by Hope Lyda
Sammi, who sits on the aisle, leans across her apparent twin and eyes me without discretion. “You are right, Sally. If Sally spots it, you’ve got it.”
They both stare at me expectantly, dying for me to ask, to enter into dialogue with them. I refuse to. I don’t want to know what Sally sees in me.
I smile and reach for my book, opening it to a random page and begin reading as though I cannot get enough of the words.
They laugh. Sally nudges Sammi. “That’s a sure sign.” More laughter.
The flight attendant approaches our row with the beverage cart.
“What do you want, love?” Sally asks me.
“Diet Coke.”
“We’ll take two club sodas with lime and Miss Lonely Hearts will have a diet Coke. She needs something stronger, but she’s asking for a diet Coke.”
The flight attendant looks at me apologetically and hands me the can and a plastic cup with four ice cubes.
“Must be fresh,” Sammi says with an overdrawn frown.
“Your heartbreak is recent, is it?” Sally translates. “He just broke up with you.”
“There is nothing as sad as a woman flying solo.” Sammi sticks her lower lip out and sucks in her breath as though she might cry.
Before my rational, private self can stop the prideful self, I set the record straight. “I broke it off with him, if you must know.”
“Oh, sure you did, hon.” Sammi reaches over and pats my arm.
“Really. He proposed and I broke it off.”
The twins wink and nod at one another, their matching turquoise elephant earrings swinging in unison. While their clothes would make them ringers for the retiree set, Sammi and Sally don’t appear to be more than forty. Neither of them has a wedding ring on.
“If he proposed, where’s the ring?” Sally prods, seemingly reading my mind.
I put the book down in my lap and turn my body toward them. “We didn’t get that far because I broke it off.”
Sammi waves her hand. “That was a big mistake. Believe us.” She draws a line in the air between her and Sally. “The benefit of a breakup when you are that far along in a relationship is to have an addition to your jewelry collection. See this?” Sammi unbuttons her royal blue blouse down to her cleavage to show me a diamond pendant necklace. “This was from a broken engagement. I got word he was breaking up with me, so I handed the ring to Sally for safekeeping before our dinner date, and when he ended things before the appetizer came, I told him I had lost the ring that very morning. I swear I did.”
“She did. She did.” Sally slaps Sammi and they laugh in harmony.
“You’ll know better next time.” Sally adds her wisdom in place of a rich story about deceiving a former love.
Sammi playfully slaps her sister’s hand. “There won’t be a next time. She won’t make the same mistake twice. Girls these days have learned from our generation—they are getting married, settling down, and having families well before they turn thirty. You have a couple years left, I’ll bet, but don’t lose too much time crying over the one that got away.”
“I am thirty. And it wasn’t a mistake. The mistake would have been to go through with something that wasn’t right or good for either one of us.”
They nod to one another again and turn to me with wide, sorry eyes. “It’s fresh. You’re still in the denial stage of your grief.”
“Beau—flaws and all—is still funny, handsome, sweet, smart, and all those things we think will be a part of our personal version of Mr. Right.”
“We hear you.”
“And then he wrote some dumb report—using my information, mind you—to change everything. He wanted to make his mark in his professional field, and he sure did. He marked me off the employee roster.” I mime the heinous act of crossing my name off a clipboard master list.
“That is awful.”
“However,” I raise my hand to add drama for my jury of two, “I am guilty of skewing the statistics in favor of what I wanted all these months. I didn’t allow myself to see what the data and the results were really pointing out about my boyfriend—or about us as a couple. I was in denial then, but not now.”
“Statistics?”
“Figure of speech.”
In another ten years, will I be cornering some unsuspecting, younger woman and telling her about my big mistake at age thirty? Will I twist the situation in my memory so many times that Beau becomes “the one that got away?” instead of a good man—but not the right man—whom I dated during an important year in my life?
From my bag I pull out a box containing a beautiful, gold-edged Bible I bought for Marcus while in Tucson. When I saw that he carried the one I gave him in high school, I knew I would choose a special one to give him for his graduate studies graduation gift. I gently rub the etching of his name on the front cover with my finger and turn to the front page where there is a space for a dedication. I have put this part off, unsure what to write. I am digging for my pen when Sally jerks off her headphones and hits my arm with her elbow.
“We saw this movie last week on our flight to the single twin convention. Sam and I had a double date with this ferociously handsome set from Bosnia.”
“I’ve never heard ferociously used quite that way,” I respond.
“They were amazing. And very polite.”
“So what happened?” I cannot believe I am encouraging this conversation.
“Religious differences.” Sammie winks and points to my Bible.
Sally finishes the bit. “They wouldn’t worship us!” Lots of laughter.
“That’s a good one. I think I need to use the restroom. Will you excuse me?”
My face is hot and my clothes are sticking to me as I wander up the aisle. If I saw an emergency parachute, I swear I would strap it on and head for the exit.
A flight attendant is walking down the aisle and crooks her finger, motioning for me to approach her. Her name tag reads “Allegra.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation,” she says in a loud whisper.
Great. Here we go again. Another person with advice and warnings about my future as an old maid.
“Are you with those ladies or are you flying alone?”
“I am traveling by myself. And I don’t find that sad at all.” I puff out my chest and the guy seated next to where we stand in the aisle gives me a curious look.
“I have an extra seat in first class. You are welcome to have it. I thought you might need some…space.”
I nod yes emphatically.
From my luxurious, reclining chair in first class it becomes crystal clear to me—a woman flying solo does not need advice, warnings, or fear-inducing stories. Nor does she need guilt. All she really needs is a comfortable chair, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a couple wafer cookies to melt in her mouth, and some glorious space to recover.
When Everything Fits
Nobody is answering the phone at the center. I check my cash supply and find that I have only enough to get a cab home if the driver gives me a less than typical fare. I go from car to car explaining my situation, and finally a young driver, Edmond, agrees. He says it has been a slow morning, anyway. Why not be charitable?
“I don’t know why nobody has answered. It is rare for everyone to be out of the house at one time,” I say and go on to explain my living situation.
“You seem very happy to be going home. Have you been traveling for work?” Edmond asks innocently.
“For work and for life. But now I have a better idea as to what I want.”
“What is that?” he asks, curious and kind with his questions. “Maybe you have the secret to life?”
“Well, I was just going to say I want what I didn’t have in Arizona. But on a deeper level, I want to fulfill my purpose by serving others and…”
“And what, Miss Mari?”
“That’s it. Don’t we all just want to find our God-given purpose?” I give him the answer appropriate for the length of o
ur relationship—exactly forty minutes. Had we a longer drive, perhaps I would have divulged the rest of my gut response. I want to be with someone who helps me fulfill my purpose. Shouldn’t this be an elemental understanding? Why hasn’t it been my guideline all along? All the people who love me would say this is an essential part of what I need—Caitlin, Sadie, Angelica, Mom, Dad, Marcus.
Marcus.
I had been hoping he would answer the phone when I called from the airport. He would have interrogated me as to why I returned early, and I would have grumbled about telling him the embarrassing truth about Beau, me, and the relationship that barely ever was. But it was what I was hoping for nonetheless.
It occurs to me as we turn the corner and head for the Urban Center that everyone is at the retreat house in Virginia. Every year my parents are given use of the retreat center either the weekend before or the weekend after Thanksgiving. They use it as a time to set goals with the kids, pray for the year ahead, and focus on the blessings of the past year. They also create a lot of crazy games to help the children bond before they face the holiday, for some their first ever, away from family.
When Edmond pulls up to the house, I hand him all the money I have including my change. He waves and wishes me luck with my purpose. I punch in the security codes and waddle to the front door with Elmo in his carrier in one hand and my roller bag in the other. I enter without having to explain anything to anyone. I realize this is the best way possible for me to return. I will have time to make sense of the past twenty-four hours and put them into perspective before retelling my story.
I tromp up the stairs to my room. I wonder if this will remain my room if I stay. If I stay? What am I going to do? Somehow I think there are more answers here than back in Arizona. The pull to return was beyond strong. It was undeniable.
No denial now. I decide this will be my motto for whatever comes next. I write it in bold letters on the dry-erase board next to my desk. Somehow this appeases me. I have no job. No specific plan. Only the urge to return to my childhood home—and I am at peace. I take this as a good sign.
I want to pray. The phone closet used to be my makeshift prayer closet, so I walk down the hall and ease open the door with my toe. I am half-expecting Marcus to be seated on the floor with the phone cradled on his shoulder, begging me for five extra minutes. I smile and kneel.
I figure I need a lot of work. I have had a good life, God. And I appreciate everything you’ve done and shown me over the past few years. Even recently. Especially recently. But I’m ready for the truth now. No more denying the desires you have placed on my heart to find a way to work with kids like my parents have for nearly forty years. You guide them. And I trust you to guide me to the next step. Let this risk not be about running away, but about coming home to your purpose. Show me the rest of the way. Amen.
I stay seated on the floor. My head rolls back and rests against the cupboard door for several minutes. I could sleep here. My slumber would be deep and peaceful, I know. As messed up as this seems, I’m glad for everything that has happened. It took something as huge as heartbreak to get me back here.
Yet heartbreak doesn’t fit the freedom I am feeling. There is the ache of loss. There is the twinge of regret for taking so long to wake up to life. But my heart is more full than broken. I whisper a thank-you prayer and return to get Elmo situated with some food and water. I decide to go round up some garden dirt for his litter box.
It is chilly outside but the sky is blue. A few early evening clouds are rolling in. I like the mysterious point of the day when dusk is about to descend upon the landscape. I pause to look up at the last leaves of the season.
“Mari?”
I look to see Fabio coming toward me. His reaches out his gloved hand to help me up.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I just talked to your dad a bit ago and he asked me to tidy up the yard while they are gone. He also likes the idea of someone checking on the house. Funny, he didn’t mention you’d be here.”
“Nobody knows. It’s a surprise.” I take a shortcut through my story.
“Well, the kids will be thrilled. Daisy has not stopped talking about you. In fact, they all have a Mari story close in mind.” He chuckles and grabs his rake.
I gather my dirt in a cardboard box that once held cans of green beans.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need anything, Fab…Fabulous Bernie.”
He laughs and keeps raking.
When I get to my room, I cannot find Elmo. I search beneath the bed and under my desk before I hear his small cry from above. He’s perched on the top shelf of my built-in shelves. My gentle coaxing is useless; he backs up further under the covering of the alcove.
“Be a man,” I mumble. “Oh, I guess you are.” I am talking to myself—Elmo has clearly stopped listening. Even a cat avoids my sarcasm.
I drag my chair over to the cupboard and climb up to be face-to-face with my poor traveling companion. He doesn’t know this will be his home for a while.
“Elmo, kitty, kitty. Come on, sweetie.” I reach for him, but he proceeds to jump onto my shoulder and to the floor. The force of his leap causes me lose my balance. I reach for the top shelf to regain my footing but grab a large white box instead of the wood. My tumble backward is cushioned by the bed.
“Bad kitty!” I reprimand, but Elmo is settling onto a pile of blankets, turning round and round to search for the ideal position. A crease of cardboard is wedged into my lower back, so I follow Elmo’s lead and roll over to secure a more comfy position.
The box is flattened and the white contents spill out. Beneath the lid I discover a card and a dress. My hands go straight to the neckline of the dress. I hold it up and can barely believe my eyes. It is not just a dress—it is a wedding dress. And it is not just a wedding dress—it is the wedding dress featured in the fashion show I sponsored last year. I cannot believe my eyes.
Without a second thought, I strip down and pull the dress over my head. I am thankful for the recent prewedding diet. It glides over my body with only a mere tug or two. I didn’t let myself try it on last year—last year when I was securely dating Beau and hopeful about my future. Yet now, in the chaos of drastic change and uncertainty, I readily slip into a dress that seems to represent so much faith in things yet to come.
I pull my hair up and let it fall back to my shoulders. I do it again. I kiss the air.
There is a knock on the door and a gruff “Hello?”
My heart stops but my dress keeps swishing back and forth. “Yes?”
“It’s Bernie. Marcus had something in my car for you. I have it here.”
I open the door to Bernie holding up the large poster board poem. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Wow! That is some fantastic dress. I got to say, Mari, we are all pretty excited about your wedding.”
“My wedding?” I ask this as though it is an absurd assumption for a man facing a girl in a bridal gown to make.
“Your folks announced that Beau was asking you to marry him while you were in Tucson. Everyone was excited for you. Well, mostly,” he adds pointing to the poster board.
I take it from him and slip it against the wall. “And why did Marcus give you this?”
“For safekeeping, I reckon. He didn’t want the kids to add black moustaches or anything like that.”
We both laugh. The craziness of my getup is getting to me. “Well, my coach changes back into a pumpkin soon. I had better change back into sweats.”
It takes him a second and then he howls with laughter. Bernie is down the steps and heading back out the door when I realize I did not clarify that I am not getting married.
I shut the door and allow myself another few hair and smile poses in front of the mirror. There is something to this princess for a day thing. I’d never been the girl who married off her Barbies or practiced walking down the aisle with girlfriends—well, until Caitlin and I did at the rehearsal. But standing here in this remarkable dress, I feel
more emotion than I did when standing beside Sadie as she spoke her vows. I understand, maybe for the first time, how beautiful it would be to walk in such a dress toward the man who loves me completely, unconditionally.
I sit on the bed. In the mirror image of this somewhat pathetic scene I notice the card to my right. Or left. I reach for it, assuming it is a receipt. At least I will find out who bought it. My mother’s handwriting is on the front. I tear it open and a piece of folded stationery and something colorful falls out.
Mari,
We couldn’t be happier for you! Beau is such a lovely man. Marcus saw this dress on your fashion show website last year and told us about it. We knew when we saw it that you were destined to wear it—so we purchased it. We had no idea it would be a part of your life so soon. We are thankful you are with us this Thanksgiving. It will be our chance to say goodbye properly and to celebrate the upcoming event—our little girl’s wedding!
Love, Mom and Dad
The postscript is in Dad’s handwriting:
PS. We found this and decided it must stand for What Will be Our Mari’s Dress. We’ve always known that when you made this choice, it would be forever. You can trust the heart God gives you, Mari.
I quickly put on my WWOMD bracelet and smooth the skirt of the dress with my hands several times. My nose and eyes sting and my throat aches. I had told everyone I didn’t want it, that it didn’t matter to me. And I never let myself inquire who purchased it so I could secretly imagine that it was mine.
But they all think I said yes to Beau. What a disappointment it will be.
I walk over to the poster board and pick it up. There is an index card paperclipped to the top.
The thing is Mari, the poem is my journey too. Love, Marcus
He is right.
Most of the photographs include Marcus. There he is handing me my birthday package, tying my roller skates while I stick my tongue out at the camera, raking leaves while I jump on the pile. There is a recently added black arrow drawn at the bottom of the poster. I flip to the back as it indicates, and there in the center of the board are two photos that cause my heart to flutter.
