Marrying Daisy Bellamy

by Susan Wiggs

  The idyllic setting would go a long way toward making the bridezilla’s photos look as beautiful as memories that had not actually happened.

  That was how Daisy had come to regard Julian—a perfect memory that had never actually happened.

  Julian. She could now think his name without sliding into some kind of catatonic state, so she was making progress. Good for me.

  At first, she’d been so lost in her grief that she felt unstuck from the world. It was like being in a maze in the pitch-dark; she could find no way out. If she tried to grope her way to safety, she was pierced by thorns and lashed by overhanging branches. In the very early days, she’d felt quite certain she would die, too. Her heart had been ripped out. It was physically impossible to live without a heart.

  She’d come a long way from those soul-freezing days. Through sheer will and determination, she had fought and clawed her way out of the darkness, a wildcat fighting free from a steel trap, gnawing off its own paw. Sure, she’d done herself some damage in the process, but she was alive. She had Charlie and her job, family and friends.

  Recovering from the grief and shock had been a daily, sometimes moment-to-moment struggle. And she still wasn’t there yet. She still woke up in the middle of the night, crying so hard she had to bury her face in a pillow to keep from waking Charlie.

  In time, Julian faded from Charlie’s memory; now he flickered in and out like a shadow in the wind. Charlie still remembered his name and the fact that he’d never quite dared to jump off the dock that day. The framed photo she’d taken that day—the shutter on timer, their arms around each other, the sun-gilt lake in the background—stayed on the bedside table, even though it was heartbreaking to look at. They had been so happy that day, so deeply in love. Hope for the future shone from their eyes, their smiles. Sometimes she fantasized about magically stepping into the photo, where she could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin and hear the sound of his voice, whispering in her ear. There were moments when the fantasy felt more real than life itself—and that was when she scared herself into fighting her way back to the real world.

  Her chief motivation was Charlie. She learned so much from her small son. All her child-rearing books cast the parent in the role of teacher. Yet few of the books reminded readers to pay attention to the lessons a child could offer—the joys of living in the moment and a wide-eyed wonder at the world. The kid didn’t need lessons in that sort of thing. Charlie had some kind of genetic code; he was hardwired for happiness.

  She vowed to make sure that never changed. The quest was fierce and focused, working her way through the grief like a shipwreck survivor rowing to shore. Over time, she did start to get better. She could function. She could smile and laugh and love and enjoy life. She could pretend the huge gaping hole in her heart was not there. Julian would be proud of her.

  “You’re not fooling anybody, you know.” Logan was helping her wash her car. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d washed it and was in the middle of the chore when he stopped by. Charlie loved having his dad around, and Daisy had to admit it was nice, not having to do everything by herself. Charlie had helped with the fun part—the squirting hose, the soap bubbles—but now that they were down to rinsing and drying, he’d grown bored and was kicking a soccer ball around the yard with Blake.

  “I don’t know,” she said to Logan. “Fooling who? About what?” A flutter in her stomach told her she was lying. She did know. Logan never talked about Julian, so this was something new.

  She wrung out her chamois cloth and waited to hear what he’d say to that. Logan had been kind to her after Julian’s death. He’d held her close and said, “I’m here for you. That will never change.”

  As good as his word, he helped take care of Charlie and had urged her to go to her support groups and appointments. He came around a lot, made himself available.

  “What I meant,” he said, “is that you’re doing a great job getting through every day. I’m proud of you. Not everybody can survive a loss like that.”

  She squirted foam cleaner on a stubborn spot on the car hood, then scrubbed at the spot. “So then, why do you say I’m not fooling anyone?”

  “Because you need to do more than survive. More than just get through the day. You’re strong, Daisy. You’re ready. You need to believe it.”

  She fell silent, methodically polishing the car in a steady rhythm. A black mayfly dive-bombed into the foam polish, ending its life in front of her face, splat. Wrinkling her nose, she plucked the fly out, then went back to polishing, methodical as ever.

  Sonnet came for a rare weekend visit. She was working at UNESCO at the UN and had very little time to herself. She lived in a cramped studio on the east side of midtown and claimed to love everything about it. However, when she managed to steal away to Avalon, she relaxed visibly.

  Although she could probably take her pick of any room at the Inn at Willow Lake, owned by her mom and Daisy’s dad, she preferred to stay with Daisy. They usually made popcorn with too much butter and salt, and stayed up late watching chick flicks.

  They put Charlie to bed with four stories. The number four was his current favorite. Then they had their showers, donned their most comfy pajamas and made the popcorn. Daisy poured too generous glasses of cheap, dry champagne—their favorite.

  “To us,” she said. “Especially to your brilliant career.”

  “And yours,” Sonnet pointed out. She looked severely beautiful, almost exotic, with her wet hair twisted up in a towel, though the effect was spoiled by cowboy flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers.

  “Fine. To both our brilliant careers.” They clinked glasses and drank. The movie started up, a repeat viewing of the best version of Pride and Prejudice in existence. Charming as it was, Daisy couldn’t keep her mind on the film. “Logan says I haven’t moved on,” she blurted out.

  Sonnet immediately hit the mute button. “Is he right?”

  “I thought about it for a long time after he said it,” Daisy mused, tossing her popcorn in the bowl to distribute the butter. “I think he might be right. And how weird is that, a guy being right?”

  “Totally weird,” Sonnet said.

  “I don’t cry myself to sleep anymore. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night clutching my chest like some nightmare’s after me. I don’t have imaginary conversations with Julian every time I’m alone.”

  “All good. But…?”

  “I want more than simply to exist. More than simply getting through the day. I want a full life. I don’t want to be the girl whose fiancé was killed. I want to…live again. I want to be in love.”

  “So fall in love.”

  “You of all people know it’s not that simple. It—”

  There was a soft knock at the door. Blake started barking and swirled like a dervish.

  Sonnet frowned. “Were you expecting someone?”

  Daisy glanced down at her Yankees jersey and flip-flops. “The fashion police?” She hurried to the door. Through the glass pane, she saw Logan and Zach. “Hey,” she said, letting them in. Sonnet stood up, touching the towel on her head. “Oh. Hi.”

  Zach grinned at her. “I heard you’d come up for the weekend. I wanted to see you.” His gaze dropped from her toweled head to her bare legs and fuzzy slippers.

  “You should have called first,” she said, clearly flustered.

  Daisy looked on, bemused. Sonnet and Zach were childhood friends, having met and bonded at the finger-painting table in preschool. Lately, though, there was a slightly different tone to the friendship.

  “I smell popcorn,” Logan said. “Mind if we hang out for a while?”

  Daisy paused. With few exceptions, she spent every other Saturday night alone, reading, watching TV, loading photos from the day’s shoot if there had been a wedding. Sometimes she stared guiltily at the box she’d set aside for the MoMA competition. She had missed last year’s entry deadline while lost in the deep vortex of grief. This year, she thought she might pursue it again, but the
box remained as empty as the file marked “MoMA” on her computer.

  “Sure,” she said. “We’re having a Pride and Prejudice marathon.” She gestured at the stack of DVDs on the coffee table, the silent people in costume on the screen. “The BBC version, with Colin Firth. Aka the only version.”

  Both Zach and Logan looked queasy.

  Sonnet said, “Can you make us a better offer?”

  “And it cannot involve a controller,” Daisy said hastily. She’d never been a fan of video games.

  “How about little wooden tiles on a board?” asked Zach.

  “Scrabble.” Sonnet clutched her chest. “Be still my heart.”

  “That settles it,” said Daisy. “Company chooses.”

  “Winners get to pick the movie afterward,” Logan suggested.

  Knowing Sonnet’s brain power, Daisy readily agreed. While the guys set up the board, she and Sonnet went to her room to make themselves a little more presentable. “I can’t believe they didn’t call first.” Sonnet bent forward from the waist, freeing her masses of curls from the towel.

  “I think it’s cute, Zach wanting to see you so bad he’ll go for a night of Scrabble.”

  “Knowing I’ll destroy him,” Sonnet added. “I wonder what’s up with that.”

  “He’s got a crush on you, idiot. He has ever since you got back from Germany.”

  “Zach? And me?” Sonnet snorted, but then she looked intrigued. “Really?”

  Daisy pulled on her favorite pair of jeans. “Don’t act so shocked. It’s been a long time coming.”

  “Wait a minute.” Sonnet leaned toward the mirror and applied some lip gloss. “How do you know this surprise visit is about Zach coming to see me? What about Logan and you?”

  Daisy ignored a tug of tension in her stomach. “Logan and I see each other all the time. Because of Charlie,” she added.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’ll never be more than that,” Daisy hastened to add. “Too much has happened.”

  “There’s no such thing as too much happening.”

  “I mean, there’s too much baggage.”

  “Hey. Everybody has baggage. It’s nice having someone to share the burden, eh?”

  I wouldn’t know, thought Daisy. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go open a can of whup ass on that Scrabble board.”

  When she stepped out of the bedroom, she noticed that Logan had gone in to check on Charlie. He bent over the dinosaur bed and drew a blanket up under the little boy’s chin.

  Daisy stepped into the room. “He always kicks off his covers, doesn’t he?”

  Logan nodded. In the dimness of the night-light, she could see him smile. “I like bedtime,” he said. “I wish I could be around for more of them.”

  “You’re around plenty,” she said. She understood, though, that this was not what he was talking about. “Let’s put on the noise machine,” she suggested. “That way, if we get too loud, we won’t wake him.” She turned the bedside device to “ocean waves.”

  As she and Logan exited the room, their bodies brushed together, and she was startled to feel the tingle of…something. And she found herself remembering what he’d said to her while washing the car. Live your life, Daisy. It’s time.

  A person didn’t always end up with a life she’d planned or expected. But turning her back on everything was no solution.

  In the living room, Zach and Sonnet were arguing about whether or not “mofo” was an allowable word. “Fortunately,” she said, holding out her iPhone, “there is an app for that.”

  “I can see I’m not going to get away with anything tonight,” said Zach.

  “Not even worth trying.” Sonnet looked up. “You two ready?”

  They delved into the popcorn and Scrabble like a group of college kids in a dorm. Sonnet and Zach got into the champagne. Daisy switched to ginger ale with Logan. He eyed the frosty glasses on the table. “You don’t have to do that.”

  She shrugged. “No biggie.” As a general rule, she avoided drinking alcohol around him. He always appeared to be secure in his sobriety, but it seemed prudent not to wave champagne in the guy’s face. She didn’t believe in tempting fate. Abstaining around Logan was a show of respect, too, in support of what she knew was an everyday struggle for him.

  “Hey,” said Sonnet. “You can’t add ‘alicious’ to my word.” She scowled at Zach.

  “I just did, and I get a triple word score for the whole thing.”

  Daisy looked at the board. “Pupalicious?”

  “Sure,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just ask Blake. Right, Blake?”

  On hearing her name, the dog thumped her tail.

  “And I get a bonus for using up all my letters,” said Zach.

  “All eight of them.”

  “Yup.”

  “So,” she said, removing the tiles one by one, “not only are you illiterate, you’re a cheat, as well. You’re only allowed seven tiles on your rack. However, because I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you stay in the game.”

  The competition was by turns silly and fierce. Some of the combinations—outgnaw, yabbo, vug—caused arguments, settled by checking a geeky internet site. Sonnet was determined to win, but Logan came from behind, using the prized Q on a double word score at the last minute.

  “Sheqel?” Sonnet demanded. “Give me a break.”

  “It’s an ancient unit of measure,” he said. “Consider yourself schooled. And I’m picking the movie. Buh-bye, Mr. Pansy-Ass Darcy.” He perused the DVD collection, his face registering dismay. “Hope Floats? The Age of Innocence? Phantom? Come on, you’re holding out on us.”

  “Trust me, I don’t have a spare copy of Gladiator or 300 stashed somewhere.”

  “How did you know my two favorite movies?”

  “Aren’t those every guy’s two favorite movies?”

  “They’re mine,” Zach admitted.

  “We need a plan B,” Logan said, grabbing the remote. He scrolled through some channels, then said, “Yes. Paydirt.”

  The four of them lined up on the sofa for an evening of live boxing. And in spite of herself, Daisy kind of got into it. She admired the technique, the raw power of a well-landed blow, the way the opponents sagged against each other in exhaustion, then started swinging again. Fueled by the champagne, Zach and Sonnet got rowdy, but the noise didn’t wake Charlie.

  Daisy felt happier and more relaxed than she had in months. It was so simple, hanging out with old friends and being silly. She needed to do stuff like this more often.

  Another round started up. The announcer introduced the contenders, elongating the words in his circus ring-master’s voice. “Aaaand in this corner, we have newcomer Bullseye Tillis, fresh out of the air force!” The words air force came at her like a sneak attack, a slender blade slipped between her ribs, puncturing the bubble of happiness. The others didn’t seem to notice as they laughed and talked and passed the popcorn. It occurred to Daisy that this syndrome—letting grief overwhelm her life—could be the end of her. Maybe not literally, but emotionally.

  Her grief counselor had explained the debilitating effects of lingering in a grieving mode—exhaustion, sleeplessness, distraction, disconnection… It was only now, in this moment, that Daisy understood its impact.

  The other thing she realized, sitting there with her laughing friends, was that the time had come to choose happiness. She hadn’t felt anything but grief for ages. She needed to move on, or she would lose herself. She wanted happiness. She wanted to stop dragging herself through each day and crying in the night, clutching an old shirt of Julian’s. He expected more from her; he would want her to live her life, not struggle through it. For you, Julian, she thought. And for me.

  The next day dawned with a brilliant sunrise, the kind of day that made Daisy feel glad to be alive. She grabbed her camera bag and took one photo. She only needed the one, and she knew it. Some shots were just right.

  She hurried to the computer and checked it out on the
big screen. The shot was a close-up of a trumpet-shaped white blossom, beaded in dew. Every droplet on the flower created a convex mirror reflecting the sunrise, creating a complex mosaic of natural color. There was something special about the photo, a peculiar magic that touched her when she looked at it.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt like an artist again. She saved the file and made a print and studied it. Then on the back, she noted the date. She took a breath, feeling exhilarated, and slid the print into the tray that had been empty for far too long—the MoMA Emerging Artist competition.

  It was a wild long shot, but she was going to do the work, even if it meant going without sleep. If the impossible happened and she was selected for the honor, it would be a miracle. Even if she didn’t place, she would still wind up with a portfolio she could be proud of.

  When Charlie woke up a bit later, she left him with Sonnet, making pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs. Taking her camera bag and a small notebook and pen, she started on a journey she had been mapping out in her head since the night before.

  She drove up to Camp Kioga and walked to the communal fire pit by the lake there. No one was around. The remains of some charred logs lay in the pit, and the lake was like a sheet of glass where the light struck it. She found her angle, and instead of fighting the sun flare, took the shot she wanted, knowing the flare would add a mystical element to the photo.

  “I was sitting right there the first time I met you,” she said, speaking softly even though there was no one around to hear. “You were so different from anyone I’d ever met before. I tried to get you to smoke pot with me, like that was going to impress you or something. You said no, but you were really nice about it. And I knew then that I wanted to be friends. All my other friends only wanted to get high and party. I couldn’t figure out what you were after, but I was definitely intrigued. Julian, you were everything to me. Losing you was like having a hole blown open in the middle of my chest. Somehow, I’m still alive, walking around and going through the motions of life, but all I’ve felt this past year is the pain of missing you. Nobody can live with that kind of pain.