“Do you like her?”

My dad took a sip of his beer. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I didn’t say that. What I said was that it doesn’t matter how I feel about her. The only thing that really matters is how you feel about her. If you know why you like her and she’s good enough for you, then she’ll be good enough for your mom and me.”

Then the game came back on, and my dad descended into silence. All I could think was that my dad was, and always will be, one of the smartest men I’ve ever known.

After my lunch with Vivian, I went back to work, but my thoughts were jumbled and I felt out of sorts. The feeling intensified as three o’clock came and went, and I began to feel the loss of London’s company. As important as it was for London to spend time with Vivian, I wasn’t convinced that I had to be invisible the entire weekend for their time together to be meaningful. I wondered why I hadn’t protested more strongly when Vivian had suggested it, but deep down, my problem was me. I knew I still wanted to please her and as much as that suggested a flaw in my character, that flaw was exacerbated by the obvious: If I hadn’t been able to please her before, why on earth would I think I was able to please her now?

It was, I think, the first time I realized the depth of that particular problem. Even I had trouble making sense of it. Logically, I knew it was both ridiculous and unlikely – why, time after time, did I continue to try?

I wished I could be another person. Or, better yet, I wished I could be a stronger version of me and I wondered whether I needed professional help. I wondered if professional help would change anything. Knowing me, I’d end up trying to please my therapist.

It’s been said that parents always screw up their kids and since I’d been a people pleaser for as long as I can remember, it logically flowed that it was all my parents’ fault. Why then, I wondered, did I feel the need to visit them so regularly? Why did I try to visit with my dad during ball games, or tell my mom that her meals were delicious?

Because, I thought to myself, I wanted to please them, too.

I finally left the office a little after five and drove to Marge’s. I told myself that I would keep talk about Vivian to an absolute minimum – even I was tired of her – a goal that lasted all of twelve seconds. I whined my way through dinner and Marge and Liz were supportive as always. If I was a broken record, they were too, and while they assured me repeatedly that I would be okay, I still wasn’t sure whether to believe them.

They dragged me to a movie and we had our pick of the late-summer blockbusters still lingering in theaters. We chose something fun – one of those stories with flawed heroes battling really evil bad guys intent on destroying the planet, and lots of action – but even so, it was hard for me to relax and enjoy it. I found my thoughts drifting to how Vivian and London had spent the afternoon and what they’d had for dinner; I wondered if my wife was sitting in the family room and flipping through a magazine after London had gone to bed. I wondered whether she’d called Spannerman, and if so, how long they’d talked.

After the movie, I tried to do some reading. My sister had a few books in the spare bedroom, but trying to lose myself in a novel was impossible. I gave up and turned out the light, and spent hours tossing and turning before finally falling asleep.

I woke two hours before dawn.

At a quarter to eleven on Saturday morning, my cell phone rang. I’d already jogged, showered, had coffee with Marge and Liz, and started to put together the questions for the patient testimonials. It is easy to accomplish a lot when one wakes up in what feels like the middle of the night.

When I pulled the phone from my pocket, I saw it was Vivian and I hit the magic button.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Russ. Are you busy?”

“Not really,” I said. “I’m at my sister’s. What’s up? Is London all right?”

“She’s fine. But I forgot to bring the vase to art class, and I was wondering if you might swing by the house and bring it here. I’m almost at the studio and if I turn around and go back, she’s going to be really late.”

“Yeah,” I said. “No problem. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

I hung up the phone and grabbed my keys. I’d placed them in a basket on the table by the door.

Behind me, I heard Marge call out: “Where are you going?”

“Vivian called. I need to bring London the ceramic vase she made last week.”

“Then you better get to it, seal.”

“Seal?”

“She commands and you comply. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll toss a fish at you.”

“It’s for London, not Vivian,” I snapped.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Though I was annoyed by her comment, it passed in the rush to get to my house, and then to London’s class. Marge lived ten minutes away; if I hit more green lights than red, I’d be there shortly after class started.

I wondered, absently, whether London had told Vivian about the yellow flowers and pink mouses. I smiled. Mouses. It had sounded so cute coming from her, I just didn’t have the heart to correct her. I wanted to see my daughter, even if only for a few seconds. Though it had only been a day, I missed her.

I got home, grabbed the vase, and was fortunate to hit one green light after another, the Man Upstairs obviously understanding the urgency of my mission.