A Bittersweet Goodnight

by Linda C Wright

  “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Chapter Twenty

  6/11/1992

  Dear Linda and Richard.

  At long last there are beautiful faces to match your names I hear so often. We loved meeting you to share June’s delicious meal and hope our paths will cross again.

  Your friendship with June is very precious to her and I almost need to thank you. Well not almost, I do thank you for your constant caring.

  Have a good summer.

  Fondly,

  Nan

  Shortly after my trip to Tampa, I took a job at Jordan Marsh in Boca Raton and moved to Florida. Nothing about my move went smoothly for me. The moving companies were all on strike when it was time for me to leave Pittsburgh. I packed my Kermit the Frog green, Ford Pinto, on the auto train and it rebelled all the way to Miami from the all bouncing around on the ride from Washington, D.C. to Sanford, Florida. My furniture still hadn’t arrived at my roach infested apartment when I landed in the hospital for a week needing surgery for an abscess.

  Dad and June waited until things had settled down a little in my life before deciding to move to Boca to join me. Though they never said it, I’m sure this was their way of protecting themselves by living near one of their children, as they got older. I doubt their decision had anything to do with helping me put my struggles behind me.

  I gave up on my dream of being a part of a close-knit family. My roots were going to grow where I wanted them to, not where my parents decided to live. Florida gave me a rough start but I loved the freedom and the sunshine here. After Dad’s recovery from an aortic aneurysm, they suddenly realized they weren’t getting any younger. Without asking, they decided living near me was an investment in their old age.

  By the time Dad and June moved to Boca, I’d met and moved in with Richard, the love of my life. I met him while at Jordan Marsh, he sold furniture and I managed the luggage, toys and sporting goods departments next door. My job at Jordan Marsh lasted only six months. I didn’t see eye to eye with the management team, so I began searching for a new job as soon as the grueling Christmas holiday ended. I found Richard’s cute and charming smile on my way to the ladies room, which was tucked in the back of the furniture department. Luckily I moved on to a store manager position at F.A.O.Schwarz in Ft. Lauderdale, which was more to my liking and moved in with Richard at the same time.

  Dad and June bought a townhouse in Boca about five miles away from where we lived. It was a spacious three bedroom, a patio in the back and a garage for Dad’s new white Cadillac. It came with plenty of green space to walk the beloved, black standard poodle, Shana.

  Then I got engaged.

  At thirty-one years old, I wasn’t going to plan any ordinary wedding. Richard, being thirteen years older than me, had walked down the aisle twice before. It wouldn’t be any ordinary marriage either but as a first time bride, the wedding was going to be my way. I planned it myself and I paid for it myself.

  We picked the date, Valentine’s Day. The fourteenth of February fell on a Saturday so why not and who doesn’t want to escape from the cold and frozen north to Florida in the middle of winter? Our family and friends were told well in advance to make their travel arrangements early for our big day.

  My thought process had always been black and white; no fuzzy gray exists in my world. That means I love traditions, like wearing a garter and throwing the bouquet totally believing the person who catches it is the next to be married. The saying something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, lived firmly planted in my mind. I wanted a classic wedding to start an unconventional marriage.

  This was the 1980’s and I chose not to change my name, or to use any hyphens either. I kept the name Wright opting not to take Richard’s name, Jaunich. To most people I knew, this was groundbreaking for the time. I made no visit to the Social Security office and to this day, I still carry a copy of my marriage license in my wallet. For a few years I had to show it to employers, doctors, and at the bank to open a joint checking account. No one believed I could get away with such a bold move.

  Again in my life I chose a path that led to a crossroad, I wanted to join what was normal and accepted with a bold, new idea. These are the kinds of things that spark change in this world even though I hardly saw myself as a trailblazer. I was a bride on a mission and worked feverishly on planning every detail by myself, no hovering mother of the bride existed in my world. That was fine by me. This was my time to be in the spotlight.

  At the drugstore, I bought every available bride magazine and the wedding planning began in earnest. It would be a small affair, fifty guests sailing up and down the Intracoastal on a classic Trumpy yacht that supposedly belonged to Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio. The story is sketchy at best, and it’s far more likely Miss Monroe spent time on the Presidential Trumpy yacht, Sequoia, with John F. Kennedy than actually owned one herself. We certainly weren’t partying on the Sequoia but a cousin of the famous boat was equally as impressive.

  Prince Andrew and Fergie had recently married and she carried a beautiful crescent shaped bouquet of pale yellow roses and gardenias with a cascade of white lilies on one end. I only had to say to the florist,

  “I want a bouquet like Fergie’s. Use pink roses though, that’s my color scheme,” I said. “And no gardenias. I’m allergic.

  I got exactly what I wanted, white orchids, pink roses and lily of the valley. Fergie’s bouquet included a touch of myrtle, as do all royal wedding arrangements for good luck. I’m not sure if the florist added any myrtle for me but since my marriage lasted over thirty years and Fergie’s didn’t, either way it worked out for the best.

  I ordered the required corsages for our mothers, both my sisters and June. June hadn’t attended either of my sister’s weddings since the wounds of divorce were still too fresh. Neither she nor Dad came to Martha’s second marriage to Tom. My guess is they gave one of those “you understand, don’t you?” excuses because all of the rest of us showed up, including Mom.

  June was coming to my wedding though. With great enthusiasm, she called me on the phone to ask my preferences for her own dress.

  “Linda, your father’s taking me shopping for my dress for your wedding. What’s your color scheme?” she asked.

  “Pink,” I answered.

  “Pink’s the perfect color for Valentine’s Day. What’s your mother wearing?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I’m not worried that everyone blends. Wear what you like and makes you happy.”

  “I found this new shop selling designer dresses at deep discounts. We’re going to check it out tomorrow.” That was June. Always the ladies dress buyer looking for a bargain.

  When it came time for me to pick out my own dress, I took Martha. She and Tom came to Florida for a visit so I talked her into going with me. I came armed with pictures of dresses I thought I’d like and presented them to the bridal consultant at a small shop across the street from the mall. I’m not the froo froo type so no beading or sequins and certainly not a long flowing train.

  I tried on the dresses I had loved in the magazines and none of them fit the bill. A woman knows instinctively when she’s put on the perfect wedding dress and I was no different.

  “This is a bridesmaid dress but we can order it in white if you like it,” the saleswoman said.

  I slipped into an off the shoulder blue taffeta dress with short puffy sleeves and a fitted bodice falling into a V shaped waistline. The skirt flared out to a mid-calf length and the folds of fabric gathered at the hemline puffing out all the way around. One look and I was sold. Martha agreed.

  With the dress selected, next came an elbow length veil with a spray of lace and pearls curving down the side of my face ending at the jaw line. Perfect. No need to look any further.

 
After riding the best wedding dress wave for a couple weeks, Mom called.

  “Linda. I can’t find a flight to come to Florida,” she said. “It’s a holiday weekend you know. The Monday after is President’s Day.”

  What I wanted to reply was something along the lines of, “What do you want me to do, change the date?” I had learned over the years to filter my thoughts away from being formed on my lips when it came to my mother.

  “Mom. You live in New York and this is Florida in the winter. There has to be a flight you can get on.” I tried hard not to voice my frustration.

  “There isn’t,” she insisted.

  “Call a different travel agent. Try a different airline,” I replied.

  “Don’t patronize me,” she said. Using the word patronize was another of her favorite phrases to toss out when she didn’t get her own way.

  “Mom. I can’t help you. I’ve got enough to do getting everything ready.”

  She finally agreed to try again without asking about any of the other wedding plans, showing no interest in me and my big day. A pattern familiar to me and I expected nothing less.

  Six weeks later the bridal salon called saying my dress arrived. I set an appointment for the fitting, put the phone down and sighed a deep sigh of remorse. My traditional side said my mother should participate in this event. She lived in New York City so I wasn’t going to ask and besides, I didn’t feel like listening to her go on and on about how she wished she was the one getting married because I knew she’d twist it around to make it about her sad life. Plus I didn’t want to hear about the shortage of airplanes flying along the eastern seaboard.

  My rebellious side said I could do this by myself. The knot in my heart told me I didn’t want to do this alone. I called June.

  Sitting in the chair in the dressing room at the bridal store turned out to be a thrill for June. She never expected such an honor, only glad to be a guest at the affair and nothing more. The saleswoman gingerly unwrapped the dress and helped me to slip it over my head. She clipped the veil onto my hair.

  “You look um, you look like a bride!” June exclaimed, holding one of her famous tissues to her eye, dabbing the tears.

  All I needed was that small confirmation that I mattered. Most of my life, I searched for that love of family. I’d fallen in love with Richard and together we would be a strong, supportive couple, but I wanted to surround us with the love of others. June stood in where my biological family could not and we both relished in the mother daughter tradition of the fitting of the wedding dress.

  The wedding went off without a hitch. Mom arrived in time for all the festivities. I left her in the hands of my sisters who fixed her dress with a bad case of static cling and combed her hair so she didn’t look like she’d just gotten out of bed.

  June showed up in her bargain designer dress, wore the orchid corsage I selected for her, and graciously deferred to Mom as the mother of the bride. Dad walked me down the aisle and remembered his line as I rehearsed him. I twisted the traditional response to include everyone important to me.

  “Who gives this woman to this man?” the judge asked.

  “Her family does,” he answered.

  “Last week the candle factory burned down. Everyone just stood around and sang Happy Birthday.” -Stephen Wright (Comedian, not my brother)

  Chapter Twenty-One

  One of the good things about having Dad and June close by was the family dinners we had together, something I never had while I was growing up. My father worked and hadn’t been around much. My grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all lived in Michigan and only made occasional visits to Cleveland. We had a lot of practice on how not to act as a family unit, a trait that has followed me into my adult life for better or worse.

  June called and invited Richard and me over for Sunday dinner to celebrate my birthday. Richard liked her cooking and so did my father so that’s all that mattered. She made all the effort to glue us back together.

  I drove over around 4 pm. Richard would come after work. He sold furniture so the weekends were his best commission earning days. When I walked in the front door June immediately handed me a glass of white wine. The usual plate of fancy cheese and crackers waited on the coffee table in the living room.

  Being the youngest, no one in my family ever made a fuss over my birthday. Mom would take me to the grocery store and let me pick out what I wanted for dinner. I picked shrimp or scallops or some kind of fish. Martha, to this day, won’t eat fish yet she gave birth to a son, Scott, whose favorite meal is boiled Maine lobster. Genes manifest themselves in unusual ways.

  I never had a birthday party, you know the kind where your invite your friends over, they bring presents, or spend the night in sleeping bags on the floor in the basement. Being the youngest, no one had energy left to pay attention to a birthday that wasn’t in April.

  April meant lots of birthday cake and ice cream in our house. Mom’s birthday was on the 9th, Susan, the 16th, Grandma Husen, the 17th and Martha on the 18th. Presents and cards could be bought in bulk, never leaving anyone out. Being in a houseful of Aries, meant they were all hardheaded and jockeying for control. Being the quiet, shy and gentle Virgo, I was easy to ignore with all those big egos dancing around. When the power struggles heated up, I slunk back into the corner and read a Nancy Drew mystery.

  When my birthday rolled around at the end of August, Mom’s energy focused on getting all four children back to school with new shoes, a coat, sweaters and dresses. Pants for Steve, but shopping for them took far less time than finding a new outfit for two teenagers and a kindergartner. Planning a party with invitations, hats and a pin the tail on the donkey was too exhausting. I had to settle for a seafood dinner I loved with a family who hated fish and that made us all miserable.

  Richard always makes a big fuss over my special day with lots of fanfare and presents big and small all individually wrapped. Even the scratch off lottery tickets we liked to exchange came wrapped in pretty paper tied with a ribbon. But I received only an occasional birthday card from the rest of my family over the years. Susan typically sent one in July, mailing my card and Steve’s at the same time. He got his on time and I got mine a month early. See what I mean about conserving their energy?

  June, however never forgot the day. Which also meant Dad didn’t forget my birthday either while June was in charge. She deferred to Dad when it came to birthdays and holidays, reminding him of the days and picking out the cards, letting us all believe he remembered. Once she allowed him to purchase our Christmas gifts. He bought four of the most awful looking cookie jars on the planet. Mine was a huge yellow cat with painted on whiskers. I don’t even like cats. Susan, who loves cats probably got the dog. Since he lived nearby to me I had to leave the monstrosity on my kitchen counter for a couple years. My siblings, living a thousand mile away, probably took theirs to the Goodwill as soon as the snow thawed.

  It wasn’t until Dad died that I realized June loved to have a reason to celebrate. She liked to shop and pick out small gifts for me. As she got older it was easier for her to give gift cards to the bookstore, which I never grew tired of. She never forgot me and my love of books.

  Shana stood next to me on the sofa. I kept one hand on my wine glass and one hand on her back, gently stroking her black, curly poodle hair, back and forth in a steady tempo. She wouldn’t leave my side.

  “I taught Shana a new trick. Want to see it?” Dad rose from his favorite chair and stepped to the middle of the living room.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “Shana. Come,” he ordered. She left the comfort of my warm, soothing hand before sitting obediently at his feet to stare intently into her master’s eyes.

  Dad looked down at Shana. Shana looked up at him. He pointed his index finger, raised his thumb and curled his other fingers in to form the shape of a gun.

  “Shana. Would you rather be m
arried or dead?” he asked while pointing his gun toting hand.

  Shana lay down, rolled over on her back and became motionless. Dad broke out in a huge smile and I laughed. He must have spent hours getting this large fancy dog to rollover and play dead at his command. June busied herself in the kitchen ignoring the dog trick show which I’m sure she’d heard a million times. When Richard arrived, Dad put Shana through her paces once again. We laughed some more.

  June refused my help in the kitchen as usual and put dinner on the table by herself. Pot roast on all her finest china laid spread out on the dining room table.

  My father loved pot roast. I hated pot roast.

  Growing up, pot roast was about the only meal my mother ever cooked. My father loved it, she knew how to make it and us kids suffered through it, not being allowed to leave the table until we had cleaned out plates. We couldn’t let those starving children in China get the better of us.

  June never gave a second thought to what she served for dinner on my birthday. She asked Dad what they should have for Linda’s birthday dinner and he answered ‘pot roast’. He never thought about what the rest of us wanted. June, only wanting to please him, never thought about it either. The children hovered on the fringes of their relationship, never being allowed inside or to come between them.

  Halfway through dinner Dad asked where Shana was. Usually she made her way around the dinner table begging for scraps. We were instructed not to give her any while we watched Dad sneak tidbits under the table when he thought we weren’t looking.

  June cleared two bowls from the table and went to the kitchen. Richard grabbed some dirty dishes and followed her.