waiting for Luisa to get home, Andrew decides to play his guitar, but on his way to get his old Gibson out of the closet he remembers he gave the guitar away to a friend of Lily\u2019s right after the kids graduated from high school. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThree years ago,\u201d he says, noticing his writing\nnotebook on his desk and wondering what he was working on when he stopped\nwriting months ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He opens the notebook and the pages are blank save\nfor a short paragraph on the first page, all the lines of the paragraph crossed\nout except the last line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

nothing that\nwould do anybody any good<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Home from her session with Donna, Luisa comes out\non the back deck and looks down at Andrew digging potatoes for supper. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNice spuds,\u201d she says dreamily. \u201cCultivate here\noften?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey,\u201d he says, looking up at her. \u201cHow did you\nlike Donna?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI love her. She\u2019s my favorite person in the whole\nworld now, right after you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid she give you any homework?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d says Luisa, beckoning him to come inside.\n\u201cI\u2019m supposed to make sure you do yours.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Friday morning, feeling well enough to drive, Andrew arrives at Donna\u2019s a few minutes early and finds her picking tiny winter roses in her wildly overgrown garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood morning Andrew,\u201d she says, smiling as he\napproaches. \u201cHow are you today?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMuch better,\u201d he says, wondering if she\u2019d like\nhim to tame her wild garden. \u201cHow are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was so glad to meet Luisa,\u201d she says, leading\nthe way to her studio. \u201cSuch a sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, she is,\u201d says Andrew, noting the crude way someone\nhas hacked a passage through the overgrowth to the studio door. \u201cBy the way, I\nwas a professional gardener in my storied youth and I would be happy to get\nyour garden under control if you\u2019d like me to.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFirst things first,\u201d she says, opening the door.\n\u201cFirst we get you out of your depression, then we\u2019ll talk about taming my\ngarden.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Andrew sits cross-legged on the sofa and watches\nDonna arrange her roses in a green glass vase.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo\u2026\u201d he says, smiling at her, \u201chow was your week?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy week was variable,\u201d she says, sitting in the\narmchair and crossing her legs. \u201cMonday was good in large part because I got to\nwork with you. Tuesday was a mixed bag, the high point meeting Luisa. Wednesday\ncrises abounded and carried on into Thursday. And so far today things have been\nmostly quiet and now I\u2019m meeting with you, so there\u2019s at least a chance I won\u2019t\nflee the country by the end of the day.\u201d She raises an eyebrow. \u201cAnd you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI did my homework,\u201d he says, his eyes sparkling,\n\u201cand I pondered the question of why I spent the last few years writing things I\ndidn\u2019t want to write. And as I\u2019m sure you expected, one question begot another\nand as of this morning the question has evolved into what would I be if I wasn\u2019t a writer?<\/em>\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s interesting,\u201d she says, not sounding very\ninterested, \u201cbut before we think about that one, I\u2019d like to go back to the\noriginal question of why<\/em> you spent three\nyears writing things you didn\u2019t want to write?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh,\u201d says Andrew, deflated. \u201cHere I thought I was\nbeing so clever getting to the bottom of things.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo offense, sweetheart, but I think you were avoiding<\/em> getting to the bottom of\nthings.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d he says quietly, his limbs growing heavy\nagain. \u201cI guess I was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhich is perfectly understandable because at the\nbottom of things is the cause of your terror.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTerror?\u201d he says, squinting at her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d she says softly. \u201cSo first tell me what<\/em> you wrote that you didn\u2019t want to\nwrite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cScreenplays,\u201d he says gruffly. \u201cWe wasted four\nyears of our lives writing eighteen<\/em> of\nthose things. Three were made into movies and the other fifteen were crap and I\nhated writing them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you ever not<\/em>\nhate writing screenplays?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh in the beginning I loved it,\u201d he says,\nremembering the thrill of working with Nick on Rainy River<\/em> and Low Overhead<\/em>\nand Yum City.<\/em> \u201cBut then it was just\nthis horrible grind, this\u2026 forced march to get those fucking things done, and I\nhad never forced my writing before. Never.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou wrote those screenplays with Luisa.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d says Andrew, reacting to a sharp pain in\nhis neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo if you didn\u2019t want to write those screenplays,\nwhy did you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I wanted\u2026\u201d He hesitates. \u201cBecause we were\nsuccessful with the first three, we thought\u2026\u201d He hesitates again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou started to say \u2018Because I wanted\u2019 and then\nyou stopped yourself. What were you going to say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he mutters, looking away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, Andrew,\u201d she says gently. \u201cWhy did you\nkeep writing those screenplays when the writing was no longer a spontaneous\noutpouring?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that what Luisa told you?\u201d he says, glaring at\nher. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d says Donna, sensing how frightened he is. \u201cBut\nI\u2019ve read your books and I\u2019ve seen your plays and I\u2019ve watched your movies, and\nthey are all so full of truth and joy, I doubt very much you didn\u2019t want to\nwrite them. So I\u2019m guessing it\u2019s the ones that came after those three you\ndidn\u2019t want to write, yet you wrote them anyway because you wanted\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA huge success,\u201d he says before the muscles in\nhis throat and chest and stomach and groin tighten violently. \u201cSo Luisa would\nnever\u2026\u201d The pain is so intense he cannot speak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo Luisa would never what?\u201d shouts Donna. \u201cSay\nit, Andrew!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeave me,\u201d he cries. \u201cNever leave me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And having confessed this to Donna, his terrible\npain is washed away by a torrent of tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seven months later, on a balmy evening in August, Andrew and Luisa have Cal and Terry and Donna and Donna\u2019s husband Howard over for supper. They eat on the deck overlooking the garden\u2014a gorgeous mackerel sky presaging rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Howard, a short balding man ten years older than Donna, tells the story of going to the airport nine years ago to pick up Donna, who was one of three finalists to replace Rabbi Mordecai Silverstein, the shul in danger of dissolution, only a few dozen diehards keeping the little ship afloat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBy the time we got to her hotel,\u201d says Howard,\nhis accent distinctly Toronto Jewish, \u201cI wanted to marry her. Not only is she\nbeautiful, she\u2019s funny. Instinctively funny. Have you noticed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWere you similarly smitten?\u201d asks Cal, who idolizes\nDonna and can\u2019t imagine what she sees in Howard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was too preoccupied with my interview that\nafternoon and my trial Torah reading the next day to fully appreciate Howard\u2019s\nmagnificence at our first meeting,\u201d says Donna, smiling sweetly at her husband.\n\u201cBut I liked your car.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everyone laughs and Howard says, \u201cThis is what I\u2019m\ntalking about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s her timing,\u201d says Luisa, clinking her glass\nwith Donna\u2019s. \u201cYou have impeccable timing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeaven the bitter truth with humor,\u201d says Donna,\nsipping her wine. \u201cElse we will only know the bitterness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s true,\u201d says Howard, looking at Luisa. \u201cSo\nhow did you two meet?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe each had a four-year old going to the Montessori\nkindergarten in the old Methodist church not far from here,\u201d says Luisa, taking\nAndrew\u2019s hand. \u201cAnd after my daughter bothered me night and day to make a play\ndate with Andrew\u2019s son, I finally did, and Andrew and I fell in love. Then he\ndivorced his wife and we got married.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou make it sound so simple,\u201d says Andrew,\nrecalling the terrible shock of his first wife leaving him, his nervous\nbreakdown, his parents coming from California to save him, Luisa there to meet\nhim when he emerged from his desolation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd how about you two?\u201d asks Howard, looking at\nCal and Terry. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTerry and I met a couple days after Andrew and I\ngot here from California in 1968,\u201d says Cal, putting his arm around Terry.\n\u201cThirty-four years ago. I was dodging the draft and Andrew drove me up here, and\none night we went to hear some music and Terry was sitting at the table next to\nours. She and I got talking and we\u2019ve been together ever since.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut we didn\u2019t sleep together until the third\ndate,\u201d says Terry, kissing Cal. \u201cHe was shy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFantastic,\u201d says Howard, shaking his head. \u201cIsn\u2019t it amazing how people find each other? It seems so random, but I don\u2019t think it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think it is if not random?\u201d asks Cal,\nwho is a professor of Philosophy and thinks about this sort of thing all the\ntime. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have no idea,\u201d says Howard, shrugging. \u201cBut it\ncan\u2019t be random or Donna would never have given me the time of day. Look at\nher. She\u2019s beautiful and brilliant and funny and a rabbi, no less, while I\u2019m a\nschlemiel on my good<\/em> days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHowie?\u201d says Donna, raising her eyebrow. \u201cWho put\nhimself through college and optometry school? And who is one of the most sought\nafter optometrists in Vancouver? And who held the shul together until I got\nhere and we turned things around? You. Schlemiels can\u2019t to that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d he says, shrugging again. \u201cBut I\nstill don\u2019t think it\u2019s random.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you<\/em>\nthink it\u2019s random, Donna?\u201d asks Andrew, who also wonders what she sees in\nHoward. \u201cHow we meet our partners?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think it matters if it\u2019s random or not\nrandom,\u201d she says, looking up at the white clouds turning gray. \u201cI think what\nmatters is we are made of love, and the more we inhabit that truth, the more\nfulfilled we will be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2206<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When darkness falls, they move into the living\nroom and Andrew lights the fire. Luisa serves pumpkin pie and decaf, and Cal\nand Terry request that Andrew read one of his stories.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will,\u201d says Andrew, fetching his new guitar\nfrom its stand by the piano, \u201cbut first Luisa and I are going to sing a song\nfor you, the world premiere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now Andrew plays a sweet run of chords and Luisa\nsings the first verse of their new song\u2014these last six months given to making music\nand gardening and walking on the beach and traveling to visit their children,\nneither of them writing unless the spirit moves them, both as happy as they\nhave ever been\u2014Andrew joining her on the chorus, their voices made for each\nother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lounge Act In Heaven<\/a> <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Every so often in his life, Andrew meets a woman he feels he already knows, though he has never met her before. The first time this happened was in 1955 when he was six-years-old, the second time in 1962, the third in 1966, the fourth in 1970, the fifth in 1978, the sixth in 1987, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[858,5942,396,5982,4430,5962,105,77,5964,5985,118,51,5986,5981,5984,5980,5973,9,33],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3722"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3722"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3722\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3724,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3722\/revisions\/3724"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3722"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3722"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underthetablebooks.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3722"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}