A key turned in the lock and Patrick came back inside. He hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Patrick, I . . . ,” I began, looking up.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m being childish too.”
“Okay, so you are.” He knelt down beside me and we kissed.
“I’m going to take it back home and put it up in the attic with my books and toys and all the other relics of my past life,” I said.
“Fine with me,” said Patrick. He gently nudged me back on the floor, and the argument was soon the least important part of our day.
* * *
Uncle Milt and Aunt Sally insisted on coming to our wedding, though Milt wasn’t well. They were staying with Dad and Sylvia too, in Lester’s old bedroom. Carol and her husband were at a nearby hotel. So were Mr. and Mrs. Long. We had all got through the rehearsal dinner in fine shape. Everyone from out of town had been included, which meant quite a crowd. I was delighted to see Abby and Val again, but I spent extra time with Patrick’s parents.
Mr. Long didn’t look as healthy as I’d remembered him last—Patrick and I had visited them in Wisconsin not long after he’d proposed—but Patrick’s mom was as elegant as ever, thinner but charming.
“This makes me so happy, Alice,” she confided. “Somehow I just knew this day would come. When Patrick got back from Madagascar and said he’d met you in Chicago at the airport . . . the expression in his eyes when he said it—I just knew.”
I hugged her, even though I wasn’t sure she was the hugging type, and though for a brief instant I could tell she wasn’t, she suddenly returned my hug as though it were something she had been hungering for, for a long time.
After everyone had gone back to their hotels later, and Milt and Sally were in bed, I was sitting on the floor of my old bedroom with one suitcase on the floor in front of me, the other up on the bed, packing for the honeymoon. My door was ajar, and after a soft tap, it opened and Dad stuck his head in.
“Still up? Big day tomorrow, honey,” he said, as though I needed reminding. He stepped inside. “Care if I come in for a minute or two?”
“Of course not, Dad. Come in! Sit down, if you can find a spot.”
He stepped over my suitcase and sat down on the bed.
“Well!” he said, looking around, the smile never dimming. “I couldn’t be happier, Alice.”
“Me either,” I said, and gave his legs a hug. And then I drew back and looked up at him.
He understood. “Remember the last time this happened? Me sitting on this bed, you hugging my legs?”
I rested my head against them again, smiling. “Yes, I was in ninth grade, and Patrick and I had just broken up. I thought my world had ended.”
“And it was impossible to tell you then that it hadn’t. You just had to live through the pain.”
“You didn’t try to tell me that Patrick and I would get back together again.”
“Because who could promise that? Or whether it was even the best thing to happen?”
“You just listened and let me cry.”
“Sometimes that’s the only thing to do. And now . . . !”
I gave his legs another squeeze. “And now the best dad in all the world is going to bed because he has a big day tomorrow too!”
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I’ll sleep on that,” he said. “Good night, sweetheart.”
* * *
On Saturday, on one of the most beautiful fall days in the world, I waited in the bride’s room of the church, listening to the organ playing the prelude as guests arrived.
Two large arrangements of white chrysanthemums, purple and white orchids, and sprigs of green ivy adorned the front of the sanctuary, and a few white chrysanthemums, tied with green and purple ribbon, greeted guests at the front of each pew. Outside the two glass walls, each made of hundreds of smaller panels of tinted green and yellow glass, the trees were blazing with October colors—deep purples, tangerine, forest green, and buttercup.
The day before, my bridesmaids and I had all had manicures and pedicures, and this morning the whole house had been given over to makeup and hair sessions. Les and Stacy helped out by taking Milt and Sally to a long brunch, and they didn’t bring them back again till they got an all-clear signal from us. Gwen’s tiny five-year-old niece was my flower girl, and she sat demurely on a stool, waiting for her turn down the aisle, her lavender and green floral dress covering a skinned knee and her patent-leather shoes shined to a mirror finish beneath her lace-trimmed socks. Gwen had woven green and lavender ribbons in her braids, and she sat stone still, as though any movement might dislodge them. I smiled her way, and she returned a big one, two big dimples dotting her cheeks.
The bridesmaids moved about in their green satin dresses, wearing their gold earrings, a gift from me, and checked the windows to see if last-minute guests were arriving. We had selected a simple style that would suit them all: cocktail-length dresses with round necklines and three-quarter-length sleeves, each carrying a bouquet similar to mine.
“Les looks so elegant in his tux,” Pamela whispered as she watched my brother ushering people to their seats. “He’d look hot in anything.”
Stacy was handling the guest book, and she was the one we were watching. When she took her seat, meaning that the guests were all seated, Les would check with us, then give the organist the signal, and the music would change to the bridal processional.
“One last pee,” I told my bridesmaids. “Sorry, but my bladder’s working overtime.”
“Be careful of your dress, Alice. Let me hold it up for you,” said Liz, and we went in the restroom together.
It was a rather complicated procedure. Even using the larger stall for the handicapped, Liz had to lift the back of my dress practically over my head and hold it for me so I could find the toilet. Afterward, when I finally got rearranged, I went back out to the sink and washed my hands. Liz was in another stall, and I thought I heard gagging.
What was going on? I wondered. Could she possibly be bulimic? Surely Liz wasn’t going through that again.
“Liz?” I called.
She came back out, carefully wiping her mouth.
“I’m okay,” she said, and filled a paper cup with water. And then, more softly, sheepishly, she said, “I think,” and rinsed her mouth.
“Are you sick?” I asked. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. Guilt? Embarrassment?
And then a smile took over her whole face, and she whispered, “I’m pregnant!”
“Liz!”
“I just found out Thursday, but I didn’t want to tell anyone, so please don’t!”
She needn’t have worried about that, because I was speechless.
“I decided I’d really rather start a family than go for my master’s. Is that so awful?” she asked.
“No, Liz! of course not. That’s wonderful! But . . . ?”
“I’m deliriously happy! Don’t worry. There’s absolutely nothing in my stomach, because I didn’t have any lunch. I just popped a mint, and that usually lasts me about forty minutes before I feel like gagging again, so I’m safe.”
“Oh, my God! Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
We hugged, then picked up our bouquets again.
“Listen, Liz, you don’t have to go down the aisle,” I said. “It’s okay if you don’t feel up to it.”
“No, I think I can do it. I wouldn’t try it if I thought I couldn’t.”
And then we heard Lester’s voice at the door.
“Alice? What’s the deal?”
“Coming,” I said. “Give the signal.”
The music changed, and we lined up—Abby, Val, Carol, Gwen, Pamela, and finally Liz. Then the flower girl was starting down the aisle, and we could hear little oohs and aahs as she made her journey.
I had stood before the mirror that morning in my mom’s gown that a dressmaker had altered and restyled just for me. I wanted a dress with a little more “A
h!” factor, and because it was plain, this was easy to do, the dressmaker had assured me. We worked together, and to the waist of my taffeta gown, she had added a cummerbund-type sash a slightly darker shade of ivory, made of satin. And because the dress was too long, she had pinched the fabric together in little tucks, placed randomly here and there on the front of the skirt, shortening it just enough to cover the ankles, so that the hem would then fall into a lovely natural short train in the back. And at each little tuck she had placed a small fabric rose, of the same ivory satin. I wore a shoulder-length veil of ivory netting, held in place by a matching roll of satin fabric on the crown of my head. And around my neck, the little gold heart on a chain that Patrick had given me at my college graduation.
“Love you, Mom,” I had whispered to my reflection in the mirror.
Now I was moving out of the vestibule with my bouquet of white orchids and small trails of green ivy, toward my dad. He drew back for an instant when he saw me, as if he recognized someone else. Then his eyelids crinkled in a wide smile and he extended his arm.
As we made the turn onto the white carpet, I could feel my father’s arm tremble, and I turned to look at him.
“Like me?” I whispered, playing our old childhood game that didn’t make a bit of sense to anyone but us.
His eyes misted over. “Rivers,” he whispered back.
“Love me?” I asked.
“Oceans,” he answered.
“I love you oceans too,” I said, and squeezed his hand.
And there was Patrick waiting for me, tall and splendid, his red hair looking auburn in the light, and his smile was so infectious that he had everyone smiling. I think what I remember most about our wedding were the smiles. Everyone seemed so happy for us—Sylvia, Lester, the Longs, my friends, but especially Dad. The best man, a friend of Patrick’s from the Peace Corps who had flown in the night before, just in time for the rehearsal dinner, stood beside him now, along with the other five groomsmen: two of Patrick’s friends from the University of Chicago, Moe, Charlie, and Lester.
I kissed my dad when he let go of my arm, and he patted my hand. Then I turned to Patrick. It was as though his eyes were speaking to me, like they were taking me all in, swallowing me up, and mine were promising him my life.
The minister smiled at us affectionately, and among his remarks he said, “Everyone here is wishing you a happy and successful marriage, and what you should remember about this day—above the dress, the cake, the music, and the flowers, lovely as they all are—are the things that brought you together in the first place, the things you love about each other that made you want to spend your lives together. Let those be your talisman, your rock to hold on to when the waters get rough.”
When it came time, we slipped the mixed white and yellow gold bands on each other’s fingers, and Patrick’s hand was strong and steady beneath mine.
“And now, Patrick and Alice,” the minister said, “I pronounce you husband and wife. Patrick, you may kiss your bride.”
Patrick took me in his arms and whispered, “It’s forever, Alice,” and embraced me for a long and tender kiss, and his eyes followed me even after we moved apart. And then, arm in arm, the organ pealing out the processional, we walked happily back up the aisle, drunk with love.
* * *
The only way to describe the reception was “wonderfully happy.” For me, Elizabeth’s secret gave the atmosphere a special feel, and I couldn’t help looking her way, smiling at her and Moe as he brought her juice when she turned down the champagne.
Patrick and I had chosen the song “You” for our dance, and it was perfect, sung by a male singer:
I’ve wandered,
I’ve traveled,
I’ve searched as I roam,
But no one has felt
Like a haven, a home.
Then I found you,
I’ve loved you,
My dreams have come true;
My journey is over,
My heart’s home is you.
I danced with everyone, even Elizabeth’s little brother. Dad squeezed me tight as we danced, and I could see Mrs. Long stroking the back of Patrick’s neck with one finger as he moved her about the dance floor.
I expected a sentimental toast from Dad. He didn’t quite say, She’ll always be my little girl, but he did say that raising me without a mother took all his creativity and wisdom but gave him some of the happiest moments of his life.
There couldn’t be a better moment. I stood up then and took the mike. I said that I wanted to toast my father, a man who had to raise two children while grieving his wife. “He wasn’t a good cook,” I said, “but he learned. He didn’t have all the answers, but he listened. And when things happened that no one could change, he was there for me to lean on, and he loved me.” My voice quavered a little as I lifted my glass and turned to Dad. “To my father, who is all a girl can ask for in a dad.”
There was a resounding cheer as I went over and hugged him, trying not to tear up, but I didn’t care if my mascara smeared a little.
Aunt Sally got to her feet then to say that Marie would have been so proud of the way I turned out, and Pamela, of course, had to say something crazy, to the effect that Patrick had better treat me right or there would be a posse of women on his tail.
But it was Lester’s toast that surprised me. I figured he’d been planning something clever and funny for weeks, but instead, he lifted his glass and said, “To the happy couple: I wish you a lifetime of passion, tenderness, and joy. And to my little sis, I want to say, wherever you find yourself, just remember, I’ve got your back.”
17
STARTING OUT
Patrick and I went to Ireland for our honeymoon. As luck would have it, one of the counselors in Montgomery County resigned mid-semester for health reasons, and I was told I could take her place. I explained that I was getting married, and we had hoped to take a two-week honeymoon in Ireland.
They congratulated me, of course, but let me know that I was on the waiting list for a full-time position, that there were other counselors available, and if there was any way we could reduce that honeymoon to one week instead of two . . .
“We’ll do it,” Patrick said, knowing how much the job meant to me. “We’ll do half of it now and go back on one of our anniversaries.”
We hit Dublin, of course, the National Museum and the pubs, and we loved the performers on Grafton Street. I most wanted to visit Dublin Castle, and Patrick wanted to see Trinity College. After that, we focused on southeast Ireland and the countryside, so that Patrick could see Newgrange—a 3200 B.C. grave site.
“I hate to go,” I told Patrick when our week was up, and we left the lovely town of Kilkenny.
“Well, they always say to leave when there’s more to see, and that means you’ll come back again,” he said.
And so the day after we got back from Ireland, I began my work as a middle school counselor. My first job, I discovered, was to make friends with the students informally so they would feel comfortable coming to me when they had a problem, and, as I told Patrick later, I felt a little as he must have felt in Madagascar, making friends with the natives while barely speaking their language.
Marsha Sims, the principal, assigned me to lunchroom duty every day for the first two weeks, where I chatted up tables of girls sharing each other’s makeup, tried to carry on conversations with students who were sitting by themselves, and wore my Redskins T-shirt before a big weekend game to get the approval of the boys. I chose a wardrobe I hoped was neither the latest fashion nor “middle age,” as the girls called any outfit that was too matchy-matchy or otherwise didn’t meet their approval. Sometimes I asked the girls’ opinion on which earrings looked best with what sweater, and I couldn’t tell if they were humoring me when they answered or if they relished giving advice. But eventually a student or two would call out, “Hey, Mrs. Long,” in the hallway, and then I began to feel I was in.
A few girls came to me tentatively to ask questi
ons about whether they had to take algebra, when what they really wanted to know, their second visit revealed, was whether it was true that guys didn’t have to use a condom if they were circumcised, the latest bit of misinformation being floated around by the boys, evidently.
Patrick was liking his job as well, but—in typical Patrick fashion—he was already wanting something more challenging. The pay was low, but for now we each had a job we enjoyed, we were decorating our new apartment, and we weren’t too busy to devote the weekends to each other.
* * *
When Elizabeth was eleven weeks pregnant, she miscarried.
Moe called and told me the news. “Her mom’s been here to see her, Alice, but I think it would help if you came by,” he said. “She just can’t stop crying.”
I will always remember this as one of the saddest times Elizabeth and I shared.
I drove immediately to their town house, tears streaming down my cheeks. As I made my way down Massachusetts Avenue, I tried to think what I could possibly say that would comfort her. All the obvious things sounded wrong—like how she could try again, would undoubtedly carry to term next time; that it probably wasn’t as bad as losing a full-term baby; or maybe the fetus wasn’t normal, and nature took the right course. . . . How could I possibly know any of this? Why would any of it make her feel better? She had lost this baby, her first one, and this is the one she wanted.
I decided not to think but to feel for the right words, and when Moe let me in and I found Elizabeth on the couch, her face thin and drawn, I just put my arms around her and rocked her, and we cried together. She was in her second year of teaching, a third-grade class in a rural county, and had planned to take maternity leave in April.
My shirt was soaked with her tears, and she clung to me as though somehow I could say the right thing, the comforting thing, and I never felt so helpless in my life.