18
In the end, the whole birth control thing is anticlimactic. The women at the clinic are very pleasant, and a kind, patient female doctor deals well with Chloe. She talks to her, but also to me. I take along my guardianship papers for good measure. Chloe’s on her best behavior and repeats clearly (we rehearsed this time) that she wants medicine so she doesn’t make a baby. The clinic provides her with birth control pills. The bonus is that Chloe will go on a ninety-day cycle, which means fewer menstrual periods and less hassle for her and me.
Chloe and I talk extensively about the fact that she has to take the birth control pill every day so Thomas doesn’t make a baby in her. Her words, not mine. I take the pills out of the little circular packet and put them, along with her chewable vitamin, in a days-of-the-week pillbox. We find a place, after trial and error, on her bathroom sink where the box is clearly visible. When she brushes her teeth in the morning, she takes her pills. I practice with her for a month, and then let her go on her own. Chloe doesn’t know that I check every day to be sure the little pink pill for that day is gone. She feels independent, and I breathe easier.
The days leading up to the wedding go by faster than I can comprehend. At Miss Minnie’s, they begin a countdown to the wedding on their classroom calendar, and Chloe wants to do the same on our calendar at home. She doesn’t understand how a calendar year works, but eventually she gets the hang of marking an X in the next block every night after dinner.
I talk to Margaret regularly as the plans for the big day progress. She takes care of the church details; I make arrangements for the party at my house. We talk, but we don’t talk. Shortly after the birth control fiasco, I try to broach the subject of sex between the newlyweds, but Margaret gets flustered and says something about God’s wisdom and the marriage bed and then goes on to tell me about the party favors she’s making that involve Jordan almonds and blue lace.
With the birth control issue under control, I just let the whole sex topic go. After all, I got what I wanted; Chloe will be safe from pregnancy. Margaret and I talk some about Thomas moving in with Chloe and me, but those conversations are superficial, too. She wants to send his Thomas the Tank Engine pillowcase and towels to make him feel more at home. She doesn’t want to talk about helping Thomas and Chloe make the transition to married life, and honestly, I’m so busy and so tired with everything going on that I let Margaret slide there, too. If I can take care of Chloe, if I can make her happy, I can make Thomas happy, too, can’t I? They can make each other happy.
The morning of the wedding, we forego tradition and let the kids see each other. We arrange for Margaret to bring Thomas over to move his last few things into Chloe’s room. They’ll spend their first night together as man and wife here. There’s no honeymoon planned. Maybe a family trip to Disney World in the spring, but no definite plans. I’m a mess by the time they arrive at ten. I’ve had three hours’ sleep, and I’ve already gotten into a silly argument with my father about breakfast, of all things. He and Gloria arrived yesterday and are staying in a local hotel. I didn’t offer to let them stay here; they didn’t ask.
So Dad wanted us to go out to breakfast. This morning. I explained that we couldn’t possibly go this morning . . . the morning of the wedding. When the reception is at my house. Chloe and I have hair and makeup appointments at noon. I need to run out and buy pantyhose (I know they’re not in style, but there’s no way anyone is seeing these legs bare in December), and the caterers are arriving at one to set up.
I don’t know who got snippy first. Maybe me. It was early when he called . . . when he had Gloria call for him. Chloe was still in bed watching The Lion King. I was already emotional—handicap aside, my daughter, my only child, was getting married. When Gloria called, I insisted she put Dad on. I thanked him for his invitation. I even invited him and Gloria over for coffee and Pop-Tarts. He said he didn’t eat Pop-Tarts. He said he and Gloria were going to see friends in New Jersey tomorrow. That’s probably when I got snippy. He was only staying two nights? Chloe and I haven’t seen him in two years. We ended the conversation frostily, agreeing we would see each other at his only granddaughter’s wedding.
When the doorbell rings, I’m upstairs in my bedroom in a long-sleeved T-shirt without a bra. No pants. No underwear. My hair is wet and wrapped in a towel. Jin offered to be here when Margaret and Thomas came, but I insisted I didn’t need her. I sent her off to the church to add the blue bows to the pews and perform whatever magic she intended to make in the sanctuary to make it more beautiful.
“Chloe!” I call down the hall from my doorway. “I think that’s Thomas.”
“Let him in,” she hollers.
“I’m getting dressed.” I rub my wet hair in the towel. “You let him in.”
“No! You let him in,” she calls back stubbornly.
I grab a pair of sweatpants from the top of the dirty clothes basket and pull them on before heading down the hallway. As I walk into her room, I pull the towel off my head. “Chloe, Margaret and Thomas have brought his things over. We talked about this. You’re going to help him put his things in your room.”
She’s standing at the dresser Thomas and his father brought over the other night in their minivan. She’s got the top drawer open. I can see that she’s putting some of her own clothes in. There’s a pile of humongous shirts on the floor.
“Chloe, what are you doing?” I hang my wet towel on her doorknob to grab on my way out. “That’s Thomas’s dresser. You have your own.”
She ignores me, arranging one of her pink sweatshirts just so in the drawer.
I take a breath. At least she’s dressed. She’s wearing a white sweat suit Margaret gave her: white sweatshirt, white sweatpants. The sweatshirt says BRIDE in iron-on blue letters across the front. She’s wearing rain boots, which seem odd for a bride, but might come in handy. There are snow flurries in the forecast.
The doorbell rings again.
I know it’s important that I stay calm today. And patient. Chloe needs my patience. She deserves it. “Chloe, let’s go let Thomas in.”
“Me and him, we’re getting married. Thomas.”
“You are, indeed,” I say. “He’s waiting. You’d better go open the door before he leaves you at the altar.” I chuckle.
She half-smiles the way she does when she understands I’ve made a joke, but she doesn’t get the joke.
I lay my hand over hers on the dresser. “Go let him in,” I say gently.
“So we can get married and kiss.”
“So you can get married and kiss,” I agree.
She leaves her bedroom, and I scoop up Thomas’s shirts and stuff them in the top drawer and squeeze it shut.
“Hold your horses!” Chloe is shouting as she clomps down the stairs.
I follow her, deciding I won’t go back to my room to dress more appropriately. What the hell, Thomas is going to be living with us. He’s probably going to see me look worse than I do now. Margaret, too, at some point.
Chloe swings the door open and Thomas steps in, a big suitcase in his arms.
“N . . . knock, knock,” he says.
“Who’s there?” Chloe asks dutifully.
“C . . . cow.”
“Cow who?” she says.
“Cows s . . . say m . . . mooooo!”
They both laugh hysterically.
Margaret walks in behind Thomas. She’s carrying a suitcase and a small canvas duffel bag. “Good morning!” she says cheerfully.
I’m wishing I’d had a third cup of coffee. Maybe with a shot of bourbon. I smile, making a note that once Thomas moves in, I’m going to teach him some decent knock-knock jokes. “Come in, come in.” I wave them in. “Cold out?”
“Brisk!” Margaret closes the front door behind her. She’s wearing her winter uniform: flowered skirt, black tights, black shoes, and a long, thick sweater over some kind of top I can’t see. She’s also wearing big, fat, plastic curlers all over her head.
Thomas is wearing his red down jacket. When he puts down his suitcase and hugs Chloe, my daughter is engulfed in red. She looks so small compared to him. I don’t know why, but a lump rises in my throat and I have to force it down.
I can see that he’s wearing new, dark blue sweatpants. I’m guessing there’s a sweatshirt under the coat that says GROOM.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“No, no.” Margaret pshaws me. “We’ll just unpack Tommy’s things and get out of your hair. Busy day!”
“Thomas, get your suitcase.” Chloe takes over, doing what she does best. “Take it upstairs. My room.”
The four of us tromp up the stairs. I realize this is the first time Thomas has ever been upstairs in our house. I never really cared if Thomas was in Chloe’s room, but out of respect for Margaret, I’ve made them stay downstairs when he was here. I think to myself that this is a lot for Thomas to take in in one day. But he seems to be doing fine. He seems excited.
“What a pretty room, Chloe!” Margaret exclaims as she lowers the suitcase to the floor.
“This is my room.” Chloe walks over and pats her bed. She and I changed the sheets this morning and then made it. “My bed.” She points. “My bathroom. I keep clean. Mom says I’m very clean.”
“I know, dear. You’re such a neatnik!” Margaret is smiling as she walks across the room. “I’ll just put Tommy’s toiletries in here where he can find them. No rush to put them away!”
Thomas drops the big suitcase in front of his dresser, then he flops it over, unzips it, and begins to pull out clothing.
“Here,” Chloe tells him. She starts with the second drawer. “Put your clothes in here. My clothes are in there.” She points to her dresser. “I have a closet.”
“Y . . . you have a closet an . . . and we’re gonna get . . . get married. N . . . now.”
“In a few hours!” Margaret sings, coming out of the bathroom. “I left your toothbrush and toothpaste and deodorant and such in the bathroom, Tommy, honey.”
“You’re my honey,” Chloe tells Thomas.
“You’re my b . . . baby,” he coos loudly.
He begins cramming his clothes in the drawers. Chloe stands there and watches, occasionally giving instructions. He’s not doing it to suit her, but she’s practicing patience, as well, this morning. I know that later she’ll take it all out, fold it the best she can, and put it all back the way she wants it. But she seems to be tolerating his messiness well, for now.
“Your jammies are in here. And your robe and your slippers.” Margaret carries the smaller of the suitcases to the bed, opens it, and pulls out a pair of men’s red flannel pajamas, and a matching robe, and matching slippers. “And your pillow!”
I’m standing in the doorway, trying to give Chloe and Thomas a little space.
The decorative pillow is shaped like a generic train engine; it’s blue and red and gray, but the blue is a different shade from the trademarked train engine I know so well.
Margaret lays it up against Chloe’s four pillows that have been carefully arranged by Chloe this morning. Then carefully rearranged. Twice.
“And just a few more things.” Margaret carries socks and underwear in her arms and dumps them into the drawer Thomas has open. “You and Chloe will have plenty of time to put things away the way you want them later.”
His suitcase empty, Thomas slams the bottom drawer shut.
We’re all quiet for a second. For me, the moment is surreal. A man is moving into my daughter’s bedroom. He’s putting his clothes in dresser drawers and his toothbrush beside hers in the bathroom.
“Well!” Margaret claps her hands together. “We should go. I know you ladies have plenty to do!” She gives Chloe a hug and kisses her cheek. “See you at the church, honey.”
Then Thomas hugs Chloe, only he finishes off with a big, wet kiss on her lips. “S . . . see you at . . . at the ch . . . church, honey!”
* * *
My intention is to leave the beauty salon and go straight to the church. (Abby is handling the caterers.) There’s a room there for Chloe and me to dress. The wedding gown and my mother-of-the-bride dress are already there; Jin dropped them off this morning when she went to decorate the sanctuary and the hall where the first reception will be held. I have it in my head that going from the salon to the church will make the day go smoother. It will give Chloe time to calm her nerves and watch a little Princess and the Frog. I’ve even got the wedding scene in the end cued up on my iPad. But I forget my shoes at home. Thank goodness I forget my shoes.
With my face painted, hair done, in clean sweatpants and sneakers, I trek back into the house. Chloe stays outside in the car, listening to the radio. I feel like I’m running on pure adrenaline. I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m so tired that I already feel dead on my feet. But I press on because it’s what I do. It’s who I am.
I check on the caterers in the kitchen. All’s going well there. The house smells incredible, and Patricia and her staff have already transformed my dining room. Where stacks of books and paperwork usually sit, there are beautiful glass bowls and plates waiting to be heaped with delicious finger foods and desserts.
With a wave, I head up the stairs. I hear the water before I see it. It sounds like maybe Chloe didn’t jiggle the toilet handle in her bathroom. I go into her room; no running toilet. I head for my bedroom and the adjacent bathroom. My toilet works fine; it doesn’t need jiggling. But Chloe was in there, talking to me before we left. Maybe she left a faucet on. I don’t make it to my bedroom. I see the water lying on the floor of the laundry room.
“Dammit!” I mutter. I was never much of a swearer. I always felt it beneath me. An English professor ought to have a better command of the English language. But the older I get, the more often I have to sometimes scan my brain for the right words and plain, old curse words come out. “Goddamn it!”
I stop at the doorway of the laundry room. The hardwood floor is shimmering with water. The only reason it hasn’t run into the hallway yet is because of a little strip of wood on the floor in the doorway. “Goddamn it to hell!”
I can feel my face getting hot. I’m afraid I’m going to cry. I can hear water dripping, but I can’t see where it’s coming from and I don’t want to wade in. I know how to turn off the water main, but there are caterers downstairs. How are they supposed to cater my daughter’s wedding without water?
I go down the hall for the shoes I think I left in a cute little bag on the bed—where I would see it and not forget it. I fish my cell phone out of the kangaroo pocket of the Stone University hoodie I’m wearing. I speed-dial Mark. “Come on, come on,” I murmur as I walk into my bedroom. Sure enough, my heels are there, right in the bag on my bed where I left them.
Third ring.
“Please, Mark,” I whisper. “Answer this phone and I swear I’ll make you a big plate of homemade chocolate chocolate chip cookies. I’ll make a plate of cookies for you every day of the week for the next six months.”
He must hear me because he picks up at the end of the fourth ring.
“Alicia.”
“Mark,” I exhale thankfully. “I’m so sorry to call you. I know you’re probably getting dressed for the wedding.”
He chuckles. “Nope. Paying bills. Guys don’t take long to get ready. What’s up?”
“A leak. In the laundry room. I can’t tell—”
“I’ll be right there with my wet vac and my toolbox.”
“The caterers are already here and Chloe’s supposed to be at the church and—”
“Alicia, go to the church,” he says calmly. “You go to the church. I’ll take care of the leak and I’ll see you there.”
“But you’re a guest. I should call someone else, but I don’t know—” Emotion catches in my throat.
“Go to the church,” Mark repeats in the kindest voice. “Worst-case scenario, I’ll see you at your house afterwards.”
I want to argue. I’m not used to people doing things for me. Well, Jin, but she’s different. She isn’t people; she’s Jin. But Mark is so nice and . . . and I need him to do this for me. I almost smile. “Thank you.” I already feel better as I hurry out of my bedroom. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I walk right by the laundry room and don’t even look at it.
“See you at the church,” Mark says in my ear.
“See you at the church,” I repeat. And then I take my daughter to the church to be married.