“No,” says Grandpa Logan, blinking rapidly. “But… but… I thought I had more time. To get better, to travel again…”
Even as he says it, the croak in his throat, the trembling in his limbs, tells the old man all he needs to know.
“No, no,” he says, shaking his head gravely and turning his attention toward Mom. “Please, Gloria, tell these kids not to do this. They’ve worked so hard, dear, and for so long. Why, every week when you bring my laundry and those lovely cinnamon buns from the Snowflake Sweet Shop, I can’t wait to hear what these two are up to next. Don’t rush this for… for… me, you guys…”
That’s it; that’s the moment Mom suddenly realizes: it’s worth it.
It’s worth it to lose the money on the deposits, to give up the cruise and the sunshine and the flowers and the hot, kickin’ South Beach DJ because, well, if Grandpa Logan can’t be there to enjoy it, then… what’s the point?
“I tried to drill some sense into their heads,” she croaks, acting all brave for the old guy. “But you know kids these days, Cliff; stubborn as the day is long. And listen, truth be told, they actually wanted a Christmas wedding all along…”
Still, Grandpa Logan shakes his head and scowls at Chuck the way only two grown men can scowl.
Chuck keeps his game face on, though, and flits about the room trying to keep everyone’s minds off what the next few hours might hold.
“You haven’t turned on your tree yet, Grandpa,” Chuck scolds playfully, plugging in the big 6-footer and reveling in the blinking colored lights that fill the room with sudden, if forced, gaiety.
“And how about some music? You always were partial to Nat ‘King’ Cole as I recall…”
Chuck slips a CD into a silver boom box and instantly smooth, suave Christmas carols fill the room.
Grandpa Logan is still shaking his head, but seems to be resolved to the fact that this is happening; one way or the author.
As if we’re being too loud, or perhaps even having too much fun, a crisply dressed nurse with a stern face to match her starched white uniform knocks at the door bearing a hospital tray.
“Lunchtime, Mr. Logan,” she says, sliding across a few Christmas cards on his lonely table for two and setting the tray atop a snowman placemat that has Mom’s name all over it.
“Morning, Lydia,” Grandpa Logan flirts as she slides the table over to his well-worn but clean easy chair. “I’ve got big news. Have you met my grandson Chuck and his lovely fiancée Haley?”
“Don’t think I have,” she says efficiently, offering a frosty hand.
We take it in turn and murmur a subdued round of “Nice to meet you’s.”
Then Grandpa Logan says, “They’re getting married today!”
“Congratulations,” she says, quickly turning toward the door to attend to the rest of her rounds.
Before she can beat a hasty retreat, Grandpa Logan winks at us and says, “I was thinking, Lydia, how nice it would be if they could use the common room. It’s already decorated for the holidays, you see, and neither of them have much family in town, so…”
“Out of the question,” she snorts. “The common room is for residents only, Cliff; you know that…”
Mom holds up a finger as Chuck’s face falls.
“I think that’s a great idea, Cliff,” she hisses to Grandpa Logan before following the nurse out of the room and slamming the door behind them.
We hear muted voices out in the hall, then not so muted voices, then Mom’s stern voice issuing a rather harsh, particularly non-cheery directive; after that, it goes back to muted silence.
When Mom marches triumphantly back into the room, Chuck and I instinctively reach out for each other’s hands – her smile tells us that Grandpa’s idea hit pay dirt!
I leave Chuck with his grandfather and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to keep up with Mom.
For a big lady, she moves fast, hard and with plenty of purpose.
It’s impressive to see her resourcefulness in the face of what, to her, must surely feel like tragedy.
And yet, despite her meager circumstances and our limited budget, she manages to scrounge up a winter wedding to be proud of in three hours flat.
I can’t wait to rush back and tell Chuck, but Mom’s not having any of it.
“Oh no,” she tells me, dropping me off at home where the smell of fresh gingerbread and cinnamon tell me she’s left the oven on; again! “You may be going about this whole wedding thing all backward, but there’s one tradition you’re not going to break! Chuck is not to see you until you walk down the aisle, or shuffleboard court, or whatever Grandpa Logan’s finagled for us in the Snowflake Senior Center common room – and you can take that to the bank.”
As I step onto the porch and use my house key to let myself in, she eases past in the driveway and reminds, “My dress is in the attic; sewing machine’s in the guest room. Now, you remember how to sew, don’t you Haley?”
“And if I don’t,” I chuckle, imagining how my bloody digits might look against her white wedding gown.
“Then you better learn, and fast! I’ll be back to pick you up once I’ve made sure the caterer and florists know what they’re doing, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, she drives away, tailpipe of her giant green sedan steaming in the mid-afternoon chill.
* * * * *