silk gown with fitted bodice and straight skirt draping dramatically into a six-foot train. (Something new.) She planned on twisting her hair up and wearing her mother’s veil. (Something old, something borrowed.) She had five bridesmaids including her maid of honor, and they would all be wearing strapless silk dresses from Ann Taylor, in pacific blue. (Something obviously blue.)
I could picture it perfectly.
And Spence never once, during the entire discussion, made a face the way some guys do to show how cool they are—too cool to take an interest in their own weddings. In fact, Spence added those few details Lauren failed to mention. A couple times, while she spoke, he gently ran his hand over her back.
I could see why she was marrying him.
There were more hugs and handshakes at the end of the evening but no kisses from anyone, including Jared, who left me at my front door—I was leaning in for the kiss—with only a smile and “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I went inside, depressed. Maybe Jared really was just an Old Family Friend inviting me, an Old Family Friend, to dinner to catch up. He spoke with Mother and Whitt earlier the way the son of an Old Family Friend speaks—easily, nice to see you , Hope’s great , thanks for asking , tell Peter I said hi , and it’d be great to see him. Handshake. Air kiss.
But Mr. Sondervan said girlfriend , and Jared clearly talked about me with his parents, so that must have meant something. I just didn’t know what.
Lights were on in the kitchen. It was a little after eleven, so Mother and Whitt, I knew, were probably in the den watching the news. Sam, of course, rushed to greet me, followed—less the rushing—by Mother, who asked, “Did you have a nice time tonight?”
“I did,” I said, and I tossed my purse on the counter and started to pour a glass of water. “I met Lauren’s fiancé.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mother said as she rummaged through one of the drawers in her desk.
“He works at Veenkamp-Roy.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. I waited for her reaction. “Roy who?” she asked without looking up.
“Roy?”
“Yes, Roy who?”
“Roy Mollenkamp.”
“Who’s Roy Mollenkamp?”
“Lauren’s fiancé. His real name is Spence, but I called him Roy all night because I like it better. I’m going to tell him to change his name next time I see him.”
“Honestly, Bronwen,” Mother laughed in exasperation. “Sometimes I don’t know where you came from.”
Join the club.
We may not have known where I came from, but I knew where I wanted to go—to my Real Family, i.e.,people who listened to me when I talked, particularly when I was answering their questions, just like the Sondervans and Roy Mollenkamp did all night.
Mother could have learned a lot from them.
We all could.
Chapter Eight
I should say now: We were once a Real Family. A good one. Before my dad died, we were the Four of Us, and he was our heroic leader, as every perfect dad should be. Then his plane crashed when I was six, and the Four of Us broke into three separate pieces, and then those broke too.
After he died, Mother looked so terribly tired all the time, as if her whole body, including her eyelids, had somehow turned to lead. She packed up my father’s things and the best part of herself. She sobbed every time he was mentioned, so no one talked anymore about things that once were, things that were important.
We were better when she sobbed. I’m sorry she hurt—we all hurt—but we were better for the hurting, better for admitting it, better for just being honest about it rather than adopting this weird avoidance of sorrow everyone seemed to have tacitly agreed upon. Years later, these feelings were still there in all of us, and that night I thought maybe if I gave Mother thechance, if I softly lobbed “Veenkamp-Roy” to her, she might be relieved to let a little of her Real Self out. I always was.
But she didn’t bite. She chose poise over pain. Picture-perfect at all times.
I could picture it perfectly.
And Spence never once, during the entire discussion, made a face the way some guys do to show how cool they are—too cool to take an interest in their own weddings. In fact, Spence added those few details Lauren failed to mention. A couple times, while she spoke, he gently ran his hand over her back.
I could see why she was marrying him.
There were more hugs and handshakes at the end of the evening but no kisses from anyone, including Jared, who left me at my front door—I was leaning in for the kiss—with only a smile and “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I went inside, depressed. Maybe Jared really was just an Old Family Friend inviting me, an Old Family Friend, to dinner to catch up. He spoke with Mother and Whitt earlier the way the son of an Old Family Friend speaks—easily, nice to see you , Hope’s great , thanks for asking , tell Peter I said hi , and it’d be great to see him. Handshake. Air kiss.
But Mr. Sondervan said girlfriend , and Jared clearly talked about me with his parents, so that must have meant something. I just didn’t know what.
Lights were on in the kitchen. It was a little after eleven, so Mother and Whitt, I knew, were probably in the den watching the news. Sam, of course, rushed to greet me, followed—less the rushing—by Mother, who asked, “Did you have a nice time tonight?”
“I did,” I said, and I tossed my purse on the counter and started to pour a glass of water. “I met Lauren’s fiancé.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mother said as she rummaged through one of the drawers in her desk.
“He works at Veenkamp-Roy.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. I waited for her reaction. “Roy who?” she asked without looking up.
“Roy?”
“Yes, Roy who?”
“Roy Mollenkamp.”
“Who’s Roy Mollenkamp?”
“Lauren’s fiancé. His real name is Spence, but I called him Roy all night because I like it better. I’m going to tell him to change his name next time I see him.”
“Honestly, Bronwen,” Mother laughed in exasperation. “Sometimes I don’t know where you came from.”
Join the club.
We may not have known where I came from, but I knew where I wanted to go—to my Real Family, i.e.,people who listened to me when I talked, particularly when I was answering their questions, just like the Sondervans and Roy Mollenkamp did all night.
Mother could have learned a lot from them.
We all could.
Chapter Eight
I should say now: We were once a Real Family. A good one. Before my dad died, we were the Four of Us, and he was our heroic leader, as every perfect dad should be. Then his plane crashed when I was six, and the Four of Us broke into three separate pieces, and then those broke too.
After he died, Mother looked so terribly tired all the time, as if her whole body, including her eyelids, had somehow turned to lead. She packed up my father’s things and the best part of herself. She sobbed every time he was mentioned, so no one talked anymore about things that once were, things that were important.
We were better when she sobbed. I’m sorry she hurt—we all hurt—but we were better for the hurting, better for admitting it, better for just being honest about it rather than adopting this weird avoidance of sorrow everyone seemed to have tacitly agreed upon. Years later, these feelings were still there in all of us, and that night I thought maybe if I gave Mother thechance, if I softly lobbed “Veenkamp-Roy” to her, she might be relieved to let a little of her Real Self out. I always was.
But she didn’t bite. She chose poise over pain. Picture-perfect at all times.
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