Chapter Two
"Shelly, you're awfully quiet this afternoon," Mary Cooper said, sitting in Leonard's chair, drinking her lemonade. Leonard and Penny had gone out with Beverly and she was alone with her son. Who was unusually quite. By now, he should have been talking more about the award he received yesterday or mocking her religious choices.
"Mom," Sheldon turned in his spot to face her, "the truth is I have something to tell you and it might upset you."
Mary leaned forward to set her glass on the coffee table. She studied Sheldon for a moment. Still so much a child, her baby boy, even though he was a grown man now. There had been times, this week, when she saw him as a man, how much he had matured recently and in ways in which she had often thought he would never be capable. They had all gone out to eat one night, and the polite way he held the door and pulled out Amy's chair for her . . .and the way he looked at her! That was the way a man looks at a woman, the way a woman longs to be looked at by her man.
But the way his knuckles where white as he gripped his own glass tightly made her want to gather her baby boy in her arms once again. "Well, go on. Just rip it off like a Band-Aid, son."
Sheldon took a deep breath. "I've decided to ask Amy to marry me."
"Jumpin' Jehosaphat!" Mary shrieked.
"Mom! Language!"
Amy. Although Mary still thought she was the strangest woman she'd ever met, she had to admit she was strange in the same ways her son was, that their strangeness suited both of them. Amy was good for Sheldon, there was no doubt about that. And the way she looked at him!
Bringing her hand up to cover her gapping mouth, Mary realized she wasn't actually surprised at the news. She was surprised that Sheldon had come to this conclusion on his own. She stilled her voice to reply calmly, "Now, when you say marry, do you mean a white dress and the whole nine yards?"
"If that's what Amy wants. And she probably does," Sheldon shrugged. Then he sat up a little straighter. "But don't get any ideas about your preacher!"
Ignoring that comment for a moment, Mary asked, "And, when you say marry, do you mean that you'll just play a little chess in the evenings before you go to a bedroom like Lucy and Desi's?"
"Well, I don't know if we'll play on a daily basis, but both Amy and I enjoy a competitive game of chess, so I suppose it could happen."
Mary sighed softly. Sometimes she was still uncertain if Sheldon was being purposely obtuse or he if he was just being . . . well, Sheldon. "I meant are you planing on knowing Amy in the Biblical sense?"
Sheldon raised his eyebrows slightly. "As neither of us is religious, I find that highly unlikely."
Mary shook her head. "No, Sheldon, I'm asking if you intend on sharing a bed with your lady friend. Your wife. On or after your wedding night."
"Oh." Sheldon blushed and looked away. "Amy has expressed her desire to carry my offspring to term." But it was the blush, not the words, that told Mary everything she needed to know. Then Sheldon turned suddenly back to her. "Will you help me pick out the ring? Please?" Then he added, softly, "She's the one."
She leaned forward and patted Sheldon on the knee. "I'd love to. Are we going now?"
"Yes!" Sheldon grinned and stood, grabbing her glass to take it to the kitchen. Once his back was turned as he loaded the dishwasher, Mary leaned all the way back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling, grinning and letting out a breath she had been holding for thirty-five years. "Thank you, Jesus!"
They were surprisingly smooth, the doors. More than once, it crossed Amy's mind that she should call Raj and Howard to take them away. How foolish she had been. Maybe it was the newness, but she couldn't help brushing them every time she passed. She felt like she could see them from everywhere in her apartment, they were never hidden. She wished she could fold them up into the drawer with their prom picture and the magazines in which he had published articles and the picture frame he had given her at Christmas.
One evening, she stood in the hallway and studied them. The squares, the white sign, the false windows, the blue the same shade as his eyes. She slowly leaned forward, running her palm softly along the surface. They were so large and sure. She leaned her cheek against one.
These particular TARDIS doors were not going to align the universe in less than hour. How she wished they would.
Flannel. He searched every inch of the apartment. Under his mattress, under his box spring, behind every book case; Sheldon dug through boxes in the closet, telling Leonard he was looking for something he needed for work. There was one in the unused bottom drawer on Leonard's side of the bathroom cabinet. The other one, though, wasn't really hidden, which is probably why he found it last. It was in the drawer of his dresser with their prom picture, under the magazines in which she had published articles and the hat he made at the Arts and Craft museum. A tube of her lipgloss, that he thought was his secret theft, rolled away from it. When? And she had seen . . . she had known . . .
He opened the vacuum bag and listened to the air rush in. A new toothbrush, a sample size bottle of her shampoo, and a nightgown. He took the nightgown out slowly, letting it fall softly through his fingers. It looked so small in his hands. He lifted it up and rubbed it against his cheek.
This emergency sleepover kit was not going to bring a solution by dawn. How he wished it would.
All day, in her lab, there was new smell. Not unpleasant; something honeyed and heady if vague. Amy wondered, briefly, if a coworker had overused a new perfume. But, no, there had been no coworkers in her lab.
When she went to the grocery store after work, she stopped unexpectedly by the flowers, the scent still tickling her nose. Well, why not treat herself? It's not like her boyfriend ever bought her flowers. At least not willingly, without a snide comment. Her eyes grazed over the blooms and arrested upon the calla lilies. Strong, proud, tall, straight. Curled in upon themselves as though they were wearing armor; it took effort and time to peel your way into the center of calla lily. A little pointed end, like a snappy retort. White for purity. White for returning, for resurrections. Yes, the calla lilies.
Flowers. Women liked flowers. Flowers were traditional. Flowers were elevated by the Victorians using the art of floriography. And Amy loved anything Victorian; she would understand. Thus, it would be jasmine for faithfulness, geraniums for sincerity, and peonies for healing.
"That's quite the unusual combination, sir," the florist had said. "It might be difficult -"
"There is no room for excuses. Or errors. Money is no object," Sheldon had interrupted. Of course, he had already studied their extensive satisfaction-guaranteed-or-your-money-back policy, and he wasn't afraid to use it.
Amy had to leave her lab unlocked every Monday evening for floor polishing. Sheldon arranged to meet the delivery person there at seven on Tuesday morning; he told Leonard he was going into work early but not why. Five giant bouquets, one for every year they'd known each other. Sheldon instructed the delivery person to place them were he knew they would be seen immediately, but not where they would contaminate her work. Trembling, he gently removed the green protective fabrics covers.
No, no! They are all wrong! The colors were right, the combinations were just as unusual as desired, but rhododendrons! Lavender! Snapdragons! No, no; beware, distrust, presumptuousness, they were all completely wrong!
"Take them away!" he demanded. He demanded his money back. No, there was nothing they could do to fix this. Flowers, he realized, could not fix this.
What was she craving? Amy's meal had been simple. Now that she didn't have to cook on Thursday nights for . . . She shook her head. Maybe something sweet. She opened the cabinet where she keep her snacks and treats, but it was almost bare.
Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Soiree squares! That's what it had been all day, her craving. For chocolate. He hated dark chocolate. Too bitter, he complained. And salt in chocolate! Yuck! But Sheldon wasn't here, was he? When she grabbed the package, something fell behind it. She reached in and pulled out a Hershey's milk chocolate bar. Oh, yes, from the cookies. His MeeMaw had been clear: the secret was broken chunks of Hersey's milk chocolate bar, not semi-sweet chips.
Pulling the thin silver underwrapping away, she broke off a chunk. She could really use a hug.
Chocolate. Boxes of chocolate. Amy loved dark chocolate, the darker the better. With disgusting things like sea salt in it. Ghirardelli was fine, he thought, but he wanted the best. Dark, rich Belgium chocolate, conched in small batches by hand. The best in the world. Mixed slowly with the highest grade of pink Himalayan sea salt. Probably by blind orphaned nuns, given the cost. Gorgeously wrapped, overnighted from Brussels.
Sheldon had it delivered to his office, because he had to sign for it. Then he would sneak over to Amy's lab while she was at lunch and leave it for her; he told Raj that he would work through lunch instead of joining them in the cafeteria. After the courier came, he determined he could open the lid without disturbing the fancy bow. He lifted it off, carefully.
Ruined! Melted chocolates had leaked out of their respective slots and swirled and mixed before solidifying again. It was mess. He threw the entire box away in anger. Forrest Gump was right: life was like a box of chocolates, and it was a mess.
Her morning had been awful. She woke up with a stuffy nose and moved slowly. No temperature, though, nothing serious. And Amy had important things to do at work, it really wasn't the type of day she could just take for a sick day without consequences later. She discovered that she had left the milk out the night before; she didn't know if she was more angry at herself for the unusual oversight or because she had to take the time to make something more complex for breakfast than cereal. Her hair dryer choose that morning to stop working. She was running behind.
In the mornings, instead of NPR, she often changed her radio station to an oldies station that played 1980s power ballads during rush hour. She liked hearing someone who felt comfortable being that open and passionate about their feelings. Of course, if she drove Sheldon to work, he had hated it and invariably complained. Turning on the car, it was mid-song. She knew it instantly. Richard Marx.
"Wherever you go
Whatever you do
I will be right here waiting for you
Whatever it takes
Or how my heart breaks
I will be right here waiting for you"
Amy flipped back to NPR. He would have hated that song for so many different reasons. She hated being reminded of him when she was sick.
Love songs. No, he couldn't do it. It reeked of desperation, didn't it? Who was he kidding? He was desperate. His two previous plans having fallen through, he saw he was going to have to be more obvious. Sheldon was done hiding his feelings; he needed to show her that he was open and passionate.
"No, just 'To Amy from Sheldon,'" he explained over the phone, "she'll understand."
"And the song?" asked the radio station employee.
Thankful he was on the phone, alone in his office, telling Leonard he was working late, Sheldon blushed. "There's a song by Richard Marx. Right Here Waiting?"
"Is there a certain time?"
"7:45 a.m. Precisely. I want it in the middle of her commute."
He hated himself. Oh, good Lord, he was sick with desperation.
Amy had planned on asking Sheldon to go with her; she was going to ask on their Date Night, but, instead, it all fell apart. Amy was fairly confident he would agree after some slight whining. Because, for some reason she never understood, Sheldon liked to watch French movies with her. Four classic French movies in a row, each expressing a different view of war through a French person's eyes. And the last film was A Very Long Engagement. She loved those scenes at the lake, at the church, in the book. And, yes, the book would probably still be better but she wanted to see the movie. Now, she was glad she had procrastinated and not told him about the film festival. It would hurt too much to go and think of his absence. Their very long absence.
Instead, she settled in with popcorn alone. As the third movie ended and the lights came up, she thought about A Very Long Engagement, how badly she had wanted to see it. She knew the words by heart: "She could stretch out her hand, he'd come even closer, she could touch him. He's the same, thinner, the most beautiful man in the world, with eyes of very pale blue, quiet and gentle, with something struggling in their depths, a child, a soul in agony."
She sighed deeply and got up to leave, even before the cute little ads people and businesses had paid for between films finished. All the personal ones had been about love, anyway: "To my beautiful wife." "Happy birthday to my bae!" She couldn't bear to watch the rest of the ads.
Proposal. Not wanting to be a hippy, Sheldon mostly thought about asking her on the sofa, one date night. After all, it was a simple ring, just a diamond on a band. But . . .
There was a French film festival of sorts coming up. He had seen the flyer on Amy's refrigerator at their last Date Night at her place. Their last happy Date Night. Amy loved French movies. He loved to watch Amy watching French movies. There was ad space for sale before each film as a fund raiser. He could film it in black and white, like a silent film. A placard in French, asking this question. Then him, bending down on one knee, opening the box. Maybe he'd wear a beret. On the big screen, for all to see. For Sheldon to watch her as she watched this particular French movie, as she realized exactly what she was watching.
It was not to be. The very next day, he called and reserved his spot immediately before A Very Long Engagement because it was one of Amy's favorite books. But he couldn't get up the courage to do something so important so publicly. He never even casually mentioned the festival, not even on their next Date Night, and she didn't either. Of course, that was the night it all fell apart.
Well, he still had the space, he couldn't not get his money back now. And so, it was still a black placard, it was still in French. "Amy Farrah Fowler, tu me manque." Just in case she was there. For some reason he couldn't explain, he was certain she would be there.
When the day came, now in the midst of their very long absence, he spent the day in his room, alone. He told Leonard he was working. But, really, he read A Very Long Engagement. And fretted about what Amy's reaction would be, whether or not she would be offended at this intrusion into her requested privacy and space. The radio station hadn't messed it up, and yet, he never heard from her . . .
Page 198. The memory of their first kiss. "This new arrangement is so clearly superior to the old one that she wonders why she waited so long before trying it out, and as for him, even his ears have turned beet read, but she can tell he's not displeased."
He sighed deeply and closed the book, leaning back against his headboard. He couldn't bear to watch the words anymore.
And he waited for the phone call that never came.
To be continued . . .
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