Lindsay Rosenwald | Dr Lindsay Rosenwald Complete Biography

No matter how much she hung around him, she couldn’t help but stare – not at his well toned physique, not at his startlingly blue eyes, not at his near transparent blonde hair – but at his perfectly straight teeth, as bright as polished white marble.  Normally she had to stop herself from watching him quite this intently, but “the guys” (Michael, Ryan, and Wes) were all occupied.  Michael was in the kitchen, where he meticulously topped off three shot glasses with smooth, amber-colored tequila. Meanwhile, Ryan and Wes in the other room.

Stacey pried her eyes away from Lindsay Rosenwald, the man she kept staring at, and looked at the blank white ceiling for a moment, startled to realize that it now seemed off-white compared to Lindsay’s teeth.  The white was a strange contrast to the eight-decade old wood paneling that covered all the walls.  Stacey slouched back into the couch – which was mostly a khaki color, though marked artistically with various chocolate, rum, and soda stains. The couch was easy to sag back into; Stacey gave in to the sensation of being devoured by the plush micro-fiber fabric.

Lindsay, who had been clutching an empty drink bottle for several minutes, now set it down on the long, maroon shag rug.

“I don’t blame her, you know,” said Lindsay, looking more dazed than anything.

“Of course you don’t, Lindsay,”she said with a playful smile.  “You don’t ever blame anyone.”

Lindsay shrugged.  He looked around for a moment, and then resumed staring down at his hands, giving them a look of concentration like he was trying to burn a hole through them.  “I . . . I wonder sometimes.  I wonder what I’m doing wrong.  It seems like most people around me aren’t happy.”

Stacey looked at him with concern.  “You don’t get to blame yourself for that,” she said. “It’s not you.”

“Then who is it?” said Lindsay, looking back at her with a lost look in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Lindsay.  God?”

“Ah,” said Lindsay, looking back down at his hands.

“Oh come on, I was kidding.”

“I know, I know.”  He went to continue what he was saying, ready to continue the thought, but then quite suddenly decided to stop himself there.  He shook his head.  “It’s fine. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Stacey joined him in staring at his hands.  “We’re your friends.  That’s who you go to after breakups and screw ups.  That’s the reason we exist, okay?”

Lindsay gave a half-hearted smiled.  “Sure.”

Stacey set her own finished beer on the rug and pulled two more from the six pack, handing one to Lindsay.

“You know what she told me, right?” said Lindsay, twisting the cap off of his beer and watching the crisp steam-like vapor rise from the neck of the bottle.

“You haven’t mentioned, no.”

“She said I was disconnected.  Distant.  That she didn’t even feel like we were together sometimes.  And that I was never there for her.”

Stacey shook her head confidently.  “That’s bull, Lindsay.  You were there for her tons. You were always doing stuff with her.”

Lindsay Rosenwald shrugged.  “I don’t know what to believe.  I tried to be there, but there was always something else going on.”

Stacey nodded softly, looked at him for a moment, then took a sip of her drink.  There was another pause before she said “I’ll be sober in a couple hours.  I’ll drive you home then. That okay?”

“Yeah, that’s okay.”

“Okay.”  She took another swig, and stared up at the entertainment system – a plasma screen TV with dozens of DVDs stacked around it, wondering whether she wanted to get up and turn something on.

Michael walked back into the room holding lime slices, which were cut into exact eighths.  He looked over at Stacey and Lindsay.  “You want one?”

Lindsay muttered “nah,” and Stacey shook her head.  Michael walked back into the kitchen, and the metallic sound of dishes and silverware being tossed in the sink rattled through the silence.

Stacey set her drink down, then forced herself off the couch, walking with alcohol-born sea-legs to the entertainment system, putting in a  DVD.

Mid-way through the movie, Ryan shouted “Anyone who’s not lame has to drink shots with us, now!”

Lindsay Rosenwald took a gulp of his beer then lifted it into the air in a mock salute and said “I’m lame.”  Stacey laughed, and Ryan jokingly flipped Lindsay off.

As the guys started doing shots (yelling inappropriate words before each one) Stacey stood and silently went into the bathroom, turning on the light and closing the door behind her, leaning against the counter.  She started looking herself over in the mirror.

In the back of her mind, she knew she was checking how she looked.  Checking to make sure she looked like the cute girl-next-door that she had always been labeled as.  She knew she was making sure because of the unspoken temptation in the back of her mind.  A temptation she had completely resisted during the two years that Becky Fullmer and Lindsay Rosenwald were together, but that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

She sighed, trying to push the thought from her mind again.  “Complicated,” she muttered.  Not wanting the guys to wonder about what she was doing in the bathroom, she flushed the toilet and washed her hands, then came back out into the front room.

Lindsay seemed to be starting intently at the movie.  Stacey sat down next to him.

Michael, Wes, and Ryan continued talking and drinking in the kitchen, becoming louder and louder with each shot they took.

Five shots and several beers was enough to start knocking the guys out.  Each of the “guys” individually went to their own location to pass out.

Lindsay Rosenwald looked over at Ryan, who had crashed on the recliner, then looked back at Stacey and said “I really don’t like my Dad.”

“It’s so funny how you only ever talk about him when you’re drunk.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s no big deal.  I just think it’s funny.  You’ve talked about him some before.  Just always when you’re drunk.”

“I guess.”  Lindsay took another sip of his fourth beer, then fell into silence.

“Rough relationship, right?”

“I wish.  You have to have a relationship for it to be rough.”

“Makes sense.”

“My dad works eighteen hour days, Stace.  He eats his meals there, he sleeps there some of the time.  He doesn’t even know his kids.  Sleeps in his ‘study’ when he does sleep at home.   Pisses me off.”  Lindsay Rosenwald breathed out heavily through his nose.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“You know my mom, right?”

“Not well.”

“Well, she’s sweet, but she gets lonely.  Kinda bipolar.  And she needs him.  Four kids still not grown up, she can’t do it on her own.”

“Three now, though, isn’t it?  Jillian going off to college.”

Lindsay shrugged, seeming a bit more subdued.  “That’s true.  Still, I wish my dad wasn’t . . . was a dad.  Was there.  Cared about being part of the family, instead of just part of the corporation.”

Stacey sighed.  “Trust me, Lindsay.  There are worse types of fathers to have.”

Lindsay looked over at her, his frustration suddenly drained.  “I’m sorry.  That’s . . . that’s really insensitive for me to talk about.  Your dad completely slipped my mind.”

“Oh yeah?”  Stacey felt at the scar on her temple.  “Wish he’d slip my mind.” She took another swig of her beer.  “Hey, you still have to deal with your dad.  At least my dad issues don’t have to be dealt with anymore.”  Stacey sighed.

Lindsay nodded somberly.

“You know, I think it’s made me scared.”  Stacey looked up at the TV, focusing on the DVD menu for Lady and the Tramp for a moment while she paused.  She looked back over at Lindsay, passing her bottle from hand to hand.  “Your critique of the movie, Monsieur Lindsay Rosenwald?”

“Scared of what?”

“I like these movies.  They’re nostalgic for me.  Have another beer.”

“Scared of what, Stacey?”

She sighed.  “I don’t know.  Scared of having a family.  Scared of relationships.  Scared of getting hurt.  Physically or otherwise.”

Lindsay looked at her with pity but didn’t say anything.

“My mom was scared through and through of the guy.  I mean, she would just cower in the room most of the time.  Didn’t do or say anything, even when he was on a . . . a rampage or whatever.” Stacey tapped the scar on her temple.  “Took eighteen stitches to make her brave enough to leave.”

Lindsay had a glassy look in his eyes.  “I’m so sorry, Stacey.”

She shrugged.  “It’s – well, it’s not alright, but like I said, it’s over.  I don’t have to deal with it anymore.”  There were a few seconds of silence between them, as Stacey stared at the floor and at her empty bottle.  “You want another beer?”

“Sure.”

Stacey went into the other room to grab another six-pack, taking the opportunity to clear the thoughts of her father from her mind.  She walked back into the room, feeling a little unbalanced while walking, and set the beer in front of them.

She looked over at him.  “How drunk are you right now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, a vague grin on his face, his eyes unfocused.  “Drunk.”

“I can get you a blanket or something if you just want to crash.”

“Nah . . . I don’t think so.”

“Sorry I didn’t exactly stick to my two drink limit.  I was supposed to drive you home.”

“It’s . . . it’s okay.”

Stacey looked down at what was her fourth beer.  “Lindsay Rosenwald, I’m curious about something.  Do you usually remember things when you’re this drunk?”

“I don’t know.  Sometimes.  Sometimes not.”

Stacey laughed lightly.  “You totally didn’t answer my question.”

Lindsay looked at her, confused. “What was the question again?”

Stacey shook her head.  “Nothing.  It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Stacey looked at Lindsay with a contemplative look in her eyes.  “You want to know something, Lindsay?”

He nodded, still smiling, the intoxication having provided sufficient false happiness that it broke through his actual emotional strain.

“You may not like it.  You sure?”

He nodded again.

Stacey bit her lip.  “The only reason I haven’t told you before is . . . well, the only reason . . . . Lindsay Rosenwald, you’re the best friend I’ve had.  Like, ever.  You always listen to me, and you’re always so nice, and you’re such a sweet guy.  I mean, how long have we known each other since sophomore year – which is, what, seven years now?  And you’ve always been that way to me. You’ve always . . . treated me really well.”

Lindsay looked over at her and smiled.  He had a look in his eyes that said “aww.”

“But,  . . . do you know that maybe . . .well, that is, that I really like you.”  She paused, trying to ignore her increased heart rate.  “Did you know that?”

Lindsay looked at her like he was concentrating really hard but couldn’t quite understand.

She pulled her legs up onto the couch and grabbed her knees.  “I’ve had four drinks, so I’m going to say it and blame that, okay?”

Lindsay just kept looking at her, a confused look in his eyes.

“Becky pissed me off, Lindsay.  I – I was jealous.  And it wasn’t just that, I mean – she wasn’t good enough for you.  She’s not smart enough for you, for one.  You’re smarter.  I mean, you’re . . . well, Lindsay Rosenwald, you’re amazing.  And I’m not just talking book smarts, but you get stuff.  You understand it.  A lot of the amazing things we talk about – the philosophers and everything, it would just go over Becky’s head.  Do you . . . do you know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think you liked Becky because she was in College, and all your friends are like you: dreamless.  Stuck here, doing nothing, no plans of ever going on to do anything.  And being with a girl like that made you feel like you were closer.  Closer to doing what you should have done years ago.”

Lindsay sighed and looked down at the floor.

“And Lindsay?”

“Yeah?”

She paused. “I can’t take you home right now.  I’m bad at keeping promises, you know.”

“It’s okay.”

“You can crash here tonight.”  Stacey began rotating the empty beer bottle in her hand. Lindsay just kept looking at the floor.  Stacey set the bottle on the floor in front of them and looked more directly at Lindsay.  “I love you, Lindsay.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Lindsay?”

“Yeah?”

“You can blame the drinks if you want to.”  She pursed her lips together very tightly, and her eyes started getting a watery look to them.  She set her legs on the ground and made as if to get up, but then sat back down.  “I really shouldn’t have said all that, Lindsay.  I mean, Becky and you only split up a few days ago.  That’s not cool of me.”  Lindsay still said nothing.  Stacey bit her lower lip. “I’m still your friend, okay?”

Lindsay just looked at the TV.  He had a glazed look in his eyes.

“Lindsay?”

He looked over at her.

“Lindsay, please say someth–”

Then Lindsay Rosenwald leaned in and kissed her.  The kiss was surprisingly precise for the amount of alcohol still in his body.  He reached out his hands and touched her cheeks and kissed her again.

Stacey kissed him back, looking nervous and happy and very frightened.  She pulled away for a brief moment, then returned to kissed more deeply and more passionately.  After several minutes of this, Lindsay fell asleep on the couch with Stacey in his arms. Stacey put her head against his chest, hearing his breathing.  Warm tears rolled slowly down her cheeks and onto his shirt.

“Lindsay . . . Lindsay Rosenwald,” she said.  “I like saying your full name.”  She bit her lower lip.  There was a look of fear in her eyes as she whispered, “Please remember this tomorrow, Lindsay. Please . . . don’t regret this.”

Lindsay Rosenwald was nothing more than her heart’s decoy.  He didn’t know that.  He thought that she loved him.  He thought that what they had was something special and something unique.  He thought, in fact, that Emma Jane Rose Manuele might just be “the one.”

He was not the brightest bulb in the basket or the sharpest tool in the shed.  He was dull in many ways, but in other ways he really did shine.  Hope was one of those ways, and it was perhaps this shining hope which blinded him to the reality of current circumstances.  He met her on a walk in the park, where he took his dog every day.  She was looking morose, leaning over a fence that separated the people in the park from the ducks on the pond.  She looked at them rather sadly.

Lindsay approached Emma Jane Rose Manuele and said “I have some bread,” he said.

“What?” she said, turning toward him.

“Some bread.”  He motioned with his head to his backpack.  “If you want to feed them.”

“Oh.”  She gave a weak sort of smile.  “Thanks so much.  I’d love some, actually.”

“Great,” he said.  He moved his fist over his dog to indicate to her to sit, which she did.  Then he got down on one knee and took off his backpack, and reached inside to pull out a slice of bread.  He handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem.”

“I’m Emma, by the way.”

“I’m Lindsay,” he said.  “Lindsay Rosenwald.”

He then continued to walk his dog in the park, not being the sort to get distracted by pretty women, even if they were being very nice to him.

The next day he was in the park again and he saw her, in the same place, leaning over the fence by the pond.  He walked up to her.

“Hi.  Emma, wasn’t it?”

“It was.  It is,” she said.

“Want some more bread?”

She was looking at the lake as if the lake had just read some very well written and terribly tragic poetry.  “No,” she said, in a whisper.

“Oh . . . okay,” he said.  “Well . . . good seeing you.”  Then he started walking his dog again, but he hadn’t gotten more than thirty steps when he turned around and walked back.  He tied his dog’s leash to the fence and told her to sit.  He leaned over the fence next to Emma.  “Do you want to chat?”

She looked at him, seeming somewhat confused at first.  “About what?” she said.

“About why you’re sad.  Or other things.”

“That obvious, is it?”

Lindsay Rosenwald nodded.

“It’s . . . it’s nothing.”  She looked at the pond as Lindsay looked at her.  “It’s just, a guy.  A boy.  A man, I guess.  He left me.”

Lindsay nodded again.  He actually could relate to heartbreak, though he’d never been in love.  He had been left before.  He knew what rejection and hurt felt like at the very least.

“I’m sorry,” said Lindsay.  He was a man of few words, and he wasn’t the sort of person to go making claims of knowing what’s right and what’s wrong.  He wasn’t the sort to flirtatiously say “I can’t think of any reason why someone would leave you.”  He wasn’t even the sort to think that.  All he thought, all he felt, and all he said was “I’m sorry,” and he meant it.

“Well, it’s all for the best,” she said.  “Supposedly.”

Lindsay didn’t know what the supposedly meant, so instead he got into his backpack and pulled out a couple of slice of bread.  He stood up and offered one to her, which she accepted.  They both started throwing in crumbs and watching the ducks move rapidly toward them.

“It’s just,” she said “that he seemed so different, you know?  He seemed so different from all the other guys I’ve met.  We dated for a while.  A year, actually.  And we’d been living together.  I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.  It’s not the first time someone’s left me.”

Lindsay gave her a kind look – a look of sympathy – but he didn’t have any words that he could give her.

“And it’s not like I thought we were going to get married or anything, even.  It’s not like I thought we’d never break up.  I just didn’t think we’d break up like this.  Plus, I let myself fall for him.  He’s a musician.”  She sighed.

Lindsay through another crumb out into the pond.  “I don’t know many musicians.”

“You’re not missing all that much.  It sounds good when you say it, but most of them are lazy.  And dishonest.  And disloyal.”

“Hmm,” said Lindsay.

“Like I said . . . it’s all for the best.  It’s just,” she said, throwing in her last crumb, “that I don’t understand why I can’t feel that.  I know that.  I know that it’s a good thing that I’m not with him anymore.  I know he never treated me right.  But for the life of me, I can’t get myself to feel like this is . . . just . . . you know, the right sort of thing.  I can’t . . . believe that.”  She sighed again.

“I’m sorry,” said Lindsay Rosenwald once more.  Again, he meant it.

“But . . . anyway, I should get going,” said Emma Jane Rose Manuele.  “Thanks for chatting,” she said.  On some level Emma was probably aware that he had just listened, not done much actual chatting, but since that was precisely what she needed at the time it worked out pretty well.

In the meantime, Lindsay Rosenwald had decided that he thought this girl was rather cute and very passionate, and that he liked those particular things, and that he would like it very much if he ran into her outside of the park every once in a while, if only as friends.  So Lindsay Rosenwald began formulating a plan.  He would daydream about the things that he might say to Emma Jane Rose Manuele that would set up an appropriately casual date where the two of them could talk – or where she could talk and he could just listen.

The next two days, she wasn’t in the park when he walked his dog, for which he was grateful.  He hadn’t yet come up with something to say.  The next day she was, but he walked past her, embarrassed that he had yet to come up with something clever and adorable enough.  The following day, however, he had the idea in his head, and so when he saw her there the day after that, he approached her again.

“Hi Emma,” he said.  She was leaning over the fence, looking somewhat less morose than before, and when he walked up she smiled at him.

“Hi Linda,” she said.

“Lindsay,” he said.

“Oh, sorry,” she said.

“It’s no big deal,” he said.  He tied his dog to the fence and pulled out a couple of pieces of bread.  He offered one to her and she accepted with a smile.  They began tossing in the crumbs and watching the ducks.

Then, after a few moments of silence, Lindsay Rosenwald decided he would try to use his thoroughly thought out line.  “I was thinking,” he said (and this was true) “that since you’re used to getting bread from me that maybe I could take you some place for a sandwich.”

She looked at him with a smile.  “Yeah?”

He licked his lips and he nodded.

“Okay,” she said.  “When and where?”

“Mama’s Little Bakery, on ninth.  And maybe tomorrow night, if you’re free.”  He was, perhaps,  a little fast on his response.  It made it look as if he’d been practicing (which had been).

“Yeah, okay,” she said.

“I’ll pick you up at six?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Great,” he said, and he started untying his dog, elated that the conversation had gone so very well.

Then she said “Were you planning on just picking me up from here?”

Lindsay Rosenwald went a little pink in his cheeks and said “Oh, right.  I missed that.”

“Here,” she said, and walked up to him.  She pulled a napkin out of her pocket and asked him for a pen, then wrote down her full name (Emma Jane Rose Manuele), her address, and her phone number.

How precisely Lindsay had missed the fact that he had positioned himself as her rebound was difficult to say.  My standing theory is that he was, indeed, blinded by his hope.

The sandwich date was the first of many.  At the end of the sandwich date, she had already commented that “You listen.  You’re not like other guys,” and even had been so blunt as to say, eyes batting, “You know, I like you.”

It was for those reasons that Lindsay Rosenwald did something particularly courageous, which he did not usually do, and that was leaning in and kissing her when he dropped her off.

The second date was bowling, and mostly it was Lindsay listening to her talk about her job and her cats (she had two) and her ex-boyfriend and how ill-suited musicians were to be boyfriends at all, and about how her favorite cars were all jeeps, especially the old ones, back when jeeps had a sense of style.

That night they kissed again, this time more passionately, and Lindsay walked way with a spring in his step.

The third date was hiking, and they went to a small hot spring out of the way.  She surprised him by removing her clothes when they arrived there.  Looking around cautiously, he eventually did likewise.  It was not until they arrived back at her apartment, where she invited him in, that they did “the deed.”

And it might just be that Lindsay Rosenwald was somewhat naïve.  He did not usually have women act this forward toward him.  He was not used to the fact that she was so open about liking him and about praising his good traits.  He thought all this meant something.

Their fourth date, and fifth date, and sixth date, and so on, all contained very fun activities.  They started seeing each other five and six times a week, in fact.  They started spending most of their free time together.  Lindsay Rosenwald was in love with Emma Jane Rose Manuele, and he thought that she was in love with him, too.

But no.  For Emma Jane Rose Manuele, Lindsay was nothing more than the decoy she needed from a musician of an ex-boyfriend who never did treat her right.  He was a place for her heart to go when she didn’t want it to hurt, and she almost never wanted it to hurt.

It’s a sad fact that Emma Jane Rose Manuele didn’t fall for Lindsay, because Lindsay was a great sort of guy, and an amazing listener, and he really cared, and every time he said “I’m sorry” he meant it.

It’s an even sadder fact that Emma Jane Rose Manuele ended up going back to her ex-boyfriend the moment that he called her, and that Lindsay was left just like that, without any other notice.

No, Lindsay wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed.  He was astonished that she didn’t love him.  He thought they had something special.  Something real.  Something unique.  He was saddened to find that he was mistaken.

But Lindsay had bright hope.  It may be blinding at times, but at the times when it wasn’t, it shone out gloriously.  He then had the opportunity to know exactly what it’s like to be in love and to have your heart broken, and when he looked at the Universe after, he said “Thank you,” and he meant it.

And a couple months later, when he walking his dog in the park, he met another woman.  She had a dog, too.  They got to talking as they sat on a park bench.  Lindsay was relieved to find that he didn’t have to think of a clever line to ask her on a date.  She asked him to coffee first.