Starting over.

From scratch.

With no more ocean of conflict.

To my surprise, I was mildly excited. The idea of searching for someone, where I wouldn’t be restricted to the Internet and the telephone? Hadn’t that been my goal all along? To find a three-dimensional man?

Then again, how sad was it to know that I’d never meet the man behind the Internet legend? The man who made me so much more of a writer, and the man whose pictures I was skimming through again, even though it was eleven days and counting since the “break up.”

Sunday night and nothing to do but pine.

I zoomed in and out of the pictures I had saved in my special “James” folder. This folder contained all the very best shots of James, but in case anybody should ever get a hold of my laptop, I’d labeled it as “Q3 ‘11 Results Analysis.”

It hadn’t been hard to compile all these photos, as I’d copied and saved them from Facebook. I’d refrained from telling any of my friends I’d done this, but deep in my heart I knew it wasn’t crazy at all. He did give me access to his profile after all.

Depending on the quality of the picture, if I zoomed in enough his face on the screen was practically life-sized. Which meant that if I raised my laptop to eye level, it was almost like he was sitting right in front of me.

Oh my god...what have I become?!

I set down the laptop in disgust, whilst suddenly feeling sweaty in this otherwise airy T-shirt. And much like my friends who had felt this way already, I was starting to worry for my sanity.

I need to forget that face!

It was only a two-dimensional face after all, how hard could it be to forget a flat face?

I selected the folder and hit “Delete.”

But it wasn’t so easy.

“Are you sure you want to remove the folder “Q3 ‘11 Results Analysis” and move all its contents to the Recycle Bin?”

Why did my laptop always have to be so specific? Couldn’t it make its own decision just this once?

I hit “No” and decided to delete the pictures one by one.

Baby steps.

Much to my surprise, the beach pictures weren’t the hardest to delete. But the close-up shots, where he was staring right into the camera? Those were the heartbreakers.

DELETE.

Before I could even hesitate, I also deleted all the pictures from the “Recycle Bin.”

In reality, this exercise wasn’t as sad or as liberating as I’d imagined. Maybe it was because all the pictures I’d lost to oblivion, were not really lost at all. They could be easily accessed again through the powers of Facebook.

But had I ever really claimed that I was ready to move on for good?

Baby steps…

***

----------------------------------

Subject: Coffee Break? My treat...

Location: The Usual

Time: 9:30am

----------------------------------

I made it official to Eleanor with a meeting request. I always felt like it was harder to “decline” or ignore a meeting request than it was to dismiss an e-mail. Besides, I’d had enough of being “declined” lately.

A minute before the meeting she accepted, and that’s how my apology to Eleanor began...

***

“So...I’m a dick.” I took a big sip of my toffee-nut latte and looked at her for acknowledgement. Yes, I was having a latte, and I didn’t care if it was two hundred calories. Not today.

“Oh yeah?” Eleanor sniffed at the soy-vanilla latte I’d bought her. To take the first sip was just like accepting the olive branch. So a sniff meant she wasn’t quite there yet. Plus she looked kind of scary in her bright red v-neck sweater.

“I won’t trouble you with the ‘excuses’ version, so...you did nothing wrong by setting me up with Arjun. Sorry by the way, if he thinks I’m a cold bitch.” I crossed then uncrossed my legs, not really liking how the corduroy rubbed between my thighs.

Eleanor raised the latte to her lips, then lowered it back to the table. Dammit, so close to an accepting sip! “That’s right, you don’t have to give me the excuses version, but I’m still kind of curious. WHAT was going on in your head that night? Were you drunk? Were you having a mental breakdown? I’ve never seen you like that before.”

I really had to think about this one. Why did I fall off the sane-train?

I pulled at the collar of my big black turtleneck sweater. It was the sweater I wore when I wanted to hide from the world. But even this sweater couldn’t hide me from the truth.

“Well...maybe ten percent drunk and ten percent mentally unstable.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “And what about the other eighty percent?”

I considered the truth and let out a sigh. “Let’s just say I was still pretty consumed with what I’d witnessed at my house. You know, that awful showcase of a supposedly perfect Indian guy who’s a stranger, but perfect nonetheless because of stats on a page.” I rolled up my sleeves as I could feel myself getting fired up. “Meanwhile spending five months communicating with a virtual stranger? Well he sure didn’t feel like a stranger to me. I actually became attached to him. To James.” I couldn’t help but cringe when I said his name.

Note to self: replace his name with “Internet freak-boy.” It will ease the pain.

It looked like Eleanor was waiting for more so I continued. “What was I saying? Oh right, I was totally attached, and there were future expectations in this ‘attachment.’ But apparently I imagined it all. Because I’m just a crazy freak from the Internet.”

Eleanor simply stared.

“So yeah,” I concluded, “that was the other eighty percent.”

I looked up at Eleanor again, and all she could say was “Huh?”

We both started laughing at once. It was my first big laugh since the very real break-up of my fake-ass relationship.

And the cherry on top? Eleanor took a nice long sip of her latte.

I was relieved, but also pretty sick of “just getting by” on my friendships. I could do a little better than this rambling barrage.

“IN OTHER WORDS,” I added, “my stupid brain lumped you in with my parents, also known as the ‘arrangers.’ It’s just that in our world, no one takes the time to accurately analyze behaviour. The personality profiles are so dry. Like if you’re a parent, you have three jobs: make sure your kids don’t become slutty druggies, make sure they study all day and get good jobs, and make sure you get them married off.” I frowned at this trifecta which defined my existence. “And if you happen to be this ‘project work’ offspring, you don’t need to have a personality either. You simply have to meet the criteria mentioned above. It doesn’t matter how you get there, what your feelings are, what makes you laugh, what sort of things make your soul dance, you just have to be: pure, free of drugs, free of booze, smart, and eager for marriage.”

I cleared my throat for the finish. “Therefore, you immediately resembled the ‘parental profile’ when you brought me to Arjun. In reality of course it was nothing like that. We weren’t at my house having tea with his family, we were at a bar!” I laughed as I realized how ridiculous it all sounded now.

“But despite the obvious normalcy of the event,” I continued, “I took one look at him, listened as you told me how we’d get along great, and I snapped.” I sighed.

“The worst part is,” I concluded, “I didn’t even come to my senses until now. Which is why you’re still allowed to hate me.” I lowered my head in shame.

Eleanor punched me in the arm. “I don’t hate you! But I have to say...James really did a number on you. Or actually, I think you did a number on yourself. I mean you can’t let a guy take over your sanity. Because I know you, and most of the time...you ARE a sane person!”

I felt enlightened for agreeing with her, but dumb for how I’d acted during much of the “James trance.”

“So now what?” I asked. I was really at a loss this time, sitting in the middle of this hollow existence.

Eleanor clasped her hands together and smiled. “Well for a little while at least, you’re going to let ME run your life!”

It’s not like Eleanor could mess up my life any more than I already had.

“Okay,” I said.

“I hope you understand what that means though. Like when I tell you to focus on the gym, buy a pair of jeans one size too small for motivation and delete him off of Facebook, you’re going to do it, right?”

I shook my head in disagreement. “Two out of three dude. I am NOT deleting him from Facebook.”

“But why?” I could see some irritation creep across Eleanor’s face.

Because I miss him, and I want to keep tabs on his “relationship status.”

No, wrong answer.

“If I delete him, it’ll be like he won. Like he’s sooo amazing that I can’t even handle his presence, because I’m just wayyy too distraught.” I rolled my eyes. “And besides, maybe you can put up some pictures from our hot night out. Not that I’m trying to make him jealous, but you know, it never hurts.”

“Oh, okay.” She nodded. “That totally makes sense.”

The more I thought about James in my conversational attempts to forget him, the more I knew I’d be stalking his Facebook profile before I went to bed.

I mean no, I will NOT be doing that. Okay good.

With the internal battle of crazy vs. super-crazy settled (for now), I focused my attention on the most deserved topic of our reconciliation.

“But enough about me El. Tell me what’s new in YOUR life.” I leaned back in my chair to relax as she filled me in, and for the first time in a very long time, I really, really wanted to know.

***

I stumbled through the door with a pair of sore legs, an aching back, and arms that felt like spaghetti.

Best gym session EVER.

It was my first time working out for an extra half hour and I was proud. Of course, any progress I’d made in this entire week would be more than cancelled out by tonight’s Thanksgiving dinner.

I rinsed my water bottle in the kitchen sink, making sure to peek into the oven at the two roasting chickens glistening with glaze. Or chicken sweat, or whatever that was. Mmmm...

“Are you going to make the potatoes?” asked my mother, as she cut up some veggies that were waiting to be steamed.

I rolled my eyes. “Let me shower first.”

Legs still sore, I managed to climb up the stairs and straight to the shower.

As the hot water started to drench me with its constant pressure, the moment I’d been dreading arrived. The “James flashbacks.” The worst part was, they weren’t even flashbacks, since none of the events had ever happened. They were more like “would’ve been, but won’t ever be” flash forwards: first smile, first handshake, first laugh. Next fifty laughs. First hand-hold. Another ten laughs. First hug. A build-up of nervous anticipation. Me almost puking in his face. First kiss...

I wish I could’ve told him: “See? I wasn’t forcing you to save me from my parents. I just wanted to meet you once. Say ‘hi’ and take it from there.”

But gone was the time to clear things up.

So the showering, that segment in the day when I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting off, the showering continued to torture me.

Thank God it only lasts ten minutes.

I dried myself off and slipped into my loose-fitting Winnie-the-Pooh flannels. They were the perfect pajamas for stomach expansion.

Bring on the Thanksgiving fat!

Back in the kitchen now, I set to work on my favourite scalloped potatoes. I had the process fully memorized: spread the potato slices in a glass dish layer by layer, and all along add in the following: flour, sliced up onions, some tablespoons of milk, and of course the shredded cheddar.

Mmmm...

My mother had been kind enough to boil the potatoes, so I sliced them up into their thin little circles. It was meticulous but calming work, and since I knew what I was doing my mother didn’t scold me at all. Meanwhile my father was laughing at an Indian comedy show, which was so not funny at all.

I smiled.

Maybe this family’s not so bad after all.

My mom went out to the garage to take out the trash, but when she returned...something was very different.

She looked utterly furious.

“Lying? LYING to us?” The rest she mumbled under her breath.

My dad approached her with a look of alarm. “What is it?”

“Your DAUGHTER said she was playing golf for an office tournament.”

My sister wasn’t going to be home for another hour. But were they really surprised she was lying?

Seriously, who goes golfing in October?

“Yeah? So?” asked my father.

“Her golf set. It’s still in the garage behind the ladder.”

What kind of dumbass lies about golfing and doesn’t even take the clubs?

Just as soon as the peace in my home had embraced me, my parents were now in their fiercest attack mode.

My mother approached me with a pointed finger. “Where is she? I know she told you everything.”

“I don’t know!” I cried.

And I really didn’t!

I finished with the potatoes as fast as I could, shoving them in the oven and escaping to the basement.

My brother was watching “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” one of my favourite movies ever, and the perfect time for a little comedy.

I sat there watching for at least ten minutes before he spoke.

“Where is she?” His face barely moved and his body lay still on the couch.

“I don’t know!” Why did everyone think I would know? She and I were practically strangers. Two sisters with the same approved outward personality profiles, but completely blind to what was really in each other’s hearts.

“When the hell is dinner?” He rubbed his belly from overtop his worn grey T-shirt. “I’m starving. There better be lots of food.”

If there was one thing Sonny and I could agree on, it was our love for rich and delicious food. And tonight’s fusion Thanksgiving dinner was no exception. The menu called for regular roasted chickens, tandoori chicken, scalloped potatoes, steamed vegetables and pumpkin pie.

“Trust me there’s tons of food. But will we even get to eat with all the drama she’s causing?” I had a feeling this night was on an ugly path.

Long after the potatoes were done (with the pie now cooking peacefully in the oven), my biggest fear surrounding dinner was realized.

Eight o’ clock, no big sister and a set of angry parents.

I checked on the pie and headed back down to the basement. Before I even made it past the first three steps, the front door opened and I saw her.

I tiptoed to the doorway and shook my head at her. “Next time you wanna lie about playing golf, take your golf clubs with you, dumbass!”

Much to my surprise, my sister’s face didn’t contort into the agony or fear I’d expected. She almost looked a little glazed over.

With steady steps she made her way into the kitchen, as I stood in the darkened stairwell within earshot of everything.

As if I’m going to miss this!

“How was golf?” my mother asked in a casual tone. She loved kicking off her attacks with a juicy trick question.

“Uhh...I wasn’t playing golf,” she said.

Silence.

Maybe my parents weren’t expecting the honest admission.

“We already know you lied,” said my father. “So now you better tell us the truth. Do you have a BOYFRIEND?” He said the word “boyfriend” as if describing a crack-head neighbour.

“No, but I’ve been talking to someone. I saw his profile on the marriage website, and we started e-mailing.” She paused to clear her throat. “Then we met to have coffee, and...we like each other. Will you meet his family?”

Wait a minute...her dude is an INDIAN guy?

My jaw dropped.

My parents’ jaws were likely in a dropped configuration as well, though I couldn’t know for sure since the kitchen was obscured by the stairwell.

My mother was the first to break the silence. “Why did you meet him without our permission?”

Was it my imagination, or was my mother trying to mask her excitement with faux “taken-abackness”?

“And why did you lie?” asked my father. “If there’s one thing we tell you kids, it’s to never lie. We will always catch you. And Neema you never need to lie, you can ALWAYS talk to us.”

Oh yeah Mom and Dad, you’re just SO easy to talk to. Everything’s fine just as long as we never leave the house.

“I didn’t want you to meet him until we talked,” she said. “I can’t decide to marry someone right away. But he’s really nice.”

“Was this the first time you met him?” asked my mother, still trying hard to sound angry. “And don’t lie again.”

“We had coffee one other time,” she confessed. “And we talked on the phone.”

I had to applaud my sister’s bravery. I mean she hadn’t revealed that she’d been seeing him for almost a year (if her late nights out were any indication), but this was big.

“I don’t like this,” said my father. “I don’t like what you did. Don’t ever lie like that again. So...how old is he?”

“What does he do?” added Mother. Both of them had given up on being pissed. They were excited.

I continued to listen as she described this man whose existence I’d suspected for months.

Indian background? “Check.”

Same religion? “Check.”

Older than her? By one year, so “Check” (and phew!)

Doctor, engineer or a high-powered business man? Engineer. In other words, “Check” times a zillion!

I was happy for her...but also about to shit my pants. My parents had a spot in the local Indian newspaper advertising my sister. They also had a profile for her on all the matrimonial websites.

Would they cancel the paid memberships, or simply change the bullet point details (and jpeg) to now reference me?

I was beginning to lose my appetite.

“Come and eat!” yelled my mother.

Oh great, NOW you want me to eat?

My mother and father changed to the topic of the glorious meal that was before us. I took a quick look at the scalloped potatoes.

And I felt like projectile vomiting.

Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts.

I somehow managed to compartmentalize my fear, and ate at least two thirds of what I normally would. As for my parents, they never once noticed my reluctance to have a third helping. Their thoughts were too busy running wild with wedding plans. I could see it in their rapidly shifting eyes.

My sister on the other hand ate her dinner calmly, with a visible weight now entirely lifted off her shoulders.

And her only words as she passed me in the kitchen once the dinner was complete?

“You’re next.”