Free Under the Influence by Joyce Maynard

laughing.
    My online profile (under the moniker “Shuttergirl”) sounded so boring I couldn’t imagine anyone being interested. I posted it anyway, and found myself unexpectedly drawn into the process. Nights now, if I wasn’t at the movies with Alice, at a meeting, or working a catering job, I’d be online, scrolling through my Match.com messages.
    The results seldom yielded anything promising. Still I kept clicking through the profiles and the daily trickle of responses.
    Hambone: “I saw your picture and you seem like a nice person. I’m looking for a friendly, kind-hearted woman who enjoys fishing and gospel music. I have what you might call the ‘teddy bear’ type of build, but with the right gal to inspire me, I plan to enroll in Weight Watchers.”
    Tantra4U: “My philosophy is that people should not be limited in their experience or tied down to a single person. I’m looking for an open relationship, without the restrictions society places on us that only limit our full potential to express our complete sexual identity. How about you?”
    PeppyGramps: “Don’t let my age discourage you from writing back.” (The author of this message admitted to being seventy-four.) “I’ve got plenty of pep in my step, not to mention a drawer full of pharmaceuticals.”
    The vast majority of messages I left unanswered, but now and then—to my friend Alice’s increasing chagrin—I’d write back to one of the men who had written to me, in which case there would probably be a follow-up telephone conversation. Most of the time I could tell in the first sixty seconds that the person on the other end of the line was not for me, but it wasn’t always easy ending the conversation. Sometimes I just put it out there: “I don’t think we’re a match.” Once, when I did that, athree-page response showed up in my inbox. The names its author called me shouldn’t have bothered me, given that we’d never actually met, but even the words of strangers had a disconcerting power to unnerve me.
    â€œMan-eating cunt,” he wrote. (The guy called himself “Rainbow-Seeker.”) “I know your type. Nobody’s ever good enough for you. I wasn’t going to mention this before, but it looks like you could stand to lose a few pounds, honey. Not to mention, you’re no spring chicken. What’s the story on your kid, anyway? What kind of mother doesn’t live with her kid?”
    Sometimes the men who wrote to me invaded my dreams. Most disconcerting was when the women did—the ex-wives they spent so much time talking about, years after the divorce. When this happened, I reflected that I’d probably like their ex-wives better than I liked them. I imagined what my ex-husband—living out in Walnut Creek with his new wife and baby son—would say about me if he were on a dating site. Or what he said about me to Cheri. Maybe even to Ollie.
    She has a drinking problem. It’s sad how substance abuse can ruin a person’s life. She came from a screwed-up family, of course. If you met her mother, you’d understand why she’s a mess.
    He had a point. With the exception of Ollie, I didn’t have a single relative I really loved. For that brief period of my marriage, I had believed myself to be part of a big, happy family. Then they were gone, and with them went my child. Besides my one friend, I was alone in the world.
    That’s how I felt when I met the Havillands.

12.
    A couple of days after meeting Ava at that gallery that first time, Alice had called me up. “Who was that person you were talking to, in the wheelchair?” she said.
    â€œAva’s an art collector,” I told her. “She invited me over to see her collection.”
    â€œAnd you’re going?” she said. I didn’t tell her I already had.
    â€œShe has these original prints of some famous photographs