Beth, in some ways, resembled her father, a quiet, bookish man, prone to grand gestures (elaborate pieces of jewelry left on the toaster for Mrs. Bernstein to discover upon waking) and fits of melancholy (entire weeks spent in silence, reading and rereading Sophie’s Choice). During Beth’s long illness in high school, Dr. Bernstein had spent every free minute sitting on the couch with the girl, watching old tearjerkers—Now, Voyager; An Affair to Remember—and eating pumpkin seeds, his X-ray-filled briefcase open on his lap. It was during this same period, Mrs. Bernstein remembered, that Beth had read Sense and Sensibility—or, actually, all of Austen’s novels, in a two-volume set, brought home from the library—and favored the foolish and romantic Marianne over the wise and practical Elinor. At the time, Mrs. Bernstein had ascribed this bizarre proclivity—everyone preferred Elinor, that was the whole point of the novel, wasn’t it?—to illness: Marianne, like Beth, was prone to sickness. But had that early sympathy led to this exact moment? Perhaps. For Marianne was hung up on what were then called “first attachments,” believing a girl could never truly devote herself to anyone but her first love. Was this what was plaguing Beth? This girlish idea? That character learned, the hard way, that first loves didn’t work out so well, generally. Did Beth not remember the ending of the novel?
“Bethie, do you think you’re still in love with Dave?” Mrs. Bernstein heard herself asking, though she truly didn’t want to hear the answer. Already, her mind was starting to turn to the practicaclass="underline" how they might cancel the wedding, if it came to that. Thank God they hadn’t ordered the invitations yet (or sent them out!). Beth dropped her head to her mother’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” she cried, lapsing, yet again, into sobs. Mrs. Bernstein released the breath she had been holding. “Okay, okay,” she said, though she was growing weary of all this drama and mystery. She steeled herself and took a firmer tone. “Sweetie, let’s try and talk about this. Tell your old mother what’s going on.” Gently, she pulled Beth’s head up. Tears still leaked from the girl’s eyes. A pair of middle-aged women walked in the door, murmuring quietly to each other and shooting Mrs. Bernstein quick, sympathetic glances. Beth pulled a clean tissue from the miniature box and pressed it to her face. “I’m sorry, Mom. This is so embarrassing.” She smiled a small smile and looked around her at the lounge’s pale walls. “Crying at the Clinique counter at Saks.” Mrs. Bernstein smiled broadly. “Well, kiddo, we all have to cry somewhere. It could have been worse, right? It could have been at the Prescriptives counter. Those Prescriptives women are mean.” Beth smiled. Mrs. Bernstein decided to press her luck. “And I’m sure plenty of women cry in the dressing rooms.” She raised her pale eyebrows knowingly. “That’s true,” said Beth.
“So,” Mrs. Bernstein began. “So,” Beth sighed. Mrs. Bernstein smiled encouragingly. “Nothing has happened,” Beth began. “Except in my head. It’s just, well, you know.” She fumbled for the words. “Last fall, when I saw Dave at Lil’s wedding, I felt kind of affected by him, but I thought it was just because I was nervous. Because, you know, things were never resolved between us.” Mrs. Bernstein noted Beth’s use of the passive voice. What the girl meant was: Dave left things unresolved. She narrowed her blue eyes. Beth continued. “A few days later, I suddenly realized that I was mad at him, really mad at him. And that was why it was hard to see him. Because I thought I was over it—what had happened after college—but I wasn’t. I was still mad.” She laughed and shook her head. “I told Lil about it and she said, ‘Duh, Beth. We all knew that. Everyone except Dave.’ And then she told me that Dave felt like I dumped him. Can you believe that?” Mrs. Bernstein scrunched up her face. “Well, I don’t know. You never told me, exactly, what happened between you two.” Beth rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Honey, don’t. You’ll give yourself wrinkles,” said Mrs. Bernstein, drawing Beth’s hands down to her lap.
Chastised, Beth pulled her shoulders back and gathered strength to tell the story. “Well, he said he wanted to see other people,” she said shakily, “when we went to grad school. But all summer, before we left, it seemed like things were the same. Then we went away and he was always just, like, weird and tense. And I was always the one who would call. He never called me, not really. One day I just decided to stop calling—” Mrs. Bernstein could restrain herself no longer. “Beth, that was the right thing to do!” she cried, grabbing her daughter’s hands. “He was treating you badly! Of course you stopped calling. And now he’s sulking, saying you ‘dumped’ him. Come on!” She leveled her eyes with Beth’s. “Sweetheart, you know what’s going on here, right? He thought that you would go off to Milwaukee and”—she rolled her round eyes—“pine for him. And he would cat around for a few years. Then you’d come back and still be in love with him. But instead, you started seeing Will and now you’re marrying him.” Beth shook her head. “I don’t know if that’s it, Mom.” “Beth, why do you think he told Lil that he felt rejected by you? Because he knew she’d tell you.” Beth nodded. “He’s playing games with you. Just like he did in college.” “No, Mom, he’s not that calculating. He’s not manipulating me.” Mrs. Bernstein considered. “There are different ways of manipulating people,” she said carefully. “Sweetie, Dave is a wonderful guy, in many ways. He’s smart and funny—” Where was she going with this? She willed herself not to say too much and upset Beth. “But he has very serious problems. He’s immature. He was your first real, serious boyfriend, I know that, but I don’t know if marrying him would make you happy.” She restrained herself from adding that age-old mother’s lament, Does he even have a job? Of course, she knew the answer: yes, he had a job. Waiting tables.
Beth pressed her lips together. Mrs. Bernstein could see she was trying not to cry again. “It’s just—” She stopped. Maybe, Mrs. Bernstein thought, it would be better to stop talking about this and head directly to the bridal salon. Sometimes talking about things made them worse, rather than better. Beth opened her mouth. “It’s just— Well, what I was going to say was just that we avoided each other, mostly, in the fall and the winter. But once Will proposed—once we got engaged—I guess I kind of wanted to see him, to show him my ring and how happy I was. So I went to Lil and Tuck’s party last week. Will is in San Jose. And…” Mrs. Bernstein’s mind raced frantically. Had she slept with him? If so, she must be told that it’s okay. Mistakes happen. The wedding could go on. She must simply forget about it and move on. Sex was just sex. A choked sound emerged from Beth’s throat. “I got to the party and, at first, I didn’t see him and I sort of panicked, thinking he wasn’t coming, but I was kind of relieved at the same time, you know? But then I went to the back room to get something to eat and there he was. My heart just went crazy when I saw him. I know that sounds dumb, but that’s how it felt. And he just walked over to me and said, ‘Have you tried the dates wrapped in bacon? They’re amazing.’ And we just started talking like no time had passed. It was just like it was when we first met, in college, when we were first friends.” She laughed, a bit bitterly.