Tarnished Dreams

by Jeanette Lukowski

  I listened to everything Allison said, looking up from my salad bowl every so often, and nodding my head if I agreed with something in particular.

  “I just don’t know what all I need to do, Mom, and would really like your help.”

  “Okay,” I said, getting up from the table. I can play this game. Perhaps flooding you with information will make you throw your hands up and walk away like you did when you were a child. “I want you to find some paper, and make notes. There are a lot of options with a wedding. It all depends on what you want to spend your money on. First, though, you have to talk with the pastor of whatever church you want to get married in. If you are getting married here, you’d talk to our pastor. If you are getting married there, you’ll have to talk to the pastor that took over at the church we were going to when we lived there.”

  Carl was living in Wyoming; we lived in Minnesota. We moved to Wyoming in 2006. Allison met Carl within our first week. Then we moved back to Minnesota in 2008. Although she told me they talk “all of the time” on the telephone, or via an Internet social networking site, Allison and Carl hadn’t spent any time together in the past three-and-a-half years.

  “Once you’ve spoken with the pastor, then you need to decide if you want a reception or not, and where you would like that to take place. Some churches will let you rent out their space, like a Fellowship Hall, and maybe even hire some of the ladies from the congregation to cook and serve your meal, or you can rent out a facility. Like Jim and Sally’s wedding this summer—they rented tents for the back yard, had the ladies from Sally’s church come out and cook for them, and bought paper plates and plastic forks for eating. Mark and Laura, on the other hand, went to a church they don’t belong to, rented that room at the resort, and Laura’s mom made all of the table decorations.

  “That’s often the hardest part. Getting the wedding and reception place and date settled. Now, will you want a reception, with dancing? Then you need a DJ. Do you want to have an open bar, a cash bar, or no alcohol at all? Pete and Cindy had drink coupons at their wedding last year, remember? But they also went around and poured everyone one glass of wine for the toasting part. Oh, but you and Carl aren’t even old enough yet, so maybe you don’t want a bar part at all.”

  “An open bar doesn’t seem like a good idea,” Allison said. “That just creates more drunk people, since they’ll drink more.”

  “You’re right about that one, dear. It’s also a very expensive option.

  “So, church, reception, what else? Photographers tend to have package prices, kind of like for senior pictures. Decorations for the tables. Flowers—you’ll have two sets of flowers. There’s the bouquet that you carry with you, and then the bouquet you throw away.”

  “Yeah,” Allison said. “I was thinking about daisies or something for the tables. Something kind of cheap.”

  “And then you have to have take-home things for all of the guests, at the table. Jim and Sally didn’t have anything, but Mark and Laura had those cute little things her mom made, remember? You’ll also need gifts for your bridal party. The girls get some kind of jewelry, like a pretty necklace they all wear, so that everybody matches. The guys get something else. I don’t know. Maybe something like a fancy money clip or something you could engrave? Something.

  “So church, reception, flowers, music, food—oh, cake! You can have one cake, or several smaller cakes like Jim and Sally had, or choices like Mark and Laura had, or cupcakes like Jeff and Karen had. Do you remember their wedding?” I think Allison had been eleven.

  All the time I rattled off wedding-planning details, Allison took notes. Part of me was waiting for her to throw her hands up in the air, like the child I still remember her being, and announce “This is too much. I quit. Packing for college will be easier than this,” but she didn’t. Allison had instead fallen into student mode, furiously taking notes while her teacher lectured about the upcoming test. The other part of me wanted to make Allison see how expensive a wedding would be, so my argument about needing a college education in order to make a livable wage in 2011 would make more sense to the child whose only experience with “work” was the once-a-month night of babysitting for the family two houses down.

  “Wow, that’s a lot of stuff,” Allison finally said after my extended silence. “I’m going to have to email all of this to Carl, and tell him I need his help with some of this.”

  Test number one of the pending marriage?

  The following morning, Allison placed her graduation cap, gown, and tassel order at school.

  “With shipping and handling and tax,” her text message read, “the total on cap and gown order is $71.71.”

  Coming on the heels of the conversation we had about weddings the night before, I wished I could get Allison to see the realities of financial adulthood. A required graduation cap, gown, and plain tassel, items probably never worn more than once, cost $24.95. The additional package of twenty-five fancy graduation announce­ments she wanted, and a mini-tassel key chain for the lone house key she carried—including tax, shipping, and handling—cost just over seventy dollars. Did she understand how much a wedding would cost?

  Driving home from school in the afternoon, I had another encounter with the bubbly version of Allison. “So, I was doing a lot of research on the Internet this morning, and I’ve got a lot of information for the wedding. I also sent an email to the new pastor of the church we went to. It took me a while to figure out which one it was.”

  As we sat at home, eating our afternoon snacks, Allison continued. “I was thinking we would have sloppy joes for the wedding dinner. Sloppy joes, and veggies with dip and stuff. Does that sound like a good idea? Sloppy joes are even cheaper than chicken, after all.”

  It sounded more like a child’s birthday party menu than a wedding reception meal, but I kept my mouth shut.

  Allison’s plan was to get married in July. I wanted to ask her why she felt the need to rush it, but reminded myself the brain of a seventeen-year-old wasn’t fully developed yet. At seventeen, mid-life might be twenty-five, with “old” being located somewhere in one’s thirties.

  “So, when can we go look at wedding dresses?”

  I reminded Allison I had no money for anything wedding related. I explained my ability to pay for high school graduation expenses, perhaps college applications . . .

  “That’s okay, Mom. I already told you, Carl’s paying for it.”

  “How is that going to work, dear? He’s there, and you’re here.”

  “Well, can’t we go and try some dresses on?”

  Rather than continue down the track heading us into another fight, I handed Allison the business card I picked up from the shop when we bought her prom dress last spring.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Allison chirped while extracting her cell phone from her back pocket.

  “They said we have to make an appointment, Mom.”

  “Just get the information you want for right now.” In other words, find out what kind of down payment and date commitment the store will want before they just let you try on dresses, dear.

  “I’ll have to call you back,” Allison said into her phone.

  The next day, Allison sent me another mid-day text message from school: “Got an appointment scheduled for wedding dresses January 14, at noon.”

  I had nothing to say.

  Just after five that evening, Allison’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. Uncharacteristically, she stayed on the couch next to me and answered the phone. “It’s Dad!” she quietly mouthed to me. They hadn’t spoken in several months.

  The conversation began with a discussion of plans for Allison’s birthday. She wanted to get a tattoo for her eighteenth birthday, but I wouldn’t take her, or pay for it. I don’t like tattoos. I grew up looking at too many ugly blue ones staining my father’s body.

  After she hung
up, Allison confessed to telling Frank she had some news. “No, Dad, I’m not pregnant,” she shared with me, then explained she didn’t tell him over the phone. “I emailed it to him. He can read it in the email.”

  Did Allison want someone to tell her not to marry Carl?

  More specifically, did Allison want her dad to tell her not to marry Carl?

  I began to wonder how truly manipulative my daughter was. The question of Nature vs. Nurture again.

  I first heard about Nature vs. Nurture in college. I think I was enrolled in a psychology class at the time.

  My cousin had twin girls the same year I gave birth to Tommy, so the Nature vs. Nurture question took on a new edge for me. Having never grown up with brothers, I would now be able to examine birth-order, gender, and twins all at the same time, thanks to the close age of Allison, Tommy, and the identical twins.

  I chose to support the Nurture camp all the years I single-parented the children. Fifteen years later, I started to accept Nature—one’s genetic coding—holds more cards in who a person will be than how well I tried to parent them.

  A few days later, Allison and I went on a Christmas shopping trip together. Tommy wasn’t with us. Allison and I both took advantage of the opportunity to talk candidly.

  “Carl and I are thinking about a June 23rd wedding,” Allison announced on the drive to the mall. I silently drove for a while, absorbing the information my brain didn’t want to acknowledge.

  On the drive back home, it was my turn. In my efforts to scare her with the permanence of marriage, I shared some mental-math with Allison. “If you marry Carl this next summer, and live to be even as old as Grandma is, you’ll have been married to Carl for almost sixty years! That’s a really long time.”

  Allison sent me a text message from the basement the next afternoon. She was watching television.

  “Brad wants to know if I can come for a visit Saturday.”

  Although Allison and Brad had been friends for several years, we usually only squeezed in a visit with him on weekends she visited Daniel.

  Again, why are you going to visit another boy, Allison, if you’re making plans to marry Carl in six months?

  December 12th. Carl’s rape case was supposed to be settled today. All Allison had talked about for the past month was how the case would be dismissed, just like the disseminating child pornography charges against her were dismissed in April. Several times during the day, I wanted to send Allison a text message asking if she heard anything yet, but I didn’t. Finally, about 7:00 p.m., Allison came upstairs from the basement. “Carl’s case has been postponed until January 30, 2012.”

  I asked Allison what that meant for her wedding plans.

  “I don’t know.”

  I had renewed hope the wedding would be postponed as well.

  Two days later, wedding talk resumed. “Any church in town requires a minimum of two pre-marital counseling sessions,” Allison’s text message read at two in the afternoon.

  I didn’t respond. I had nothing to say.

  Allison had another session with her therapist at three. She had been meeting with the therapist since July, as part of the follow-up care stemming from her legal troubles, and I always hoped the conversation with another adult would help Allison overcome her issues. Each visit, I sat in the waiting room, and looked forward to any morsel of information Allison might throw my way as we exited the building and drove back home.

  I wasn’t expecting what the therapist said as they walked out together. “It’s time to go meet with the pastor.”

  What? Are you actually telling me you support Allison’s insane marital plan?

  “She called me just now,” Allison said with a smile, “and asked if I’m free to visit with her, Mom. I told her we could be there in ten minutes.”

  “Oh!” was all I could manage to say, as I got up from the waiting room chair.

  Could anyone have talked me out of marrying Frank?

  I remember his friends constantly telling me what a loser Frank was, but I thought that was just guys teasing each other.

  Two of the guys also made it perfectly clear they wished they could date me. I just needed to break it off with Frank, first.

  13. Christmas Vacation, Allison’s Eighteenth Birthday

  Although I knew it was nothing more than a temporary hiatus, I was thrilled when Christmas vacation began. I looked forward to ten days free from the drama of high school. Ironically, Allison substituted it with birthday and father drama.

  I greeted Allison on the morning of her eighteenth birthday by teasing her about not looking any different.

  “I don’t feel very different either,” Allison replied.

  The next day we drove to Chicago to spend Christmas with my sister. Allison wanted to see her dad as well.

  We dropped Allison off at Frank’s new place about nine in the morning, and he didn’t even walk over to the car to greet his son. Tommy looked up briefly from the book he was reading in the back seat, made a quiet noise, and turned back to his book. Frank’s loss, Tommy’s pain.

  The plan was to pick Allison up at noon. Her father had to be on the 12:30 p.m. “L” train for work. She called at 11:30 a.m. asking for more time. “Tammy and I are going to go shopping,” Allison explained. Tammy was Frank’s roommate. Frank’s second wife no longer lived with him.

  Was Tammy taking Allison for the much-desired birthday tattoo? I couldn’t stop it from happening anymore, so I chose to focus on having holiday fun with Tommy and my sister instead.

  By 2:00 p.m., my spirits were lightened. Allison sent me a text message saying, “Dad’s being a douche.”

  Had the tattoo-dream had gone awry?

  Had Frank finally disappointed Allison, too?

  Rather than ask the questions I most wanted answered, I proceeded with caution. “Would you like a ride home now?” I sent back.

  Allison’s response didn’t come until 2:26 p.m. “I don’t know. Tammy and I are out shopping. I’m just annoyed with Dad.”

  How was Frank annoying Allison if he was at work, and she was with Tammy? The answer came at 3:18 p.m., in the form of a phone call from Allison.

  “Dad wouldn’t pay for my tattoo. I got my tongue pierced instead.”

  Lovely.

  “He wouldn’t even pay for it,” Allison continued. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s not as permanent as a tattoo, at least.”

  Who taught you to rationalize your way through an argument so well?

  But you punched a hole through the middle of your tongue for no other reason than you could—without my permission—because you are eighteen years and one day old.

  We returned home to Minnesota after what felt like an eternity. I looked forward to unpacking the car, relaxing on the couch, eating dinner, and going to bed. Allison had other plans.

  “I’m going to hang out with Matt,” she said, practically running me over while I collected clothes to be laundered.

  “Excuse me,” I began. “I thought we were going to have dinner after I got this load started.”

  “I already ate,” Allison threw back over her shoulder. “Love you!” and she was out the door.

  When she returned two hours later, she headed straight to the shower. No “Hello,” no, “I’m home,” just straight into the shower.

  An hour later, she was headed out the door again. “I just want to get away from you!” she screamed.

  Thanks. I love you too, Allison.

  Neither of us spoke when she returned home.

  When Allison finally surfaced from her basement bedroom the next day (at 1:00 p.m.), she came right up to me for a hug. Allison’s trademark way of apologizing without words. I hugged her back.

  I don’t remember hearing my parents ever apologize to me for anything. Was it just their
generation’s way? My father was born in 1924, my mother in 1936. Theirs was the generation that raised children to be seen and not heard, and viewed a child’s questioning the parent as talking back. Would parents like that feel the need to apologize to a child for anything?

  Frank never apologized, either. Everything was always my fault, according to him. I learned to live without receiving apologies from people.

  That’s why I was so moved when Officer Vic Richards apologized to me for not answering the phone when Allison and I returned to town in April 2009.

  I went to bed about 11:30 p.m. on December 30th—much later than I prefer, but I was trying to adjust my internal clock for New Year’s Eve. At 12:58 a.m., Allison was sitting on the edge of my bed. “Can I go out with Katie? I’ll be back before six.”

  “You mean six in the morning?” I asked in disbelief. I wasn’t sure how long Allison had been sitting on the edge of my bed, or how much she had said before her question about going out.

  “Okay, I’ll be back in an hour,” Allison replied.

  Even though I’d just been woken from a pretty sound sleep, I couldn’t find any logic in a jump from a 6:00 a.m. return time to a 2:00 a.m. return time. “No,” was all I managed to say.

  “But Mom . . .” Allison continued in her whiney voice—the one she had been using to get her way since she was a child.

  “You’re not going out at one o’clock in the morning,” I said in my tersest, sleep-filled voice.

  “We just want to watch a movie,” Allison continued. “Since you won’t let me go out tomorrow night, after I get done babysitting.”

  Babysitting for a family that lived on our block. Babysitting on New Year’s Eve. Why should I let my eighteen-year-old daughter go out after midnight on New Year’s Eve? While I felt my two statements were crystal clear, Allison wanted to continue bargaining.