I shuffled through the snow, shielding my eyes from the elements, and caught up with my mom and Aunt Jean. Everyone huddled close together and I watched as Eric stood at attention next to the brass handles of the casket. People were sobbing all around me. My uncles wrapped their arms around my mom as the pastor read aloud.
Soon, it was time to fold the flag that was draped over Papa’s casket. I watched as the sailors worked in unison, hand over hand, to fold the flag into a crisp, perfect rectangle. Then one sailor turned and presented the flag to Eric, who, stiffly at attention, presented the flag to my mom, raising his arm to salute her. Through tears, she smiled at Eric and thanked him. Mom would later tell us that she had to fight the urge to leap forward and hug him.
I stood in front of Papa’s grave silently when it was all over, once everyone had gone back to their cars. I wanted to tell him I’d never forget the movies we watched and the lessons he taught me. And I wanted to assure him that I’d always keep fighting. But no words came out. Eric stood at my side and rubbed my shoulders. Then he put a hand on the casket.
“I’ll take care of her now. I promise.”
In the car on the way home, I wondered about my grandfather on my dad’s side. Pauline had died from cancer years earlier. He was the only grandparent I had left.
After Papa died, I quit my job at Whitney Place. I couldn’t bring myself to return. I knew I would struggle too much with the memory of him in the living room where we’d gathered to read my letters. I was ready to leave, start anew, and begin my life with Eric in our tiny apartment in Hubert, North Carolina. I had come a long way. It seemed like centuries ago that I couldn’t reach light switches, faucets, or even my own ears.
Life was waiting for me.
One week after Papa died, Eric and I were preparing to head from Marlborough to North Carolina in our rented U-Haul. While I got ready at my parents’ house for a dinner date with Eric, he was secretly looking for my dad. Dad, however, was doing his best to outrun him in a fruitless effort to stall me from growing up. I think my father knew Eric’s intentions, but he wasn’t ready to face them. So he kept moving in the hope that Eric would give up and that I would stay a little girl for a little while longer.
Mom knew it, too, as she followed, giddy, behind Eric in his pursuit.
“Jesus Christ.” Mom sighed, out of patience with my dad’s avoidance. “Gerry!” she shouted. “Would you stop walking for one goddamn minute?”
Dad was officially cornered in the spare bedroom. Mom watched over Eric’s shoulder as he pulled a black velvet ring box from his pocket.
“Sir,” Eric began softly, “I’d like to ask you for your permission to marry your daughter.”
“Oh . . . you are serious,” Dad responded, as if my moving in with Eric hadn’t tipped him off about where our relationship was going.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
Dad paused, then smiled and shook Eric’s hand.
An hour later at the restaurant, I sat next to Eric on the arm of one of the couches in the waiting area at the Olive Garden. I mentally sorted through our U-Haul, wondering if we had everything we needed and whether the overflow would fit Eric’s Ford Escape.
The blue recliner was not coming with us.
My clothes, jewelry, and bedroom set were all carefully packed into the truck, along with a dozen Home Depot cardboard boxes, red plastic bins, and a set of unmatched luggage. We would buy our living room and dining set in North Carolina and I looked forward to perusing the aisles of the furniture stores together.
The hostess called us and we were seated, but Eric quickly excused himself to the men’s room.
I waited in the booth, growing antsy when he didn’t return for five minutes, then ten. I wondered if he was sick in the bathroom. Would this affect our drive to North Carolina in the morning? The waitress had come and gone asking for our drink order, but Eric still was nowhere in sight.
When the waitress returned to my table she asked that I get up and move. “We actually have a better table for you both in the back,” she said. “Would you mind moving?”
Confused and slightly annoyed, I agreed.
“Will you let him know where I am?” I asked, gesturing to Eric’s empty seat. “He went to the men’s room.”
“Sure,” she replied, motioning for me to follow her. She led me around a few tables and through the private dining room.
“Right through here,” she said, but then she stopped and stood off to the side. I stood next to her, anticipating another waiter rushing by with a tray full of food. But no one came.
It took a moment to fully process the scene: the balloons, then the familiar faces of my aunts and uncles and my friends from college. Even Johnny, Eric’s best friend from the marines, was there. Finally, I noticed Eric standing in his dress uniform beside my father in the corner. I stared at him, trying to make sense of the scene with a hopeful inkling about what was about to happen.
Slowly, Eric walked toward me with a giant smile and dropped down to his knee. I hardly thought this would happen for me now. I always felt so behind the curve. Friends of mine in college who didn’t even have boyfriends at the time had all the details of their proposals planned out. They spent hours daydreaming about the particulars of the ring they wanted, the perfect “will you marry me?” speech, the perfect guy. Some had even picked out names for their future children.
I never had. But now it was happening.
“I love you,” Eric said. His face was red as he blushed in response to all the eyes on him. “Will you marry me?” He opened the box to reveal a sparkling diamond heart set in white gold. My very own heart-shaped ring.
I could hardly choke out a word and excitedly nodded yes.
The waitresses were clapping, and crying, and in the corner, gripping my dad, Mom did the same. In what seemed like an instant, my family had gone from pain and grief to smiles and tears of happiness.
That’s life.
My engagement story unfolded just as I would have written it myself— sweet, spectacular, and surrounded by the people I love. Even Papa was present in his own way. As Eric slipped the ring over my finger, a new song came on over the speaker system in the restaurant.
Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind.”
CHAPTER 15
Admired
Our wedding day.
AFTER A BUSY year of planning my wedding and coordinating the arrival of Eric’s groomsmen from Iraq, the big day was just around the corner. I was having fun with all the preparations, but thoughts of my grandparents began creeping into my planning and nagging me even in my dreams. The idea of not having a single grandparent watch me get married made me sad.
Eric and I were back up north for the weekend so I could attend my bridal shower. Leaving Eric in bed to keep sleeping, I slipped out of the covers, pulled on my robe, and headed downstairs to walk through what had become our wedding staging area.
In an array that stretched from the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the great room stood sixteen tall, potted trees that would line the aisle at my wedding ceremony. In the kitchen, Mom joined me for a cup of coffee. She’d been staying up late at night for months, wiring crystals to every branch of the trees.
“Why pay someone to do it when I can make it look just as nice?” she’d always tell me.
I wanted an enchanted forest theme for my wedding, complete with peacock feathers, deep red roses, and tons of sparkle. In his usual fashion, without consulting anyone, Dad had trucked through the woods and came back with bare trees to decorate and make into my decor. I wanted a forest and he brought me a forest.
I lifted the filter out of the coffee machine, emptied it into the trash, then turned the faucet on and rinsed my hands. I still took so much pleasure in these tiny independent motions. Even as I was enjoying preparing coffee for Mom and me, the dream about my grandparents continued to haunt me. But there was nothing I could do. Three of my grandparents had passed away and I hadn’t even seen my paternal grandfathe
r, Jeremiah, since I was a baby.
After breakfast, I began getting ready for my bridal shower, hoping that the dream— and my feelings of sadness and regret— would fade. I didn’t want anything to take away from my special day. My shower was held at Maxwell-Silverman’s in Worcester. It had a retro jazz club feel. There were toy hot air balloons decorating the ceiling, adding a feeling of whimsy. Everyone who was important to me was there, from sorority sisters to friends and family. Even the nurses who helped take care of me at my worst came out to celebrate. Now they were seeing me at my best. They were all excited to sip mimosas, indulge in multiple desserts, and play shower games.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about how a wedding is supposed to bring together not just a bride and groom, but our families as well. And mine was only half represented. I’d discussed this with my mom, but why hadn’t I done anything about it? I thought I was brave, strong, and ready for anything life threw at me, yet I could barely gather the courage to ask my dad about his relatives. Was I really that tough if I didn’t do anything about it?
In an instant, my good feelings about the guests at my shower melted away. Sure, I loved everyone in the room, but who wasn’t there? Then, like another gift placed in front of me to open, I got the answers to my questions.
From behind my table, an army of women I’d never met before filed into the room. It was Dad’s side of the family. Mom had invited them but wanted it to be a surprise.
One by one, holding gifts of their own, they introduced themselves.
I remained quiet and listened to all their names, shocked and wondering if it was all real. Mom stood up to hug them.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Thank you for connecting with us after so long,” one replied. “We wouldn’t miss this.” She turned to me and introduced herself as my aunt Marsha.
I had an aunt Marsha.
“Hello, nice to meet you,” I said, my voice and hands trembling. I had aunts, cousins, and second cousins standing before me, all with loving smiles. And they would be there for my wedding.
A few days later, I woke up and followed the same path through the potted trees to the coffeemaker. I emptied the filter, filled it with fresh grounds, and waited to fill my mug. But as Mom and I settled into our chairs, I gathered the courage I wasn’t sure I had.
“I’m going to call him,” I told her. Then I looked up my grandfather Jeremiah’s number, picked up the phone, and dialed quickly before I could change my mind.
It rang for only a moment and then I heard the voice of a cheerful man on the other end.
“Hellooo?” his voice sang out.
“Hello . . .” I paused, unsure of where to go from there. “This is Tiffanie. Your granddaughter.”
The seconds that followed felt like an eternity. My heart raced.
“Yes!” he shouted into the phone. “Hello, hello, hello! How are you?”
I felt my face flush as I heard how happy he sounded to be on the phone with me.
“I’m very well,” I said, fidgeting. Mom stood at the other end of the kitchen counter, fighting back tears. “I heard you are coming to my wedding and I want you to know that I’m so happy,” I continued. “I . . . I would love to see you before then.” I flung the idea out there like a rock loaded into a slingshot, unsure of where it would land. But at least I tried.
“Yes!” he said excitedly. “Now. You come now!”
“Right now?” I wasn’t prepared for his response.
“Now. I’ll be here waiting.”
“What did he say?” Mom asked, practically jumping up and down. “Tell me, what did he say?”
“He said he wants to see me now.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Then let’s go!”
We dashed around the house and threw on some clothes. I hurriedly applied makeup and spritzed myself with my favorite perfume. Then I called the one person I talked to about everything.
“He said he wants to see me now!” I told Eric, who’d returned to Camp Lejeune. My voice was shaking, my mind racing. How had I gone this long without speaking to or hearing from my grandfather when all it took was one damn phone call for us to plan our reunion? “What do I say when I see him for the first time? What do I do?” I asked Eric, nearly panicking.
His answer was beautiful in its simplicity.
“Baby, you say hi, just like you did over the phone.”
In the car, Mom called Dad to tell him where we were going. “Good,” he replied simply. Dad’s reaction stumped me. If he felt it was so natural that I was going to see Jeremiah, why hadn’t he initiated it years ago?
I decided that my father really just hadn’t known how to do that.
“Tell Papa I said hello,” Dad said.
Papa? The name was so familiar. I repeated the word over and over until it started to feel real. I had another papa.
Jeremiah’s two-story home was decked out with autumn decorations. A gold and red wreath with plastic pumpkins greeted visitors at the front door, along with a festive fall flag waving in the wind. His cute barn-shaped mailbox marked the house number and we parked beside a tall, white privacy fence. I heard voices and laughter from the backyard and the fence was open, like a sign that I was welcome to walk in.
So I did.
Mom led the way and I followed quietly behind her, not sure what to expect. I didn’t even know what Jeremiah looked like. What would he think of me? Did I look like a DiDonato, or more like the Pryors of my mom’s side?
From behind the small backyard swimming pool, my new papa stood up the moment he saw me and made his way toward us. We met right in the middle of the yard.
His arms were outstretched and so I extended my own and we embraced. It was automatic, like nothing at all, as if I had only returned from a long vacation. There were no words exchanged. I didn’t have to say anything and neither did he— the tears that trickled down his cheek said it all.
Though I had lost one grandfather, I had somehow found another.
The floor of the hotel suite felt solid beneath the balls of my feet, a sensation that never got old. From inside my satiny stockings, I dug my toes into the rug and squeezed. The scene around me was like a dream: all of my best girlfriends chatting and laughing, their matching Swarovski crystal peacock broaches glittering on their red dresses.
Today was my wedding day.
The October air in New Hampshire was cool and crisp as it breezed through the open window— a welcome change from the warm suite buzzing with activity. Across the room, Mom unzipped my wedding gown on its hanger and noticed me watching her. I love you, she mouthed and I smiled back.
She had a look on her face that I’d never seen before, one that went beyond just the pride that a mother feels for her daughter on her wedding day. It was as if Mom, too, had dreamed of a moment like this every day that I went through the bone lengthening.
And now here it was.
I had chosen a white satin Anne Barge gown with a crisp, delicate bow sewn inches above the empire waist. In it, I looked so delicate, like I had never endured a single ounce of pain in my life. I loved feeling that way for once.
“Close your eyes,” my makeup artist, Mija, said softly. I settled into the plush hotel room chair as she gently swept shadow across my eyelids. We’d discussed the look I wanted— a vintage fairy-tale feel— and I was sure that she’d deliver. Mija was beautiful herself and had her own vintage flair, right down to the feathers she’d pinned in her hair.
“How are you feeling?” she asked while dabbing glue along my lash lines to secure a pair of dramatic false eyelashes.
“I’m nervous,” I replied in a whisper. I felt jumpy and antsy, too, but I wasn’t sure why. Eric and I were already technically married. Six months earlier, we’d eloped, officially saying our vows in front of a justice of the peace in a basement room at the Onslow County Courthouse for twenty dollars. Our decision made the most sense, given my insurance needs with my move out of state. But I knew I wanted to spend my
life with Eric and getting married right away with a big wedding to follow seemed like the best of both worlds. No one knew but my mom and, thankfully, she understood. She had always been spontaneous. Her only disappointment was that she wouldn’t be there to share in it with me. Afterward, Eric and I met with our chaplain on Camp Lejeune and he assured us that what we had done was very common among military couples. It was also very understandable, given all the sacrifices involved in military life and love.
But the nerves were still there as I anticipated walking down the aisle. Everything I’d gone through with my surgeries felt cut-and-dried, definitive. I had to get through them to achieve my goal, and despite all the risks, I somehow felt in control. Even if that was an illusion, I had my battle plan, and that was that. I just wanted to be proud of myself. Getting married, with two families involved to boot, felt far more complicated.
Now I wanted to make sure everyone else was proud of me.
“Everyone I know is going to be downstairs taking their seats,” I told Mija. “I want them all to be proud of not just me, but Eric, too. I want everyone to be proud and happy for us, together.”
“They will,” she assured me. “This is your day. You’ve done enough fighting. Just relax today. Breathe. And have fun.”
Maureen Gould put her hand on my shoulder and winked. I was honored to have her as part of my wedding party.
“Close again,” Mija told me and I obliged, taking a few peaceful moments to reflect as the glue on my lashes dried. As Mija worked, I loosened up and laughed along with my girlfriends as they recounted the funny stories from my bachelorette party a few days earlier.
With overflowing champagne glasses, my friends and I had partied all the way to Jacque’s Cabaret in Boston. Nine of my sorority sisters and my “Gay of Honor,” Mark, whom I’d met in college theater, had planned to celebrate with the fabulous drag queens at the cabaret. The whole night was hysterical. As my friends— wearing coordinated T-shirts decorated with inside jokes about me and Eric— laughed and drank all around me, my fears about walking down the aisle surfaced.
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