•••
Connor took me to a candlelit wine bar on the Upper East Side, where we talked about Mom’s new book and other things. Connor asked if I was a writer like my mother. I didn’t know what to tell him.
Mom had been telling me I was a writer for as long as I could remember. It was hard to accept my fate when someone else was forcing it down my throat. I wrote my thoughts down in notebooks with no intention of letting anyone read them.
I let Connor hold my hand as we walked the streets of Manhattan. Bars were full of people laughing, the thought of finding a distraction for one night clouding their judgment.
We stopped by a bodega. Connor slipped inside and came back with a bouquet of flowers. The blooms were three days old and had lost their fragrance, but I smiled and thanked him for his thoughtfulness.
“So you’ll remember me tomorrow,” he said.
I laughed.
“When can I see you again?” Connor asked, as we stopped at the subway station that would take me home. Chivalry was a rarity in New York men; most were in too much of a hurry to open doors or hail us cabs. A lot of New York women didn’t want it anyway, or so we pretended. It was odd what we’d grown to accept. Maybe Connor was a change from the norm.
“How about a late Sunday afternoon walk through Central Park?” Jules was leaving early that morning.
He smiled and leaned in to kiss me. It was nice, nothing magical, but nice nonetheless.
I didn’t need magic; I lived in reality. And the reality was I didn’t want to be a writer, I didn’t want to dream.
Chapter 3
Sage
When I’d been dating Connor for six months, I introduced him to my mother. We ordered Chinese takeout and sat at the kitchen table of the Park Slope apartment. Connor was urbane, sophisticated, and polite. He had a job where he wore suits. His haircuts cost two hundred dollars, and his shoes were Italian leather. He was out of place among the eclectic, eccentric furniture and decor. His polish made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t say why.
Watching my mother and boyfriend interact was strange. I was the only commonality. They were two people who peered down the kaleidoscope of life and saw different things, wanted different things.
Which way would I lean? Would I be pulled in one direction over the other? Was there even a chance I could find my own way?
After Connor kissed me goodbye, I closed the door after him and turned to look at Mom, who watched me with steady gray eyes. “Just tell me.”
“He’s very nice.” It was her version of saying nothing.
“Why am I not surprised? Can’t you say something substantial?”
“What does Jules think of him?” she asked. Answer a question with a question—it was the way of Harpers.
Jules met Connor a while ago, and now that I recalled their encounter, she hadn’t said a lot either. Oh, she listed off his on paper qualities like they were something to be admired, but I hadn’t been able to tell what Jules thought. And Jules was full of thoughts.
Both of them seemed to be thought-less when it came to Connor.
I was missing something, I was sure of it.
“He’s very driven—very wrapped up in his work.”
“So are you,” I pointed out.
“It’s different.”
“I don’t want to debate the difference between an artist and an investment banker.”
“He’s not who I would’ve picked for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who would you have picked for me?”
“I don’t know. Someone else. Someone who understands you.”
“Connor understands me,” I protested.
“He understands who he thinks you are.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that life is long, and you’re six months in. Soon he’ll know the real you, and he won’t get it—he won’t get you.”
“You’re the one that doesn’t get it.” I kept waiting for the wash of my anger, but it never came. Her words infiltrated the walls of my mind, moved in, put up curtains, and did a little dance that wasn’t subtle in its mockery. Like illegal squatters, I couldn’t evict them.
•••
Connor never asked if my mother liked him. He didn’t seem to care if he received her mark of approval or not. I admired him for it; he was secure in who he was and what he wanted. He wasn’t a boy. He was a man who knew what he had to offer.
Later that week, I slept at his place, which wasn’t unusual. We were spending most of our nights together. I had a few outfits hanging in his closet, and my commute to work was easier from his Midtown apartment. It was convenient.
I woke up, and took a moment to study his sleeping face. He was handsome in that all-American boy-next-door kind of way. He was familiar, comfortable. I wished our relationship didn’t feel like sitting in an old lumpy chair that needed to be reupholstered.
That wasn’t my thought, I reasoned, but my mother’s.
Climbing out of bed, I went into the bathroom to shower. It was large and luxurious, the size of many people’s entire apartments. Still, we had never showered together, even though there was plenty of space for two. I’d tried to convince him once, but he’d refused, claiming to like the time to himself. I didn’t ask again.
By the time I finished, Connor was awake and drinking coffee at the custom designed kitchen table. I gave him a perfunctory kiss before getting my own cup.
“Do you want to meet for lunch?” I asked, wishing for spontaneity. Maybe I could convince him to have a quick tryst before going back to the banal routines of our day. It was easy to get stuck in a self-made rut.
He shook his head. “I can’t. Working through it,” he explained. “It will probably be a late night, too.”
I nodded, wondering why I wasn’t disappointed. Shoving my thoughts aside, I went to the bedroom and got dressed. I grabbed my shoulder bag by the front door and kissed Connor one more time before departing.
I left early, knowing I had some time before work. After getting off the subway, my feet carried me into a bookstore. I wandered the aisles, reaching out to touch the leather bound notebooks. Their beauty taunted me, and my desire for them crescendoed the more I tried to ignore them. I bought one of each.
It was one of those rare, perfect days in New York, sunny but not too hot, and not a cloud in the sky. The idea of being cooped up in a small cubicle in a gigantic building grated on me. Pulling out my cell phone, I called my office, saying I was sick.
Maybe I was sick—I was doing things and having thoughts I’d never had before: Connor might not be the one for me, and I had a need to hold a pen in my hand and write until the ink ran dry.
This was my mother’s fault.
•••
I opened the door to the restaurant where I was meeting Connor for dinner. He chose his favorite spot to celebrate our one-year anniversary. It was dimly lit, and complete with white tablecloths and tiny portions. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I thought it was pretentious. I would’ve been happier ordering Thai takeout.
But Connor hated Thai.
I wore my favorite dress, a small black slip that showed my back and hit above the knee. It made me feel elegant and luxurious.
“If you’ll follow me, Miss Harper. Mr. Lancaster is already at the table,” the maître d’ said. I followed him through the restaurant. Connor stood, looking nervous as he leaned over and kissed me.
“Bottle of champagne, please. The best,” Connor said after the maître d’ pulled out my chair.
“Champagne?”
Connor smiled.
The waiter brought a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon and opened it, pouring half a flute for each of us before putting it in an ice bucket and leaving us alone.
“A toast,” Connor said, raising his flute. I did the same. “To milestones.”
“What sort of milestones?”
“To anniversaries, for one. To promotions, for another.”
“You got t
he promotion? I’m so proud of you.” My words felt generic, like some actor’s line in a mediocre play.
He reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and held it. “Your support means the world to me. I’m so excited about what life will bring.”
I had stopped listening. Sometimes Connor would talk and talk, and I had no idea where he was going. But then he pulled out a black velvet jewelry box, and my vision narrowed on it.
His hand tightened on mine. “Sage? Will you marry me?” When he opened it, my breath wedged in my throat. The two-carat solitaire caught the candlelight, reflecting its brilliant perfection. I looked up into Connor’s expectant face.
He was everything a woman could hope for. Smart, driven, handsome, and wealthy enough that I’d never have to worry about my future or our life together. But Connor felt like a consolation prize. Had he even spoken of love during his proposal?
I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say, yet what came out made him ecstatic. “Yes, Connor, I’ll marry you.”
•••
“I’m engaged.”
My mother took her time to look up from her computer.
“Say something.”
“Does he make you happy?”
“Yes,” I stated, though I couldn’t be sure.
“Does he make you laugh?”
“Sometimes.”
Mom sighed, removed her glasses, and pinched the bridge of her nose as if a headache was coming on.
“Say you’re happy for me.”
“Okay, I’m happy for you.”
“Say it like you mean it,” I demanded.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t like Connor.”
“I like him fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I never claimed to be a good one. Why do you care what I think anyway?”
“You’re my mother.”
“So what? You’re going to do what you want, so what does it matter what I think?”
“Why can’t you be happy for me? Why can’t you be like other mothers and squeal for joy and start talking about wedding plans?”
“Because that’s not who I am. It’s not who you are, either. Life with Connor will be like forcing your feet into shoes that are too small. Do you think marriage to an investment banker is going to fulfill you? You’ll be jogging down the road toward divorce before you know it.”
I wished there was some sort of accusation in my mother’s voice, but there was only truth—unyielding, remarkable truth. I didn’t want to hear it.
I picked up my bag. “Thanks for the congratulations.”
I stormed out of the Park Slope apartment where I’d grown up, wondering if I’d grown up at all.
•••
“Make a wish,” I said. “The clock turned 11:11.”
“I don’t have time.” Connor’s eyes remained on the legal pad as he scribbled down notes. It was the weekend. We should’ve been out celebrating our engagement, but instead we were stuck inside because he had to work.
“You don’t have time to make a wish?” I demanded. Connor could be such a bore sometimes—no fun at all. He planned everything meticulously. At first I liked that about him. When did it start to annoy me? He had an organized sock drawer. I didn’t need a shrink to tell me what that symbolized. Our sex had become stale and rudimentary long ago.
Nothing about him excited me.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?” I wondered why I had asked such a frivolous question. Shouldn’t I have asked if he thought I was intelligent or wise? I didn’t feel wise. Not lately, maybe never.
Connor glanced up. “Of course, I think you’re beautiful. Do you still want me to make a wish?”
I looked at the clock—it was 11:12. “It’s too late now.”
•••
“My Aunt Mimi and Uncle Richard make the guest list…two-hundred and eighty-five. What do you think?” Connor asked.
I took a deep breath. “I think I’m getting overwhelmed.”
“I told you we should hire a wedding planner.”
We had set the date; it was to be June of the following year on Long Island. Connor worked in finance, and it was important to him to have a large wedding; most of our guests would be business associates.
“I don’t want—”
“Don’t worry about the money. I told you I could afford to give you the wedding of your dreams.”
Connor clearly didn’t know that this wasn’t how I had envisioned my wedding. A small ceremony in Vermont maybe, or on a remote beach—just family and friends. Not a wedding for show.
Mom had been acting strange, quiet and pensive with somber looks. I assumed it was because she was wrapped up in some new book she was writing, but every time I went to visit, her laptop was closed. Mom was going through something, but she wouldn’t share until she was ready. She often withdrew from reality, spending time in make-believe because characters forced her there.
“A wedding planner sounds like a good idea,” I conceded.
My mother wasn’t convinced Connor was right for me, but she’d still be there to watch me say my vows.
Chapter 4
Sage
“Mom?” I called, letting myself into the Park Slope apartment. I’d moved in with Connor months ago, but I dropped by often. We steered clear of the subject of my fiancé and the wedding. Our relationship was strained, but we’d get past it—we always did. It would just take some time. I set a box of baked goods on the kitchen table and called again, “Mom?”
She made an appearance, coming out of her bedroom, wearing a gray sweater and a turtleneck. It was eighty-five degrees out.
“It’s Indian summer. Are you getting a cold or something?” I demanded, heading into the kitchen and filling the teakettle with water.
“Or something,” Mom murmured, taking a seat at the table.
I glanced at her as I turned on the burner. “What’s wrong?”
“Come here, Sage.” My mother’s tone was battle weary, exhausted—I didn’t like it one bit.
“No.”
“Sage,” Mom pleaded, “please.”
Dropping into another chair, I waited, wondering what she would tell me. She didn’t look tired; she looked beaten.
“I have stage four ovarian cancer.” Mom had always been blunt; it’s what defined her. There was no poetry for real life.
“Say it again.”
She did.
“What are your options?”
She stared at me, her eyes stating more than words ever could. We didn’t move for a very long time, not even when the teapot began to whistle on the stove, steam angrily escaping from the spout.
As the last of the water evaporated, the kettle sputtered to silence.
•••
The idea that my mother was going to die had never entered my mind. But she would die; that was the brutal truth, a fact that could not be changed.
Her gaunt face peered at me from the bed, a pile of blankets smothering her. The thermostat was up to eighty, but still she shivered.
I caught a glimpse of her meager arm, her body wasting away from disease, and I went to put on a long sleeved shirt, not caring that I would sweat. I wouldn’t parade my health.
But Mom never became envious or irate about fate’s choice—she was accepting. Too accepting of something she couldn’t change.
I was angry enough for both of us.
She deteriorated rapidly in the days following our conversation; cancer was a voracious animal with an insatiable appetite for death.
Though she had round-the-clock care, I temporarily stayed at the Park Slope apartment. I never asked Connor how he felt about it—I went ahead and did it. Nor did I wonder how her sickness affected him or our relationship. My conversations with Connor grew shorter, stilted, as if we’d already spent a lifetime together and there was nothing left to say.
“You shouldn’t…” Mom’s weak protests went silent on her chapped lips; she didn’t have the strength
to go on, and she fell asleep as a new dose of morphine journeyed through her veins.
I hoped it gave her comfort—it didn’t give me any.
Mom always had the power to make me reevaluate. I fought it most of my life, but now I was aware that soon she wouldn’t be there to answer questions with questions. Who would ask me about the things I didn’t want to face?
“Shouldn’t what?” I queried her slumbering form. She slept twenty hours a day now.
She didn’t reply.
•••
I stared at my hands fisted in my lap, my eyes vacant and unseeing. It had been hours, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to leave the church, and had missed my mother’s burial. The pew was solid beneath me, the quiet room an illusionary comfort.
I had told Connor I needed space, and like a fool, he’d left me.
After pushing him away for weeks, was I surprised he hadn’t stayed?
Yes—he was my fiancé. He was supposed to console me, but he was uncomfortable with grief. He didn’t contend with emotion; he didn’t understand the abstract—and didn’t want to.
He was a coward.
“Sage?”
I didn’t turn at the sound of his voice.
“Are you ready to go home?”
Home. What a funny word. I hadn’t slept beside him in weeks—I found I didn’t care.
“I’m not coming home,” I heard myself say in a cold, clear voice, like a bell ringing from afar.
“What? We’re getting married—”
“No, we aren’t. I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t sorry.
He reached out to put a hand on my shoulder and then thought better of it. He looked shocked and a little lost.
Not nearly as lost as me.
Dandelion Dreams Page 2
