Everything After(52)

In graduate school I read about psychiatric patients who believed that they had lived past lives. The details they knew were so specific, it was hard to come up with other ways to explain the phenomenon. But if souls are recycled like that, then it’s possible your grandmother’s soul was already recycled, in which case she wouldn’t be watching our wedding. You, either.



* * *



—

We had a really small wedding, a really quiet one, not like Ari and Jack’s black-tie extravaganza. Your grandfather offered to pay, which actually surprised me, since his life in Santa Fe seems to have somehow eclipsed his life as Ari’s and my father. We hardly ever see him, now that he moved. And we talk about once a month—but the conversations aren’t real. They seem more out of duty than out of a real desire to connect. But I’ve always had Ari. And now I have Ezra.

Ezra and I had talked about your grandfather’s offer, and we decided that we wanted to basically elope with our families. So I asked your grandfather if he would rent us all a huge house on the Riviera Maya for Memorial Day weekend and fly his rabbi down to marry us.

He said he’d pay for everyone’s flights, too, since it would still be less expensive than Ari’s wedding. So that’s what we did. Though Ezra’s parents insisted on paying for their own flights. And a chef, too.

It was so beautiful. We got married on the beach, under a canopy, behind this gorgeous house that had a swimming pool and palm trees with hammocks and swings hanging between them. It was called Villa Corazón, which is part of the reason we chose it. With the chef there all weekend, no one had to cook. And Ezra and I wrote our own vows—one set of vows that we would share, words that we would each vow to the other.

We vowed to love, honor, and respect each other always.

We vowed to choose each other, every morning, every afternoon, and every night.

We vowed to support each other in the hard times and in the wonderful ones.

And we vowed to do all we could to give each other our best selves until the end of our days.

Then, feeling the sand under my bare feet, I stepped forward so he could slide a ring on my finger and declare, “By this ring, you are consecrated to me as my wife by the laws of Moses and Israel.”

And then I slipped a ring on his finger, saying, “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.”

The rabbi read our Ketubah aloud, and then our parents and Ari and Jack and their kids each came forward to bestow one of the seven blessings upon us. After that, Ezra slipped a shoe on his right foot—a shoe he’d brought down to the beach just for this purpose—and smashed a glass we’d wrapped in a napkin, symbolizing that our love would last for as long as the glass was shattered, which is to say, forever.

And then we kissed as the sun set, and the chef served us a Mexican feast on the beach. It was a perfect night.

When we were on our dessert course, your grandfather said, “I think the two of you need a first dance.”

We had some music piped in from the house, a playlist Ezra had made on his computer that we connected to the sound system.

“We didn’t choose a song for that,” I told him.

“I have an idea for one,” your grandfather answered. Ari pointed the remote control toward the house and turned off the jazz. And then your grandfather started singing about the night coming and the land being dark and the moon being the only light we could see.

I hadn’t heard him sing for a long time. Not since the day before I fell, when he sang with me and your dad in the living room. And I forgot how effortless his voice sounded, how calming. I stood up and reached for Ezra’s hand. He stood, too, and we danced in our bare feet on the beach in the moonlight to your grandpa’s song.

Ezra laid his cheek against my head as we danced.

“Emily,” he whispered, while your grandpa sang, “I just feel so grateful right now. So grateful that you married me, that our families are here, that we have so much ahead of us.”

“I’m grateful for you,” I whispered back. “For everything you’ve given me. I love you so much.”

“You too,” he replied. “There haven’t been words invented yet for how much I love you.”

And because there really weren’t words, I kissed him.

Maybe one day soon we’ll make a little brother or sister for you. I hope it happens soon.





42



When they finished their pizza, Emily and Rob started walking east, in the direction of his hotel and, beyond that, her Kips Bay neighborhood. Even though he had an early-morning flight, neither one of them seemed in a hurry. They stopped to look at the moon, perfectly framed by two skyscrapers.

“Manhattan really is something else,” Rob said.

“Do you miss it?” Emily asked, as they kept walking, acutely aware of his hand dangling next to hers, not holding it, but so close.

“Some of it,” he said, “I miss who I was when I was here, the strength of my convictions back then. Manhattan is so tied up in us, though, for me. The mind-blowing amazing parts—”

“And the shitty parts, too,” Emily said.

“They were pretty shitty,” Rob said. “I don’t think I handled things the way I should have. The way I would, if it were now, if I’d been older, more mature. I’m sorry I didn’t try to understand more of how you felt.”