Life After Yes

by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

  “I say both,” Mom says. “Why can’t they be both? We humans are so hungry for labels, for order. We are so quick to categorize, to box things up.”

  “So maybe, just maybe, I can be both Prudence and Quinn?”

  She doesn’t answer this one, but I see it: a faint and fleeting smile.

  “Pretty impressive. How quickly he does that,” I say.

  “Definitely. A real art. There are so many arts that go unnoticed in this world, so many that fly under the radar of the socially noticed and accepted. On the Food Network, the other day, there was this special on a man. I forget his name, but he was a latte designer. That’s right; the man makes a living swirling milk and foam into designs. I think it’s fascinating,” Mom says.

  “A latte artist? Now, that’s crazy. But cooler than being an attorney,” I say.

  “Isn’t everything cooler than being a lawyer?” Mom says. Her smile fades, a quiet departure from the sunny afternoon. Her face grows taut; she has something to say. Mom always looks older at moments like this when she contemplates something big.

  “It’s remarkable, Prue…you haven’t changed a bit,” Mom says, and downs the rest of her sangria. “You might have two decades on the little pigtailed brat at the dinner table, rolling her eyes in disgust at my trademark tuna casserole, but I can see it in those eyes of yours. Sure, now you wear more makeup. A little too much, if you ask me…”

  “Yes, I got the memo, Mom.”

  “You know what I’ve always said about masks.”

  “They hide everything but the eyes,” I say.

  “Yes. Masks are for Halloween. Don’t wear one now,” she says. “Not with me.”

  Again, this isn’t about makeup. Or masks. Or metaphors.

  “You know that goddamned cliché—that some people wear their heart on their sleeve…” she says, “but, you, my girl, you wear it in your eyes.”

  She’s told me this before. When I was a little girl, she and Dad worried about taking me in public because I would roll my eyes and make faces at everything—the punk teenager with the blue hair, the old lady in the wheelchair, the young woman with skin darker than mine.

  After a long pause, she pours each of us another glass. “I was hoping that we could talk.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what we are doing, Mom? Talking? I took a personal day so we could talk. I left my BlackBerry at home so we could talk. And here we are, talking.”

  “We lawyers are well-schooled in the art of bullshit. It comes so easy. The rub is that it’s possible to go hours, even days, possibly a lifetime, without saying anything. I don’t want that to happen to us. I don’t want to talk about makeup or the art of chopping avocado. You’re getting married. That’s something we should talk about.”

  “You have something on your lip,” I say.

  Mom licks her lips. The speck of green disappears into her mouth.

  “Something’s off. I see it in those eyes of yours. Yes, you have a nice big ring on your finger and that might distract the rest of the world. They might miss the telltale gloss—of sadness, of fear? But not me. There’s something going on in those eyes,” she says.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Did you travel all the way here to try to shake things up, Mom?”

  “Maybe, if that’s what I need to do. I came because I love you…Prue, you’re getting married. And I needed to see you. Is that so bad? You can’t tell anything over the phone. Certainly, not over e-mail, the Devil’s creation,” Mom says.

  “Well, here I am. Look at me all you want. Although it sounds like you don’t like what you see. Too much makeup, an extravagant ring. I bet you think I’m wearing too much black, right?” I say.

  I am wearing too much black, all black in fact.

  A New Yorker indeed.

  “Do you love him?” she asks.

  “I do,” I say. “That much I’m sure about.”

  She nods. “But you’re not giddy.”

  “Am I supposed to be giddy, skipping on sidewalks like a chick in a hair commercial? Sorry to disappoint you. This is not the countdown to college. This is marriage. I’m not looking at freedom from the parental hold, ubiquitous booze and boys, tailgates. I’m looking at an institution no one seems to understand. I’m moving toward something society tells me to covet and crave, but a reality no one really shares. All we’re told with certainty is that half of them end in divorce. Half of them end. Does it make sense to be giddy about something that fizzles or fails fifty percent of the time?” My heart is racing. I finish my sangria.

  Mom looks at me. Smiles big. “No. No, it doesn’t. But I just hope you have giddy moments. Moments when you smile because you have no choice. Not because a smile is expected or appropriate. I want you to have moments where the world, this gray world, is rainbow again.”

  “I want those moments too. But I’m overwhelmed. I’m scared. I have these doubts.” I cry. As I wipe my eyes, eyeliner, my excessive dose of eyeliner, comes off onto my hands.

  “Good,” she says, crunching an ice cube. “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes, finally you’re making some sense. I was beginning to fear that diamond had stripped you of your O’Malley reason.”

  “I love him. I do. I want to marry him. I do. It’s just, I don’t know, it feels different, bigger than everything else. Everything up to this point, Mom.”

  “It is.”

  “And…I had these dreams. They got me. They feel like warnings,” I say.

  So, I tell her about the dreams. I tell her everything I can remember—which is almost everything: the wedding in the courtroom, the tearful young me as flower girl, the multiple grooms, the faceless judge. I tell her about the swelling thighs and missing diamond, about Kayla and Phelps.

  Mom listens. And through the fog of my furious retelling, I glimpse her face. She appears more riveted than concerned. She digests each word, lets each of my sentences saturate. It seems this matters to her.

  “Wow,” she says when I finish. “That would make for a great novel or screenplay. And no, I don’t mean that as another jab at your career—our career. It’s just so cinematic, so real and yet so fantastical.”

  “Mom, this isn’t a screenplay. Not a novel. These are not actors. Not protagonists. This is my dream. My life. Me.”

  “Yes, of course it is. But admit that it’s amazing that we can retain such creativity, such nuance in our dreams even when we shirk creativity in our waking life.”

  Another unappreciated knock at my career in the corporate law world.

  “So? What do you think?”

  “I think you’re getting married.”

  “Genius,” I say.

  “Marriage is a big deal,” she continues, undeterred. “I don’t know what the consensus is in Manhattan these days, but where we come from, it’s forever. You have an amazing ability to love, to be loved, Prue. You always have. It makes sense that while contemplating your future, your forever, you revisit your past. To find out how you got here, right?”

  And she dissects my dreams like a seasoned surgeon and like a mom, telling me that the three grooms represent my past, present, and future. Victor could have been anyone really, she says, he’s just a future face. There will be infinite faces in my future—ones who will tempt me.

  “You will be attracted to other people. You will flirt, have crushes,” she says, and I think of Cameron. “You don’t stop being human, Prue.”

  She tells me the judge’s face was blurry because we don’t ever really know who the final judge is. Is it society? Our parents? Ourselves?

  “Most important I think is that little flower girl, that beautiful soul who can’t stand the thought of growing up and making big decisions. You are that girl, Prue. Growing up doesn’t just happen. It’s not a fact; it’s a decision. You have to decide to grow up and you’re doing that now.”

  She makes it sound so simple, so poetic. This is what mothers do. They tidy chaos. They offer translations.

  “What about Phelps
?”

  “You loved him, Prue. You may never stop. But you also left him. That means something.”

  “But I didn’t really have a reason,” I say. “I was bored, I met Sage. I didn’t really have a reason to leave him.”

  “Sometimes the best decisions don’t require reasons. Or good ones, at least. Truth be told, you had a reason and you just might not know what it was. You’ll figure it out. Reasons reveal themselves over time. Often, after the fact. If we waited for reasons to materialize, we’d never move forward.”

  Something clicks. I’ve spent my whole life stockpiling reasons—for why I should go to law school, or become a litigator, or become a wife. Maybe some things don’t need justification to be right. Maybe instinct is the best measure.

  “And about those doubts…” Mom says.

  “Yes?”

  “Let them live. Nurture them. Doubt can be a beautiful thing. Embrace it. Let it teach you.”

  “So, you had doubts about Dad?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer, but somehow needing to.

  “Up until the very end. Sometimes I’d look at the man when he was hunched over, cross-eyed, trying to tie a fly, and I’d think, This is it? I think you doubt the things you love most. You don’t have doubts about things that don’t matter. And don’t ignore them—the dreams. See what they mean to you over time. You owe it to yourself, Prudence. And to Sage.”

  That night, Sage, the moms, and I go out for sushi and there’s no dream talk. Mom, ever the wonderful contradiction, delivers a diatribe, both artful and empirically sound, about the dangers of eating raw fish while sampling my tuna sashimi. She tells us how they have begun selling edamame in the frozen section of their supermarket in Wisconsin, and that maybe she will throw a sushi dinner party for her friends out there, bring a little Manhattan back to the woods.

  Mrs. McIntyre is on her best behavior. When there is a pause in conversation, she places her hand on Mom’s and whispers, “I’m so sorry about your husband. There are no words, so I won’t try.”

  Mom nods and sips her drink. “Thank you. Where is your husband this weekend?”

  “On business,” Mrs. McIntyre mutters, sipping tap water. “They don’t have to be gone to be gone.”

  Sage and I hold hands under the table, witnessing this miracle.

  “You sure you don’t want a splash of sake?” Mom says.

  Mrs. McIntyre pauses and says, “Why not?”

  And Mom pours far more than a splash. She holds her glass up to the table. “To mothers!”

  Mrs. McIntyre smiles. “To sons and daughters.”

  We clink glasses.

  “Quinn, dear,” Mrs. McIntyre says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Will you please come to Savannah with Sage in August?”

  For Henry’s birthday.

  “I would love to,” I say, smiling.

  “Now, let’s talk business. We have a wedding to plan,” Mom says.

  Dreams are not necessarily bad things, I’m beginning to realize.

  We laugh and sip sake. There’s no mention of the ring, of how much makeup or black I’m wearing, of those dreams and doubts that made me cry in my guacamole only a few hours ago.

  Every now and then Mom catches my eye. For once, I don’t dodge her glance. I don’t look away. For the first time, I feel as if I don’t have anything to hide.

  “I was thinking that instead of numbering the tables, we can name each table after a fishing fly,” Sage says, smiling, poking me with his chopsticks. “We can have the May Fly, the Woolly Bugger, and of course the Hula Popper and the Jitterbug.”

  “That’s a splendid idea,” Mom says, and grins.

  “And we can have a little picture of a fly on the top of the invitation,” he says.

  “You’re obsessed,” I say. “Are you going to get married in waders and a BuzzOff shirt? The attire can be angler casual. My veil can be made of fishing net,” I say, and laugh.

  And it’s a good moment. Stuffed with love and laughter and life.

  “Well, we’ve taken care of that part, haven’t we, son?” Mrs. McIntyre says.

  “What part have we taken care of?” I say.

  “We bought Sage the most darling tan suit today. We’re having it tailored,” she says.

  We.

  The giddiness is gone. I slip my hand from Sage’s.

  In my mind, I see it now. That vast black-and-white of Mom and Dad, barefoot, sporting goofy grins, just married—at home on our coffee table. Dad in his tuxedo, crisp black and white against the white cloud of Mom’s dress. “I thought we decided you’d wear a tux,” I say to him as Mom pours all of us an emergency round of sake.

  But Sage isn’t the one who answers.

  “Nah, a light-colored suit’s far more appropriate,” Mrs. McIntyre says, and smiles, rubbing her son’s back. “Isn’t it, son?”

  Chapter 16

  I’ve never liked dresses.

  In fifth grade, my friends got girly (think: skirts, sparkles). It made sense, I guess. For the first time, there was talk of tampons, and boyfriends, and bras. But I went in the opposite direction (think: baseball caps, basketball jerseys). I nurtured a sudden passion for the Boston Celtics, which was odd since I was a New Yorker and swimming in a sea of budding Knicks fans.

  “Mom, your little tomboy’s all grown up,” my brother says. “On a mission to buy a wedding dress.”

  Mom laughs. “Don’t think ‘tomboy’ was ever an adequate label for this one,” she says, patting my thigh. I think Mom was thrilled I wasn’t a priss. No, like her, I was a toughie. In those days, people didn’t worry like they do now. The fact that Michael was the one stealing her lipstick didn’t faze her.

  “Did you ever think this day would come?” I ask her.

  “I feared it might,” she says through a smile. Our cab flies through the park, nearly flattening a young mother and her twin toddlers. As we bump along, I attempt to check my BlackBerry.

  “God, Quinn, if you were a kid today, you’d be put on a regimen of Ritalin with your Flintstones,” Michael says, flipping through a slim stack of wedding magazines.

  He’s right. I’m not sure I even have the attention span to shop for my wedding dress.

  “She doesn’t need Ritalin, Michael. She needs to get rid of that device,” Mom says, gripping the door handle for dear life, as if she didn’t spend years surviving these rides.

  “Mom, it’s a BlackBerry. You know what it’s called,” I say.

  “I still think it’s ludicrous that they would shroud such an evil piece of technology with such a sweet, natural name. That thing has the ability to wreck human interaction,” she says.

  “Point taken, Dad,” Michael says. And Mom’s eyes dilate with sadness for just a moment before brightening again. Michael throws his arm around Mom. “Nothing wrong with carrying on the Luddite legacy. Let Q finish her stuff and I’ll swipe the sweet little Berry from her when we get to the store.”

  “So, you ready to choose your very own princess costume?” Mom asks.

  “Princess costume?” I ask.

  “That’s what you called them when you were little. You asked why everyone dressed up as a princess when they got married. Wondered whether it was like another Halloween. I assured you that if you chose to marry, you could wear whatever you wanted.”

  I smile. This sounds like me. “Did you picture me walking down the aisle in a Larry Bird jersey?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a sight?” Michael says, “Cue the quartet. Here comes the butch bride.”

  And in this little yellow haven, we forget political correctness. And laugh. Hard.

  “Need I remind you, Michael? You told me you’d wear a princess costume on your wedding day,” Mom says. “Thrilled your father to imagine his only son in a dress.”

  Avery and Kayla wait for us outside the boutique. Avery’s the picture of Saturday morning fresh in her perfect ponytail and flats. Kayla, on the other hand, appears to be wearing her outfit and makeup from last night. Kayla talk
s. Avery appears to listen, but I know better. She checks her pearl-encrusted watch at least twice as I approach.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Kayla says, unapologetic about her display of morning cleavage. “Frankly, this isn’t how I usually choose to spend my Saturday mornings.”

  “You don’t say!” I joke.

  Avery hugs me.

  “What do you think of this one?” Michael asks, pointing to a sleek number made of banded satin in the window. It’s draped on a pipe cleaner of a mannequin, arms akimbo.

  “Pretty, but not exactly right for a Bird Lake bride,” I say. “Though that’s exactly how I plan to look on my big day—bald, emaciated, snow white, about to run for the hills.”

  Laughter erupts, and buoys me through the spotless glass door of the small salon.

  So far, so good.

  “Good answer, kid,” Michael quips. “I just read about that one. Vera made only one. It’s a size two and costs a mere sixty-K. Exclusivity’s a bitch.”

  “Good to see my daughter still has good taste. And good sense,” Mom says, and smiles.

  “So this Wisconsin thing’s a done deal?” Kayla asks, linking her arm in mine. “There’s nothing we can do to make Fisherwoman Barbie come to her senses?”

  Three stick figures in matching charcoal skirts perch behind a tiny antique desk and shower us with matching disapproving glances.

  Kayla fingers a crystal champagne flute on display next to a conspicuous sign that reads: “Please do not touch.”

  “Can you believe this is it?” Avery asks, grabbing my hand. “On the hunt for your wedding dress.” Her smile is vast, open.

  “Simmer down,” Kayla says. “It’s not like she’s choosing the groom.”

  “I know. Some of us have already taken care of that part,” Avery says.

  “I think you, my friend, have had your noggin buried in Martha Stewart Weddings and The Knot for a little too long,” Kayla says to Avery.

  “Someone is rather schooled in the names of wedding magazines,” Avery says, and laughs.

  Kayla, usually immune to the punch of humiliation, forces a smile as her face grows pink.