Chapter 3: Magical Oregon

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I had a little more trouble finding work than Frank, but three months after we moved up from Southern California, we were both well settled in our new home in Beaverton, Oregon. The first thing we learned was the state’s name: “Oar-uh-gun.” Any other sound (like “Orr-EE-gone”) would mark us as outsiders or tourists.

Some locals still warn, “Don’t Californicate Oregon,” but our experience was the opposite. Our middle-class neighborhood was quiet and friendly, and both of us found jobs with pleasant coworkers.

Sure, our salaries were lower, but so was our cost of living. Now we were full Oregon residents: IDs, license plates, all of it. Best of all, we enjoyed a more relaxed Pacific Northwest style of living. Sure, there’s still commuting and traffic, but nothing close to the misery of Los Angeles freeways.

On weekends, the Pacific Ocean was an easy hour and a half drive west, as were Mt. Hood and the spectacular Columbia River Gorge in the opposite direction.

I asked my husband, “Frank, are you happy here? Do you miss Los Angeles?”

“I miss some of the people, but no, I’m glad we moved. We’ve talked about the slower and calmer pace here, and I don’t hate all the horrible wasted time commuting. Most of all, across our bed is my beloved, who brings me joy every day.”

“You’re so sentimental and sappy. I love you, too.” He knew just what to say.

“Yeah, sweetie. But we’ve been physical, too—with sex every night since we magically rejuvenated.”

“Are you tired of me?” I asked, unable to hide my worries.

“Not in the least, honey. But it does seem strange. How can we keep up this pace? Will there be another morning when we wake up all gray-haired and it’s all gone?”

His eyes lost focus; his new face tightened. I turned my head and leaned into his chest, comforted by his heartbeat in my ear.

“I’ve had those same worries,” I admitted. “I trust that you’d still love and cuddle me even in the old body I used to have. But I couldn’t bear watching you suffer again from that arthritis. I’d give anything to save you from that pain.”

I meant every word. I’d miss my new body, sure. But my honey’s health came first. If I lost him—that thought locked me. I shuddered and sniffled, and his arm tightened around my shoulders. He knew. He always did.

Patiently, he held me, recognizing my need to find calm. A short time later, I guided him to the sofa, and had him sit with me. From the earliest days of our relationship, we’d “hang out” this way to rest, chat, discuss, or even argue. Almost always, Frank would find time for us to sit together like this, hip to hip, and enjoy the simple community of our shared lives.

I also prized how Frank couldn’t stay sad and worried for long. He could shake off the gloom and look ahead. When he judged I was ready, he exploited my special weakness.

With a wide smile, he asked, “I have three words for you; they all start with C. Would you like to guess?”

“Caramel? Cookie? Crunch?”

“Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner.” I bounced up and down like a happy little girl. Frank said, “I bought a pint; will that be enough?”

“I think that’s enough for me. I’ll let you lick the spoon, though.”

He pouted, even though he knew I was teasing him. As much as I craved it, my maximum capacity for Talenti’s Caramel Cookie Crunch Gelato at one sitting was half a pint, at most. Frank would tease me for being pretentious, since gelato is an Italian form of low-fat ice cream with a dense and silky texture and rich, intense flavor. I heard him carp but at the same time I watched him scarf it down like ambrosia.

The only people who could resist gelato? The lactose intolerant. Too bad for them.

Still, I managed to satiate myself and leave more than half of the container for my next emotional crisis. I’d be triple my weight if Frank allowed me unlimited gelato.

Sitting together afterwards, he entertained me with stories about his youthful body’s reactions, his visible reactions, which he described as occurring frequently during the day. He’d attracted attention while doing ordinary things like grocery shopping.

He looked into my eyes searchingly.

“You’ve been thinking about Meghan, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Oh, hell. I can’t keep anything from you. If we fly our lawyer up here, ahem, for a ‘meeting,’ we’ll both be wanting to put our hands on her body.”

I locked my eyes on his. In all our years of marriage, he’d learned. I deployed my “every word matters” look, and I knew he would listen carefully.