Aftermath of Dreaming(84)

Suzanne stirs her coffee. She must have forgotten that I am probably the only person in L.A. who knows she doesn’t need to.

“Would you like some more?” My sister reaches for the pot, my answer decided by her already.

“Not really.”



As I drive home from my sister’s house, the thought of having to redo her veil by Saturday afternoon (it’s Thursday!) makes me want to scream right now. I try to in my truck, but I feel stupid, self-conscious. For the first time, I am grateful to my subconscious for creating my scream dream, allowing me that nocturnal release. And maybe I have finally done it enough for it to end.

I turn my radio on to a station on the far right of the dial that plays classical. One of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos has just begun. That’d be nice to play at my wedding.

What?

Oh, God, no. Do not have thoughts like that. The last thing I need is some unfulfilled bridal fantasy following me around. I will make this veil for Suzanne, be in her wedding, and then consign the entire frightening social institution to the far back regions of my mind where it belongs.

I have my jewelry to think about, like remembering to call Roxanne when I get home to see if she is happy with the order I delivered three days ago, and how could I ever have a husband when Michael won’t even spend the night? Of course, Andrew made me leave his bed, too, the jerk. Jesus, I never thought I’d say that he and Michael were alike. Okay, Michael has had to leave those nights because of work, and that could change. Yeah, like him changing the format of his station to conservative talk radio. I suddenly realize that the many messages coming from him—committed, not, maybe, too-soon-to-tell—are all the same, just like the different shows he broadcasts, supposedly unique in themselves, but really it’s only Michael’s voice getting through. All Michael all the time without ever really knowing him.

I wonder if one reason I haven’t been tons more upset about Michael leaving in the middle of most nights is that I have breakfast with Reggie every morning. Maybe that “nature abhors a vacuum” thing isn’t working for me romancewise because a big part of my intimate/love area is taken up with my male best friend. That’s worrisome. I wonder if he has ever thought that.



Reggie calls as I am three hours into reconfiguring Suzanne’s veil. The message I left for him after I called Roxanne when I got home has elicited an unusually fast response.

“She’s a bride, honey, i.e., nuts,” Reggie says, after I regale him with my terrible redo-the-veil tale. “Plus, I think most people go a little crazy when they can be demanding in an obscurely specific way. They think they’re being creative, meanwhile, they act like a child.”

“I guess I’ve been lucky so far with my commissions, not having to deal with this. Jesus, Reggie, if this is what you go through with your clients, I think I’d throw myself off a bridge.”

“It’s a little easier to take when they’re paying you a lot. All you’re getting out of this is—”

“Freedom from sisterly guilt. A small thing.”

“No pressure there. Honey, it’s going to be beautiful; everything you do is. And if she can’t get past her hysteria to appreciate it, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Thanks, I just don’t want her perpetually hating me because I ruined her wedding.”

“You’re not that powerful, Yvette, even if you’re making the veil. Everyone’s responsible for their own life—your big sister included.”

Reggie always knows exactly what I need to hear. He is able to talk me down off the emotional ledges I climb up on better and faster than anyone else.

“Is Michael going with you?” I am shocked that he asked and can hear in his voice that it is a kind of reconciliation. I know his face looks sweet right now, the way it does when he is about to give me a hug and sing one of his funny made-up songs.

“Yeah, he is.”

“You’re going to have a great time and the veil’s going to be perfect.” Reggie sounds so confident of this that I feel renewed energy to tackle Suzanne’s headpiece. “Breakfast ma?ana?”



Mana?a is now just a few hours away. I have labored though the night: filling in, taking out, starting over, and covering up, but the headpiece has decided not to work. I have encountered this before when I was doing sculptures with certain metals and various found objects, this refusal to become something else, but none of those had a bride waiting for them who also happens to be my sister. I know that inanimate objects are not alive, but they do, like us, have mass and weight comprised of atoms with space, and they can be pliable or irrefutably static, completely resistant to change. Like us. Or me sometimes, actually. Not changing myself, or refusing to see that something—like this damn headpiece—or someone isn’t going to, either. Like Michael, let’s be honest.

Anyway. No matter how hard I tried to fix the headpiece, I have finally gotten the message that it was never meant for my sister to wear in her wedding. It was a trial run, practice scales, an opportunity for me to get the kinks out before my efforts really count and become part of something that lasts. I wonder if that describes Michael, as well.

I get into bed to catch a few hours’ sleep before Reggie’s breakfast phone call will wake me. I know I’ll have to make a trip downtown to get new materials, and then will have long hours of work ahead of me on the new headpiece, but I feel clear and clean, like the air after a January storm. As I begin to slip down into sleep, it occurs to me that there is a certain happiness in this relinquishing of the unable-to-do and being ready to embark on the new. Maybe I can have this in other areas of my life, too.