* * *
Jill and I were both tired as we drove home. “That wasn’t bad,” she said.
“No. It was good. Even though I cried the whole time.”
“You’re a cryer. Always have been.”
“Yeah. You’d think I’d outgrow that.”
“There’s still time,” Jill said. “You’re only fifty.”
“I hope it happens soon. There’s no percentage in crying when you’re over fifty. It takes forever now for the swelling to go down.”
The night was cool and clear. I opened my window a crack to let fresh air blow on my puffy eyes. I liked the feel of my hair blowing off my face. “I think it helps to be with people who know what you’re feeling,” I said.
“I wish we could have talked Mom into coming with us.”
“It’s not her thing,” I said. “She belongs to the Church of Don’t Talk About It and It’ll Go Away. They both did. Dad always told me to turn the other cheek, especially about men. He thought you should just keep quiet and accept things. ‘Keep your counsel,’ he always said. He never saw the good in talking things through.”
“I know. It’s the time they grew up in. People weren’t so open in their generation.”
“How do you and Mark resolve your differences? Do you guys talk a lot?” How was it I’d never asked her this before? Maybe all this time she’d been holding the key to a successful long-term relationship.
“He ignores me, I pout,” she said. “We move on.”
The streets were serene as we got closer to my house. “Remember that house on Cherry Street?” I said. “The one with the white picket fence?”
“The Father Knows Best house? I love that house.”
“Michael bought it for us.”
“You’re kidding,” Jill said, looking at me, eyebrows raised. After a beat she said, “That’s so cool. I didn’t even know you were looking for a house.”
“I didn’t either. He did it on his own. Didn’t even mention it to me until it was a done deal.”
She turned to me, then back at the road. “Libby, what the fuck?”
“I know. I know.”
“You can’t do that when you’re a couple. Part of being married is working together, having common goals.” She was more indignant than I would have thought, and it made me feel defensive of Michael.
“Calm down, Jill. It’s not that bad. He knows I love that house. He wanted to surprise me.”
“You don’t surprise someone with a house, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like a new toaster. Jesus. What if you didn’t like it?”
“But I did like it. He knew that.”
I couldn’t bring myself to describe it or tell her how much it was going to cost to remodel. I regretted telling her about it at all. Her reaction made me clamp my mouth closed and I glared out the window, craving quiet.
“Still…” she said. I blocked her out.
We rode in blessed silence for a while. She avoided Cherry Street, driving down Maple instead, three blocks out of our way. When she pulled in front of my house I said, “Thanks for driving,” and started to open my door. Jill put the car in park and turned to me. “Don’t go yet, Lib, I want to say something.”
No, don’t, I thought, but sat back and waited. Her face was serious in the half light from the streetlamp. She looked like she had at four years old when she told me our dog had died while I was at school—the same frown, the same penetrating look in her eyes.
“In the spirit of being open,” she said, “and not being an ignore-it-and-it’ll-go-away kind of person…” She smiled. I didn’t. “You know what Henry said about not making big life changes after a major loss? Remember? He said we shouldn’t make any important decisions until our lives feel more on track?”
“I remember,” I said, looking at my garage, wishing for the door to rise and suck me inside.
“You’re doing it in spades, Libby. Getting married, moving, selling your house … it’s a lot. You’re like the poster child for what not to do.”
“Michael and I were already engaged. Before.”
“But you weren’t sure you were going to marry him. Remember that? You were questioning the whole thing. Then Dad dies”—the words were still shocking—“and all of a sudden you’re sure. It’s not a decision that was already made.” Tears rolled from my eyes. She took my hand. “I’m not saying don’t do it, you know that, don’t you? I’m just saying wait a little while.”
I took my hand away, shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because Dad wants me to be married, I almost said. “We already have the Empire Room booked, we bought the invitations, we hired a photographer.” I put my hand on the door.
“Listen to me, Libby, please.” The oak in the front yard whispered with the breeze. The shelter of my house beckoned, a soft light in the den window.
“I love you. I want you to be happy. If you want to marry Michael, then that’s what I want for you. But I don’t think this is the right time to make these kinds of decisions. Sometimes now it’s hard for me to decide whether to scramble my eggs or fry them. I find myself standing in the kitchen not even knowing what I was going to do”—her voice broke—“and I’m just consumed with the fact that Dad’s not here anymore and I’ll never be able to talk to him again. It kills me. It just kills me.”
Jill buried her face in her hands and made small sounds that broke my heart. I scooted over and put my arms around her. “I know, baby, me too,” I said. We sat like that for a while, crying for what we had lost, the void that we were facing. My sister was the only one who truly knew how I felt.
When we quieted I moved back over to my side of the car. I said, “I think Dad would be happy about me marrying Michael.”
Jill studied her perfect manicure, bit at an imaginary hangnail. “I’m not sure, Lib,” she said.
My eyes welled up. Again. As if I hadn’t cried enough today. My face will be swollen for weeks, I thought.
“God, don’t say that,” I said. “You’re making me crazy. One minute you tell me to marry Michael and the next you tell me not to.” I opened my door.
“Lib,” she said, grabbing my arm. “I’m sorry. This whole thing with the house just worries me. It’s so extreme. I just want to be sure you’re marrying Michael for the right reasons and that you’re not being pressured, that’s all.”
“I know. I appreciate your concern, really I do,” I said. “But I know what I’m doing.” She didn’t look convinced. “I’m going in now. I just can’t talk anymore tonight. I’m on overload.”
Jill’s eyes were dark with dejection. My little sister.
She said, “Whatever you decide, I’ll support you. I’ll be there for you; I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I love you, Libby. You’re my soul. I want you to be happy.”
I dug in my purse for a tissue and blew my nose. I saw the little girl she used to be, the messy little tomboy, the one I cried with when I was five and she was three and she skinned her knees when she fell playing hopscotch, and I felt her pain in my own knees. She was at the very core of me.
I said, “I have a stomachache all the time. I can’t sleep. I miss him so much. I feel like there’s a hole in me.”
“I do, too,” she said.
“But Dad didn’t worry about you the way he worried about me. You’re married. That was the difference. He wanted that for me. Michael has a lot of the same qualities as Dad. He’s a good, kind man who’ll take care of me. And I feel like he can fill that emptiness for me. How can that be bad?”
“It’s not bad. It’s good. The thing is, no one can fill the emptiness that Dad’s left. You have to learn how to live with it. We both do. And we will. It just takes time. All I’m saying is, keep things simple for a while and then figure out where Michael fits.”
I sighed. I yawned, hugely. “I can’t talk anymore, Jill. I can’t think. I’m exhausted. I’m done. I’m going in. Now.”
I wanted to climb into bed, pull the co
vers over my head and sleep until I didn’t feel like this any longer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll support whatever decision you make, I promise. I love you, Lib.”
“I love you, too, sweetie,” I said, and hugged her to me before getting out.
I couldn’t get away fast enough.
Twenty-five
Dear Daddy, I wrote that night when I woke at 2:30 A.M. and couldn’t go back to sleep.
I miss you so much. I’ve never believed in an afterlife but I can’t bear the thought that you are just gone. I need to feel that you’re still with me. Sometimes I feel you watching me. But I want something tangible. I want a sign.
Tonight I had a dream that I was transporting your body somewhere, I don’t know where. I knew you were dead but you were sitting in a chair, a wheelchair-type thing with a high back. You reached up and rubbed your nose. I stared at you for a minute and then I said, “Daddy, are you okay?” and you said, “My nose itches,” and I said, “But you’re dead,” and you said, “I know.”
We talked for a while, I don’t know what about, and then I said, “I wish you weren’t dead,” and you said, “I know you do, honey, but it’s really better this way. I’m okay.” I said, “I love you so much, Dad,” and you said, “I love you, too, honey.” And then I woke up. I cried a little but really, I feel sort of peaceful cuz you said you were okay.
Was that my sign?
I love you,
Libby
I sat at my desk waiting for my answer. The house was still. Rufus was still asleep on my bed. The furnace purred, the refrigerator hummed, I heard a siren far off in the distance. If any of that was a sign, it was too subtle for me.
I didn’t feel sleepy enough to go back to bed so I went to my computer, where I was pleased to see an e-mail from Patrick. It was like sunlight seeping inside, embracing me.
Libby,
How’d the session go? I hope it was worthwhile. And not too tough. I remember the first one I went to, I didn’t think I’d go back—all those people sitting around emoting was a little much for me—but the next day I felt calmer. So I did go back. And I’m glad I did. It was a good thing for me.
I have to tell you this, Lib, and that is that I’m worried about you. One thing I remember from the group I went to—the woman who led it said we shouldn’t make any big decisions in our lives for at least a year. That keeps going through my mind. I’ve hesitated saying anything because I don’t want to piss you off by butting in where I don’t belong. I’ve been going back and forth, having conversations with you in my mind, and I decided that since I’m your friend I’m just going to tell you what I’m thinking and you can ignore it if you want.
Getting married is a big change. I know you and Michael have been together for a while, but still … you live separately, and even though you’re a couple you’re still single. So I’m just bringing it up as something for you to think about. I’m not recommending anything one way or the other, I just want you to think about the decisions you’re making now and be sure you’re not rushing into something out of your grief and a need to put things in some kind of order. I think the kicker for me was the house thing. Wow. That sort of freaked me out.
So there it is. I hope you’re not upset by my words. I promise I won’t mention it again.
Love,
Patrick
What the hell was with everybody? Why did my decision seem so right to me while people all around me saw it so differently? I wasn’t angry with Patrick for saying what he did. But I didn’t answer him either. I did add a P.S. to the letter to my father, though.
Here’s what I need to know, Dad: You’re happy I’m marrying Michael, right?
I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of Pinot Grigio. I looked into it and studied it for several moments. For what? My dad’s face reflecting back at me? Maybe a big “Yes” or “No” written in clouds on the surface? But it was just wine. So I took it to the living room, curled up on the couch with the afghan and contemplated the fact that I was past middle age, practically a senior citizen, and still felt like a lost child.
Twenty-six
Libby,
I haven’t heard from you in a while and just want to make sure everything’s okay. I hope you’re not upset about what I said. I didn’t mean to imply you shouldn’t get married. I’m not involved in your life—I don’t see you regularly, so what I said was meant to be taken with a grain of salt, okay? If you think now is a good time to be married, if you’re happy about the house, then I am, too. You’re a big girl and I’m sure you know what you’re doing.
How is everything going? How are you feeling these days?
It’s so great being in touch with Pete and Sophie. I talked to Pete on the phone the other day for about an hour. They’re thinking of making a trip down here, did they tell you? Sometime after their daughter’s wedding. Maybe you could come with them. With Michael, of course. I have a big house, room for everyone, not far from the beach.
E me.
Love,
Patrick
Did he really think that was a possibility? I could just imagine Michael’s response to that idea. I laughed at the image in my head of Michael and Patrick meeting in the hallway, towels wrapped around their waists, toothbrushes in hand. I could see us all in pajamas and fuzzy slippers making breakfast, like a scene from The Big Chill only without the dancing. It had been a long time since I’d traveled with Sophie and Pete, and if it weren’t so impossible, it would have been fun. An opinion Michael surely wouldn’t share.
I hadn’t answered Patrick’s last e-mail. He was entitled to his opinion (no matter how misguided it was), but it had irked me. I don’t like being told I’m making a mistake when I’m so sure of what I’m doing. Never have. But I thought about what he’d said and couldn’t help wondering if he had my best interests at heart or if there was a hidden agenda in his words. My ego would have liked equal shares of each. And then, of course, there was that Love, Patrick at the end of every e-mail that gave me a golden glow every time I read it, even though I never wrote it back.
Patrick,
I’m not upset with you. I do appreciate your concern and am giving consideration to your words. I realize you’re not trying to tell me what to do, just telling me what you think, and that’s fine.
I’m doing okay. Life goes on, as they say, but the pain doesn’t go away. I guess you just learn to live with it, although that’s not happening so quickly either. The bereavement group is a big help to me and to my sister, so thank you for telling me about that. There’s something comforting about being with people who know what you’re going through.
I wrote a letter to my dad as you suggested. In fact, I’ve written a couple. I like doing it—it makes me feel that he’s close. Unfortunately he’s not answering my questions, but I’m thinking he’s putting the answers out there in the universe somewhere for me to find them. He always encouraged my independence, so why start making it easy for me now?
I’m glad you and Pete have rekindled your friendship. It still sort of amazes me to be in touch with you after all these years. I can’t imagine Michael and me coming to Florida with Sophie and Pete. It’s such a funny idea. Not that it wouldn’t be fun. But thanks for the invitation. I hope S and P make it, tho.
Libby
* * *
“I thought I was going to help you pick out your dress,” Michael said when I told him I was going shopping with the triumvirate: my mother, Jill and Sophie. I regarded him as he put on one black sock, then a shoe, then reached for his other sock.
“Why don’t you put both socks on first, then your shoes?” I asked.
He looked at his bare foot, then at me. “I don’t know. I’ve always done it this way.”
“I know. I’ve always thought it was weird. What if there was a fire? You’d be running out in the street with one bare foot.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Talk about weird,” he said, and put on his other sock a
nd shoe. “So how come I’m not shopping with you?”
“Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding?”
“It’s probably worse luck for the bride to wear a dress the groom doesn’t like.”
“You think I’ll pick out something you wouldn’t like? You always like what I wear.” Michael watched his reflection as he tied a red striped tie over his blue shirt. “Don’t you?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “I just thought it would be fun to do together. That ‘bad luck’ thing is for kids—the Cinderella fantasy. I think we’re a little beyond that, don’t you?”
“Yes, several hot flashes beyond that, but we’re also beyond engagement rings and weddings and we’re still doing those.”
He cocked his head at me. “Touché.”
Michael was spending more and more time at my house. He seemed to be moving in by centimeters—a pair of socks in the laundry basket, jockey shorts in a drawer, more pants hanging in the closet. We hadn’t talked about it, it was just happening. It’s hard now to imagine that I just went along with it, but at the time I didn’t have the energy for the confrontation a discussion would surely cause. Besides, he was my fiancé. What was there to discuss?
“Maybe you could take a picture with your cell phone and send it to me before you buy anything,” he said.
“Maybe you could just wait and be surprised,” I said. He pulled the tie apart, apparently not satisfied, and started reknotting it.
“You never used to be so controlling,” I told him.
He met my eyes in the mirror. “Controlling?”
“Yes, controlling.”
“How so?”
“How so? Let me count the ways.”
“Hmmm. Okay then, don’t send a picture and I’ll be surprised,” he said, and finished knotting his tie.
* * *
I stood on a pedestal in front of a trifold mirror, swathed in fluffy silk organza while the bridal consultant and my mother oohed and aahed. Sophie and Jill both wore expressions that said, Oh, please.
What More Could You Wish For Page 14
