The weekends, though . . . The weekends I spend with Sophie. On the weekends, I’m not lonely at all. I’m eating homemade strudel, dressed head to toe in silk and soft velvet. I’m lounging around the library reading old books, or in the conservatory tending to flowers. I’m playing shuffleboard or dancing or watching an old movie where the actors are all hams. There have been no ghost sightings since Sophie captured all the ghosts and put them in the basement.
It’s been blissful.
But fleeting.
I’m too ashamed to admit to Sophie that I can’t maintain my happiness on my own. That when she’s not around, I’m a pathetic mess who eats meals off of paper towels and uses her sleeves as tissues. She gets impatient at any mention of Sam or if I make any implication that I’m unsatisfied in my singledom. So I try to keep this aspect of my life, of my routine, to myself.
But. Sophie’s not stupid. When she suspects I’m having a particularly rough time, she’ll send me home with Ralph. She’s done it on multiple occasions.
“Why don’t you take Ralph this week, pet?” she’ll say, and Ralph will crawl out of her pocket and into her hand, then make his way into my hand. He’ll look up at me, smiling his big silly smile, and we’ll walk home together.
I made him a tiny bed out of a cereal box. It’s got a tall headboard and a sponge for a mattress. I covered the headboard in orange construction paper because orange is his favorite color. I covered the sponge with an old pillowcase.
He loves it.
He also loves to watch TV with me. I’ll let him use the remote, pick whatever he wants. He particularly enjoys HGTV and home-makeover shows. Also cooking competitions.
“You’re so silly, Ralph,” I’ll say, and he’ll smile, march his little legs.
It’s astonishing how normal it is to love a creature you’re not supposed to love.
It’s astonishing what you’ll accept when you want love. When you need it. You’ll welcome it in any form, from anyone, anything, regardless of circumstance, however peculiar. However fantastical.
I wonder all the time if I’m desperate, and I definitely am, but the truth is, anyone would be happy to love Ralph. And be loved by him. He really is great company. The most adorable spider.
And he does help. If I cry, he cries. His cries are terrible. He makes this horrible, high-pitched squeaking noise. It’s enough to discourage me. Also, he’s too cute. After one look at him, it’s hard to be sad about anything. Even Sam. And dying alone.
Ralph does not like Sam. If I pull up pictures of Sam or open my phone to text Sam, Ralph goes crazy. He’ll run up the walls. Stomp his legs. Turn the volume all the way up on the TV. He’ll demand my attention. Usually, he distracts me for long enough that I give up on Sam.
At night, I put his bed on my nightstand and he climbs on. I pull a fuzzy washcloth over him as a blanket. He vibrates with glee. He likes to be cozy.
I don’t blame him. December has been ruthless. It’s already snowed three times. Two delayed school openings and one magical Sunday at Sophie’s watching flurries fall through the big windows in the ballroom while drinking hot chocolate with chunky marshmallows.
My dad doesn’t call to ask if I’ll be coming back to Connecticut to celebrate Christmas with him. He doesn’t text. He does send an e-mail with the entire content of that e-mail in the subject line.
I respond quickly, telling him no, I won’t be able to make it, though I don’t have any alternate plans and the idea of spending the holidays alone is daunting. Sam was big on Christmas. We’d spend it with his family in Maryland, dress up in matching pajamas and eat strictly carbohydrates, watch all the stop-motion specials. He’d often declare that it was his favorite holiday, which I’ve since come to suspect was a tactic to deflate the significance of all other holidays, specifically my two favorites: Valentine’s Day, for obvious reasons, and New Year’s, which Sam found particularly baffling.
“It’s a clean slate,” I’d tell him.
“It’s another day,” he’d say. “It’s just another day in a series of days.”
“I like resolutions. It’s hopeful!”
“You can make resolutions literally any day.”
I would pout and eventually give up on whatever grand ideas I had for an intimate, lavish, champagne-soaked NYE dinner, a spin class and a couples massage on New Year’s Day. Mason jars filled with resolutions.
It’s bad enough I have to suffer through the carols and commercials reminding me of my ex-boyfriend’s favorite time of year. The thought of having no one to kiss at midnight is a devastation I hadn’t accounted for in my log of sad, unfortunate single-person stuff.