The Names They Gave Us(77)

Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.

The hymn is not difficult musically. But meaning the words and playing like you mean them—that’s the trick. Henry plays with the true, slow emotion of someone who has known pain. He plays this psalm—a hallelujah cry from the depths of despair—to my mother, and I will never be able to articulate what it means to me. I wipe a stray tear from my face.

It is well, with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.

“That was perfect, Henry,” my mom says. Her voice cracks twice, but she holds it together. “Just perfect.”

One set of parents down, one to go. I have the whole drive to fret about what the Jones family will think of me. Will it bother them that I’m white? I didn’t even think about it until now—should I have thought about it?

We drop Keely off at a nice little house with dark green shutters. Her stepmom is waiting on the porch, waving excitedly as we pull up. She looks like a cereal commercial mom, in capri pants and a pressed shirt, and she opens the door to call to Keely’s dad.

“See you at the church,” Keely says, bailing out.

Before we drive away, I see her stepmom throw her arms open, waiting to embrace my friend.

The church we pull up to is small and lovely, and my palms start sweating when I see how many people are pooled outside, exchanging hugs and greetings.

“Ready?” Henry flashes the grin—no trace of nervousness. In fact, he looks proud to have me with him. And for the millionth time, I wish I had inherited my dad’s social ease.

“There he is!” a booming voice yells. Henry’s family envelops him, all back claps and cheek kisses. For just a flash, I imagine them in funeral black, mourning his sister. What a thing, to be a family—together from the solemn suits to the wedding day florals. Once you survive the former, days like this must be all the sweeter.

I hang back shyly, glancing down at my pumps and second-guessing my dress. Too plain, maybe? No—I’m a plus-one. Simple and subtle is good.

“You,” a clear voice says, “must be Lucy.”

The speaker is a woman in an iridescent dress—violet, with a matching jacket. Her smile is deeply genuine and entirely familiar. “I’m Michelle Jones. Henry’s mother.”

“So nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, which she shakes—failing to hide her amusement at my formality. Maybe I should have hugged her?

“It’s very nice to meet you too. My son’s manners have gotten lost in that wild bunch.” We both glance back to where Henry’s grandmother is talking to him, her hands placed adoringly on his cheeks. “I trust his manners held up for meeting your parents this morning?”

“More than held up,” I report. “They were charmed. Very impressed.”

“Ah, yes. He’ll do that. Partially his nature, partially coping mechanism. I am impressed that he has dropped the charm for you so quickly.”

The images play in my mind: Henry angry at the punching bag, Henry expressing his frustration at me, Henry nodding off as I play étude after étude.

“My son is very easy to love,” she adds. “But quite difficult to truly know.”

“Well,” I say, carefully, “I like what I know.”

Over her shoulder, I spot Keely, tugging at the straps of her dress.

“Hi, honey bun.” Keely lets Mrs. Jones squeeze her into a hug. “Don’t you look like a dream.”

“Hi, Miss Michelle.”

Henry’s mom pulls back, examining Keely’s face. “Can’t wait to have you all home soon. Everything been good?”

“Yeah. Real good.”

“Tracy says Kiana’s doing great.”

“So great. Starting in on that tween attitude a little early, if you ask me. But great.”

“Everyone,” Henry says, motioning me forward to the crowd. “This is Lucy. Go easy on her.”

I’m in front of a panel of aunties and grandpas, little cousins and probably family friends too. I don’t even see who steps forward to hug me first. I’m drawn right into the crowd—exclamations about my dress and my hair, and, over an auntie’s shoulder, Henry grins.

His family makes sense to me—demonstrative and buoyant, like him. It feels, instantly, like somewhere I want to belong.

Henry’s cousin’s wedding turns out to be the most thoroughly purple event I have ever attended. It starts with the bridesmaids’ processional. They’re draped in amethyst chiffon, sheer straps across their shoulders. The bride’s bouquet contains every shade, bright anemones and soft hydrangeas.

And my eyes overfill as Laura walks down the aisle in a cloud of gauzy tulle, as the groom glances upward, blinking back his own tears. During the prayer—a beautiful entreaty that the couple be blessed with good times and strengthened in the bad—Keely presses a tissue into my hand.

When the couple floats out for their first dance, I’m not prepared. I’m not prepared for “La vie en rose” amid their life in lavender, for Henry to front the band with his trumpet in perfect blasts. His grandfather sings the words in English, though I barely register them. The words don’t even matter. The melody tugs something inside me, some deep, reverberating part of my soul. How can a grandfather’s voice and the snap of a double bass and the brassy call of a trumpet sum up everything? Nostalgia and hope. Romance and loss.