I Liked My Life(89)

We connected one night when Brian picked up Rory at my apartment in the North End. I knew him only from the piercing memory of their mother’s funeral. When I opened the door my image softened. He’d changed; life had beaten him down to a more honorable perspective. Rory said it was Greta who sparked it. He still takes her to lunch once a month, not only to atone, but to get to know his mother through her dear friend. It’s amazing what can happen when someone learns to learn from pain.

We were clumsy in our introductions that night; neither of us intended it to be more than a standard pickup/drop-off scenario. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?” he asked, feigning surprise when I said I wasn’t. “I’d like you to,” he pushed, to Rory’s surprise. “And it’s my birthday. I’m just saying.”

By the end of dinner I knew I’d be tied to Brian forever. He still has a slight arrogance, but there’s something soothing about it, something that brings out a more assured version of myself. He reminds me of my father. The next day two dozen roses arrived with a note that read: Your presence was the perfect present.

I worried Dad would be put off by our age difference, but he just shrugged and said, “You’ve been older than your time for a while now. He makes sense to me, if he makes sense to you.” His acceptance didn’t stop him from joking though. He refers to our nine-year age gap as the delta. Whenever he starts in, Brian gives it right back to him. “I might’ve robbed the cradle,” he’ll quip in front of Pamela, “but at least I made an honest woman out of her.”

Pamela jumps to her own defense. “I’m a hell of a lot more honest than any attorney.”

Though her aggressiveness is occasionally at my expense, Pamela has been a blessing for my dad. He wasn’t looking to replace my mom. He knew that wasn’t possible. He was looking for the person you’d pick to be stranded on an island with. I’d probably pick Pamela for that too—she’s a modern-day warrior.

Their relationship allowed me to go to California for college without worrying about my dad. The West Coast is where I discovered myself as a writer and where I learned to enjoy people again, to laugh despite loss. Some are offended by the idea that there’s beauty in mourning, but I can’t afford to be swayed by them. For a long time, my loss was all I had. I’ve trained myself to appreciate the independence and knowledge that accompanies pain. So my tattoo did serve a purpose, though Dad and Rory were right—it looked hideous during my third trimester carrying Madeline.

It was an Exeter alumni connection that ultimately got my first poem published in Underground, a literary magazine that only people in the industry are familiar with. I can hardly remember my state of mind when I wrote it, but I embrace the words as a part of my history.





DISSOLVING


I am everywhere God is

Encompassing a truth

A truth that does encourage compassion

And this startles me

But from this vintage view

I can distinguish the universal difference:

Truth the drought that drains the terrain

Just there, just is, no justice

It does not cater to reality as compassion does

Molding structure into an eroded tomb of bias

It does not seek it with fury

As its destination is always right where you are

Going where you’re going

And from these eyes I’ve borrowed brilliant power

Compassion surrendering

Dissolving like the sugar in my iced tea

Not sweet though—

Bitter.

Rory still has a framed copy on her mantle. “I don’t totally get it,” she admitted over the phone, “but it came from you, so I love it.”

Aunt Meg read more into it. “I only wonder if it means you’re healing or still raw from her death?”

“Healing,” I assured. “At least this way I’ve put my pain out there. At least I’m not afraid of it.”

“You’re just like your mother,” she said. A compliment of the highest order.

After school I found California crowded, and the mild season changes made it hard to keep track of time, but mostly, I came back to be closer to Dad. He and Pamela live in the same house I grew up in. It doesn’t appear they’ll ever marry. “You get married for the kid’s sake,” Pamela confided once after a couple glasses of wine, “or for money. But my kids are grown and I’m rich as all hell, so if your dad doesn’t want to wear rings that’s fine with me.”

They came to Rory and Robert’s wedding, cheering on little Madeline as she crawled down the aisle. Rory is the only person clever enough to dress up the flower girl as an actual flower because she’s too young to walk. I can’t wait to see the pictures. Madeline has my mother’s eyes and full cheeks. More painful than my loss is knowing she’ll never meet her namesake, and vice versa.

Brian squeezes my knee under the table. It’s my turn. I stand, one hand to my heart, and hold up a glass. “To watch the person who found your happiness find happiness is a beautiful thing. The day I knew Rory would always be a mentor, she said, ‘You don’t always get to know what happened, or why things happened a certain way, but it always, always, goes deeper than any one thing.’ I look at her life, and all she’s done for others—her students, her family, her friends … me—and then I think about Robert entering the picture, and giving all that love back, and I realize Rory is right. Their love brings me a sense of justice, something I’ve struggled to find for a long time. They’ll be happy because they found each other at a point in their lives when they know what a gift it is. Please raise your glass for my mentor and best friend, and her lovely husband, to toast the blessing that happened on this day.”