“How is it I still have to answer questions like this at my age?” I looked at my mom but she ignored me.
“Because you’re still my little girl,” my father said. “No matter how old you are. So why not get married? You’ve been together for, what? Five years?”
“One,” I said. “Not even. But we’re not twenty-year-olds, Dad. And it’s not like we’re going to have kids. I’m in my forties, remember?” I was forty-nine. “And Michael’s pushing sixty—”
“Fifty-eight,” Michael interjected.
“I know very well how old you two are,” my dad said. He looked at Michael. “Well, I didn’t realize you were sixty.”
“Fifty-eight,” Michael said.
“Well, anyway, I know you’re not going to have babies, but why not get married?”
“Michael,” I said. “Would you please tell them we’re happy the way we are?”
He looked up, fork poised over his plate. “We’re happy the way we are.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said to my dad. “When Michael and I decide to get married, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Well, good,” he said, and that seemed to be the end of it.
I’d taken a big bite from the large slice of pie in front of me but now there was a mist of silence hovering over the room. I looked around the table. Then my dad had said, “Do you think it’ll happen before I die?”
I’d wondered when I’d stop feeling like a teenager at my parents’ dinner table. I remembered sitting at that very table thirty-five years before, answering my father’s questions about who I was hanging out with, where I was going, what college I should go to.
It seemed as if nothing had changed, except that I was ten pounds heavier and my hair had a forest of silver threads running through it. Oh, and then there were those fucking hot flashes. A trade-off, I guess, for no longer having pimples. But if I had to pick the lesser of two evils, I couldn’t do it.
Twenty-three
It turned out the new Michael wasn’t finished with surprises. He called one afternoon to see if I was available for a little field trip. “I have something I want to show you,” he said. “I’ll be over in half an hour.”
He wouldn’t respond to my questions. Each “Where are we going?” was met with a mischievous smile. When he finally did answer, his voice held a little kid’s excitement. “You’ll see in a second,” he said.
He drove down Marshall Street and then made a quick left on Cherry, where my favorite house sat proudly with the FOR SALE sign out front. Only now there was a bright red SOLD sticker on it. I looked at Michael. His eyes were shining and a smile was ready to explode off his face.
“I made an offer on it.”
I heard the words but they didn’t compute. “What do you mean, you made an offer on it?”
“Just what I said, I made an offer on it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Wow.” What else was there to say?
“My offer was accepted,” he said.
Now I was dumbfounded. “You bought it?”
“Yes. Can you believe it?” The car was too small to contain his excitement. “You always said whoever lived in that house would just have to be happy.”
“But Michael, I have a house.”
“I know, but that’s your house, not ours. This old couple lives here. They’ve been here since they got married. They’re so cute. When I told them about how you always loved this house, they were so excited.”
His eyes shone. He was so eager and proud, about another fucking surprise.
“How did this happen?” I asked, making an effort to keep my voice even and calm.
“I was looking at the new listings and when I saw that your favorite house was on the market, I called the listing agent. We went right over and made them an offer and they accepted it. It all happened so fast.”
I sighed. “Oh, Michael.” A garden gnome watched me carefully from the neatly trimmed shrubs. “What if I don’t want to live here? What if I don’t want to sell my house?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to live here? You love this house.”
“I love it from the outside. I love to run by it, sure. I love to imagine what it’s like. But Michael! What if it’s not what I imagine?”
Michael laughed. “Let me assure you it’s not. It definitely needs work. But we’ll make it whatever you want it to be. I got a really good deal on it. We can live in your house while we remodel this one. And then we can sell your house and move in here.” Sell my house? All these plans, he had it all figured out. It made my temples pound.
He moved close and put his arm around me. “Come on, you can go see it.”
I gazed out the window, not trusting myself to talk, agitation bubbling up inside like an oil well. I was torn between wanting to run screaming from the car and the overwhelming desire to finally see my dream house.
He reached for the door handle. “Ready?”
“We can’t just go inside,” I said.
“It’s okay, hon, they won’t mind. I told them we might be by this afternoon. They’re expecting us. They’re anxious to meet you.”
Fear, excitement, distress, gratitude all swirled through my head like dust devils. But I got out of the car anyway and we walked up to the door. White rockers sat on the porch and for a moment I got a pleasant little picture of us having a glass of wine out here on a warm evening. We were old in this fantasy, and Michael wore a gray cardigan. I was old, too, but my hair looked great, pulled up in a little bun with soft tendrils falling around my face. Very Katharine Hepburn–ish.
It was my fantasy, after all.
And then I saw the Stroms, who looked as if they were blood related in the way of people who’ve been together most of their lives; both ample, with big open faces and wide smiles showing even, beige teeth. Their bulldog hung just behind them looking up at Michael and me with the same expression. He could’ve been their offspring.
“Oh Libby, so nice to meet you,” Mrs. Strom trilled, grasping my hand. “Michael told us so much about you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said.
We stood in the entryway. Ahead of us was a wide stairway to the second floor, the living room to the right and the dining room to the left. On the floor where we stood was olive green shag carpeting that looked as though it had been there since it was trendy in the sixties. There was a bentwood coatrack against one wall and a large blue and white urn on the other, filled with a rainbow of plastic zinnias, thickly coated with dust. The walls were covered in faded green and gold wallpaper.
“Come in. Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Strom asked, leading the way into the kitchen. “Mother forgot to do the breakfast dishes,” he observed. He patted his wife’s shoulder and clucked his tongue. I thought if the dishes had all been from that morning they must have had guests, perhaps the front line of the Chicago Bears. There were dirty pans on the stove, and the sink was piled high with plates and glassware. I doubted there were clean glasses in the cupboards. No matter. After seeing this, the probability that I would accept anything to drink or eat from this house was as likely as finding a Jacuzzi in their marble bathroom.
“No, thank you,” Michael and I said in unison.
“Well, so this is the kitchen,” Mrs. Strom said. “There’s lots of cupboard space.” A layer of grime varnished every surface. With her cane she walked slowly around the room opening cupboards. Her thick bowlegs looked painful to walk on. Mr. Strom helped her along, sweetly gripping her arm.
“We ate our meals right here in this very room for sixty years,” she said, indicating a chrome table with a Formica top. The chairs had thick brown vinyl seats with duct tape patches.
This house did not fit into my Father Knows Best fantasy, although it probably had some of the same furnishings. “Vintage” was how Michael, as a Realtor, would describe it. “Gut-job” would be my description.
“Great space, isn’t it?” Michael said
. “This is such a great kitchen.” I forced a cough to cover the hysteria bubbling up in my throat. The Stroms beamed at him as I pictured a wrecking ball going to work on the walls and appliances. By now I had seen as much as I wanted to see. If I got out now I could preserve a little part of my fantasy.
No such luck.
“Let’s go this way. The dining room’s right through there,” Mr. Strom said, as his wife tottered sluggishly, leading the way.
By the time we had worked our way upstairs and were peering into the only bathroom, I was nearly delirious with revulsion. Brown one-inch tiles paved the bathroom floor and climbed halfway up the walls. Worn, dark paneling covered the rest. A tiny sink was set into a vanity that was yellowed white with brown trim. The counter was made of fake marble. Also dark brown. Two people could occupy that bathroom at the same time only if they were conjoined twins.
“Well,” I said brightly, “thank you so much for your hospitality, but we really must be going.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure, dear,” Mrs. Strom said. “We’re so happy you all bought it. Can you stay for tea and cookies? I made oatmeal raisin cookies yesterday. Papa’s favorite.”
Mr. Strom nodded happily. “They’re the best,” he said. “Mother missed her calling. I always told her she should have packaged them and sold them. We could have been billionaires.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But we have an appointment we need to get to.”
Michael smiled at them and grasped their hands warmly. “Thanks so much,” he said. “This is a great house. I’m very excited.”
At the door, when we were finally close to our escape, Mrs. Strom said to me, “I know you’ll be very happy here. It’s a happy house.”
Michael smiled as we drove back to my house, my clean, neat, updated house with its hardwood floors and granite countertops and unsoiled walls. “It has great bones, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Bones are all it has,” I said. “It would cost a fortune to make that place livable, Michael.”
“Well, yeah, it’ll cost some bucks. But don’t you think it’s like fate that it went up for sale now? It’s like it’s meant to be, you know?”
“Well, you know I’m not a believer in stuff like that,” I said, “but I admit the timing is impressive.” He laughed, smug with happiness, which made me want to slap him.
I did the next best thing.
“Enough with the fucking surprises, already,” I said. “I don’t understand this, Michael, really. You can’t keep doing this, making decisions for us as if I don’t even count. We need to make these kinds of decisions together. I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime.”
He flinched and looked at me with wounded eyes. “Jesus, Libby, I thought it would make you happy.”
“Buying me a bouquet of daisies would make me happy, or a pralines-and-cream gelato. But a house? How do you make an offer on a house without even mentioning it to me? We’ve got to both be invested in this, don’t you see that? You need to stop thinking you know what will make me happy and start talking to me. Especially about something this huge. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I have a contract on it,” he said.
“Jesus, Michael, what’s with the strong-arm tactics? I understand that. But you acted impulsively and it may not have been the best decision.” He grunted. “No more surprises, Michael. Promise me. You need to save the surprises for the small stuff, not for houses.”
He sighed.
“Promise me, Michael.”
“All right, I promise,” he said, and we drove the rest of the way home in silence.
Twenty-four
Early in my relationship with Michael we had been so in synch. We remarked on the same odd things at the same time, liked the same foods and books and furniture. We even finished each other’s sentences. It had been reassuring and enthralling to feel so connected to someone, like two birds sitting on the same perch. Now something had shifted in me. I attributed it to my father’s death and the new reality I was living in. Lately, Michael’s and my perspectives seemed uncommonly divergent. I had this feeling that I was black and white, living in Michael’s Technicolor world. But I didn’t trust my judgment, unconvinced that I hadn’t done or said something to encourage his uncharacteristic behavior. It was certainly true that I’d remarked on that house every time we passed it, always making wistful comments about what it would be like to live there. Why wouldn’t he feel sure I’d be thrilled with his surprise?
So I let my irritation melt away and turned my thoughts to kitchen cabinets, natural stone countertops and greenhouse windows.
I didn’t know if I’d continue to hear from Patrick after telling him about my wedding plans, but he seemed unfazed. I didn’t tell Michael about the correspondence but I didn’t feel guilty—it was just e-mail, after all, and it always gave me a good, warm feeling when I saw his screen name in my in-box.
Libby,
I’m happy for you and Michael. He’s a lucky guy. How are the wedding plans coming along? Is it going to be a big blowout affair?
How are you doing? How are you feeling? Have you looked into grief counseling? I don’t mean to be pushy, just curious. One of the things it gave me was a place where I could talk about my parents and no one would tell me I should think about something else. That helped me a lot. Also, another thing I thought was a really good idea was writing a letter to the person who died. They said it helps you understand your feelings and is a way to say things you can’t say in person anymore. I’m not much of a writer but it was good for me.
Love,
Patrick
I loved the idea of writing a letter to my dad. There were so many things I wanted to share with him. I could see how it might bring me comfort. I had never before believed in an afterlife, but now I couldn’t bear the thought that he wasn’t in some way still out there, a spirit or an essence that could communicate with me somehow. If I wrote a letter maybe my words would reach him.
Patrick, I wrote back,
Always nice to hear from you. I’m doing okay. Good days, bad days … you know. I like the idea of a letter to my father. I’ll try that sometime.
I do really appreciate your suggestions and I don’t feel like you’re nagging or anything. Some people seem to think I should move on, get over it. But it’s hard. It makes me feel like I have to put up a front so other people won’t be upset. That’s fucked up, don’t you think? I hope I never did that to anyone who was mourning a loved one.
Michael and I are having a small wedding, about 80 people. A judge will marry us in a very brief ceremony and then there’ll be a cocktail party following. Heavy hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, that kind of thing. My mom will walk with me down the aisle.
Michael bought a house and didn’t tell me. It’s a house I’ve always loved in the neighborhood and it came up for sale and he put in an offer to surprise me (Michael’s a Realtor, did I tell you that?), and his offer was accepted. My head’s spinning. The house is a mess. Needs billions of dollars in renovations. But it’ll be perfect when we’re finished. It has a great porch.
Jill and I are going to a bereavement group, one of the ones you told me about. I’m nervous. We both are. Nervous, anxious, scared. But there’s also a little relief in it.
Write me soon.
Libby
* * *
The room was decorated in soothing shades of forest green and burgundy, one wall lined with bookshelves with plants and snow globes among the books. Comfy chairs were placed in a semicircle in front of a fireplace and two women were already seated, sipping coffee from bright yellow mugs, talking quietly when Jill and I walked in. They looked up and smiled. It was all very warm and welcoming, homey. I burst into tears.
A man came toward us, hand outstretched, tissue box in hand. “Welcome,” he said. “I’m Henry.” I recognized him from his picture on the website. He was taller than I expected, heavier, a little older. His silver hair was cut very short and he wore a p
laid shirt under a cardigan. “Don’t worry,” he said as I wiped my face. “It happens to a lot of people.”
We introduced ourselves and then he introduced us to the two women, Carlyn and Lisa, and offered us coffee. People drifted in while we stirred cream and sugar into our mugs. My stomach churned. I didn’t know what to expect. I guess I had thought everyone would be sobbing into shredded tissues, but these people all seemed calm to me, peaceful.
“You okay?” Jill asked.
“I don’t know. You?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I want to talk about how I feel with a bunch of strangers.”
“Me either. But I’m sure we don’t have to say anything if we don’t want to,” I told her. I wasn’t really sure of anything.
The session began with everyone introducing themselves, just names and why we were here. There were eight of us, two men and six women—four who’d lost parents, two who’d lost spouses, one who’d lost an aunt, and Carlyn, who’d lost a three-year-old child. She told her story dry eyed, but sorrow embossed her face, and I wiped my own tears as she spoke.
When we were finished Henry said, “There is no greater stress to the human system than death. Everyone grieves differently, and no one’s loss is greater or lesser than anyone else’s.” I was sure the death of a three-year-old trumped all of our losses. “Sometimes when we suffer a great loss we lose our perspective, our sense of self-worth. We question our reasons to go on. But as trite as it sounds, life does goes on, and healing comes when you reach out and embrace your own life.
“Mourning is hard work. It’s exhausting. It can feel as if every little action requires superhuman strength. But we’ll do it a step at a time. Don’t move too fast at first. Don’t expect too much of yourself. And don’t let anyone else tell you how to grieve.”
My spine softened, my shoulders relaxed a bit. I leaned back into my chair.
“For the time we’re together we’re going to be kind to each other, and patient. We’re going to help each other. This is a safe place where you can talk and cry and gain strength. It’s a place where you’ll learn that it’s okay to laugh again. In here we’ll learn to live the rest of our lives in a new way.”
What More Could You Wish For Page 13
