Where It All Began Page 10

“Oh, I’m sure it will be fine.” Cassie threw a conspiratorial wink at me. “Now, do you know how many people you need to feed?”

  Henry’s brow furrowed. “We haven’t really discussed that yet. Maybe fifty?”

  I scratched my head as I ran a brief mental tally of my friends and family. “Um, I’d have to sit down and make an actual list, but I probably have close to fifty myself.”

  Henry’s head snapped back in surprise. “Really? Okay, well then I guess we better make it one hundred servings.”

  Cassie’s pencil scribbled on the notepad. “And do we have a date picked out yet?”

  “Yes, September 14th at 2 pm,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll log this in, and if I have any more questions, I’ll contact you. Will that work?”

  “That’s perfect, Cassie, and thank you,” Henry said.

  “No, thank you for the business,” she replied.

  We exited the little shop and returned to his car. “Thanks for bringing me here; she’s amazing,” I said, buckling my seatbelt. “We’ll have to come back to try her other desserts.”

  “I already have.” He laughed as he started the car. “Okay, where to next?” Henry put the car in drive and headed out of the parking lot.

  “Let’s go look at a tux for you.”

  “Uh oh, what is that mischievous look about?”

  I smiled but said nothing.

  A few minutes later we pulled into a tuxedo rental shop, The Penguin Shoppe. Henry opened my car door, as usual, and took my hand as we walked in.

  A shorter man with a mustache that covered most of his face greeted us. “What can I do for you today?”

  “We need to look at a tux for him,” I said, squeezing Henry’s hand.

  “Okay, come with me.” The man turned and waddled like a penguin towards the back where three mirrors were set up for viewing. I wasn’t sure if he just suited the shop, or if the shop had rubbed off on him.

  A small desk sat to the right of the mirrors. The man whipped out a measuring tape – seemingly from thin air – and began taking Henry’s measurements. “Mmhmm, okay, yes, that’s perfect,” he mumbled as he wrote numbers down on a little white pad.

  Henry raised his eyebrows at me, and I smiled in return.

  “Wait here, and I’ll be right back.” The man disappeared into a side room and returned with a sharp black tux. “Let’s make sure this fits.” He slipped the jacket on; it was a perfect fit.

  “It’s perfect.” I sighed, and my pulse quickened at the sight of Henry in the suit jacket. There was something about a man in a suit.

  “So, what else do you need? Vest, tie, cummerbund?”

  “No cummerbund,” I said, “but definitely vest and tie. Do you have a color chart?”

  The man nodded and produced a white board with color swatches lined four across and four down. The colors ranged from deep purples and blues to bright reds and oranges. I touched the color swatches and pursed my lips. Sneaking a glance at Henry, I smiled. “I like this color for the groomsmen,” – I pointed at a dark blue – “and this one for Henry.”

  Henry leaned over my shoulder. “Purple?” he asked.

  “Magenta,” I smiled.

  “Um, why can’t I wear the blue?”

  “Because you got German chocolate cake,” I teased, “and I got to pick the colors. Besides the magenta will look great on you.” I held the board up to his face. “Wouldn’t you agree?” The salesman nodded.

  Henry pleaded with his eyes, but I remained resolute. Finally, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, you win.”

  As the planning continued, invitations were ordered, the caterer and photographer were hired, and, of course, the pastor of our church was asked to officiate. Summer burned through Mesquite and the school year ended. Children of all ages ran around the apartment complex and splashed in the pool. Though the sight and sounds of children still rubbed the wound, it was less. Planning the wedding kept my mind off of the past, and I convinced myself that I was healing, that once I got married the dreams would end and the guilt would go away. That if I could just make it to September the past could be forgotten.

  The scorching heat faded into the beginning of muggy fall. The leaves on the few trees turned brown and began their descent from the limbs. Children returned to school, and quiet resumed during the day at the apartment complex. I sat at my small kitchen table addressing invitations and enjoying the blissful silence on a day off. A stack of white envelopes lay on one side of the table and a stack of invitations on the other. I stuffed the invitation in the envelope and licked it, but as I pressed the seal down, a sound reached my ears and froze my heart.

  I paused, hoping it would go away. Sucking in a breath, I closed my eyes and listened. “Mama? Mama, why?” The voice was faint, but it was there. I squeezed my eyes tighter, willing the sound to disappear.

  I hadn’t been visited by the baby recently, and I had hoped it would stay that way. I had almost convinced myself that I had miscarried instead of what I had actually done.

  “Mama?” The voice was closer this time, and the soft pitter patter of tiny feet hitting the floor joined the voice. Oh please, I clenched my hands at my side, please go away. “Mama, why didn’t you want me?”

  The words broke my heart, and my shoulders heaved. The lies and the walls I had built so carefully began to crumble, and I began to shake. Then a tug came at my pant leg, and I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. My eyes snapped open; a toddler, clad in blue overalls and a red shirt, stood beside me. His chubby hand tugged again on my pants, and his wide brown eyes spoke sadness.

  “Why did you let them take me, mama?” His mouth turned down as a solitary tear spilled out of his eye and rolled slowly down his cheek. I longed to touch his soft brown curls and breathe his scent, but I glued my hands to my thighs. If I could just get through this, maybe they would stop. I had thought once that maybe I could live with the visions, but the child seemed to grow every time. I was getting to see what my son would have been, and it was breaking my heart every time.

  “You’re not real,” I whispered, but it didn’t ease the ache in my heart. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I’m trying to do it right this time.”

  “But what about me?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know.” My vision blurred with tears. Unchecked, they tumbled down my cheeks, one after the other. “I didn’t know. I thought I couldn’t handle it. I was selfish. I’m so sorry.” Through my blurry vision, I saw the boy hang his head, and his shoulders slump. The vice on my heart squeezed ever tighter. Closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around my chest, I let the sobs take control. I don’t know how long I cried, but when I opened my eyes, the boy was gone.

  Isaac. The name blazed in my head. Is that what I would have called him, or is that what God named him when he got to Heaven? I hoped he was in Heaven. I’d never had the courage to ask Henry or anyone else because I was too afraid of the answer, but in my reading I had convinced myself that all babies went to Heaven because Jesus found them so precious, and it had helped. But these visions made me ever more unsure about lying to Henry. I got up from the table and wandered into the bedroom. I hadn’t had a drink in a long time, but my nerves were on edge. I needed the calming sensation.

  The nightstand was empty; I had never replaced the bottle. Dropping to my knees, I peered under the bed. One lone bottle remained. When I had retrieved it, I held it up to the light. There was only a little bit of liquid in the bottom. Hoping it would be enough, I screwed off the lid and downed the fire.

  As I sat in the last pre-marital counseling session with Henry later that evening, I wanted to tell him what I had done, but fear convinced me to keep my mouth shut. My finger ran up and down the seam of the leather couch as the events of the afternoon paraded through my mind again. The drink had helped a little, enough that I had returned to the kitchen and finished the envelopes, but not without turning on music first and situating my chair so that my back was to the wall.
r />   “What do you think Sandra?”

  I whipped my head up at the sound of my name. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I was asking you about joint accounts. Do you plan on combining your accounts when you get married?” the pastor repeated.

  “Um, sure, I guess, I mean why wouldn’t we?” I stammered.

  Henry shot me a concerned look, and I plastered a smile on to reassure him.

  “Okay, good,” the pastor said, “I think it’s a good idea. If you are truly going to join together, then it ought to be with everything. Well,” – He glanced from one to the other – “unless there’s something else, that’s all I have.”

  Out of the corner of my eye. I saw Henry shift in his chair and cough into his hand. “No, I think we’re good. Right, Sandra?”

  My head nodded. “Yep, feeling good. Ready to be married.”

  The pastor narrowed his eyes at the forced statements, but said nothing. He rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Alright, I’ll see you in two weeks for the ceremony then.”

  We both shook the proffered, outstretched hand and then left the office. As soon as the door clicked behind us, Henry whirled on me. “What’s going on? You seemed really out of it in there.”

  I sighed. “It was just a long day is all. I’m sorry. I am excited to be marrying you.”

  He stared at me as if deciding if that was all and then nodded and continued walking. I couldn’t help but think that he was hiding his own secret.

  When Opposites Collide

  Though the wedding planning kept my mind busy and the dreams mostly away, a new worry replaced the dreams. My parents were flying in today to help finish the final details and, of course, attend the rehearsal dinner. I was pretty sure my mother would like Henry; she was a traditionalist – though with a flair for fashion – but I wasn’t sure about my father. He was ex-military and very strict. His distaste for Peter had been obvious, but whether that was because of Peter or because we were living together, I wasn’t entirely sure.

  Even more nerve wracking was the fact that Henry’s family was flying in soon after. He rarely spoke of them, so I had no idea what to expect. What if they hated me? What if I hated them? They did live back in Louisiana, so it wasn’t like we’d see them all the time, but still it unnerved me. I wish I knew more about them.

  As I pulled into the Dallas-Love Field airport and found a parking spot, I grimaced. I hated coming into the city, but hopefully I wouldn’t be here long. After locking the car door, I trekked into the airport, trying to calm my nerves. Would they like Henry? What would I do if they didn’t?

  I scanned the big TV screens to find their flight and then made my way to their gate. Suddenly my mother’s flashy garb caught my eye; she always did dress larger than life. Today she sported a bright red and gold dress. My straight-laced father in his black button up suit stood next to her.

  “Sandra.” My mother bobbed up and down, pumping her hand. I blushed at the shout, but stepped in that direction. A moment later, I was enveloped in a giant hug.

  “Hi mom,” I said into her shoulder.

  “My baby,” she cried, “I can’t believe my baby’s getting married.”

  “Mom, I’m twenty-seven. I’m not a baby anymore,” I sighed.

  My mother waved her hand in dismissal. “You’ll always be my baby.”

  Rolling my eyes, I turned to my father, the antithesis of my mother. He stuck out his hand in lieu of a hug, and I shook it. Though I had always hoped he would show more affection, it seemed some things never changed. I led them through the busy airport to the baggage claim.

  “So, when do we get to meet the man?” My mother asked as we waited for the baggage carousel to cycle around.

  “Um, well we can probably meet up for dinner,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the carousel, hoping it would start up and give me a reprieve, “but his family isn’t here yet.”

  “When are they coming?”

  “Tomorrow, I think.” The conveyor belt revved to life, and we moved forward to watch for luggage.

  “There.” My father pointed as a hard grey suitcase came into view. I elbowed my way closer and grabbed it off the belt.

  “Are there more?”

  “No, just that one.”

  He took the handle, and I led the way back to the car.

  “Where is your Mustang?” my father asked when I stopped at the Taurus. I bit my lip. I had gotten so used to this car that I had forgotten all about the Mustang.

  “Um, it was economics really. This car gets much better gas mileage, and when Peter moved out, I needed to cut finances somewhere.” I hoped this would satisfy his practicality.

  “Well, I hope you at least got a good deal,” he said.

  I convinced him I had as we loaded in. My mother spent most of the ride complaining about the lack of humidity, but my father remained quiet, true to his nature.

  When we arrived at my apartment, I took the suitcase to my spare room. My mother followed, still prattling on.

  “Ugh, you need to do something with this place. It’s so . . . bland.” Her nose wrinkled as she waved her hand at the white room.

  I rolled my eyes at the familiar criticism. Though I loved my mom, she always pointed out the negatives first. “Mom, it’s a guest room. It’s not supposed to be exciting.”

  “I’m just suggesting a dab of color. Everything is so white.”

  “Mary, it’s fine,” my father spoke up. “We’re only here for a week.”

  I shot my father a thankful glance and hefted the suitcase onto the queen bed. “I’ll go make some tea and let you guys unpack.”

  “Do you have chamomile?” my mother’s voice reached my ears as I shut the door behind me.

  Sighing, I squared my shoulders and sauntered into the kitchen. It was going to be a long week.

  Henry showed up that evening at 6 pm. As I opened the door, I smiled; he looked handsome as always in his casual attire.

  “Thank goodness you’re here.” I hugged him and then stood on my tiptoes so my mouth would be right beside his ear. “My parents are too.”

  He nodded against me as he returned the hug. “Don’t worry, I’m good with parents,” he whispered back with a wink, following me into the apartment.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Henry. Henry this is my mom, Mary, and my father, Bruce.”

  My parents rose from the couch where they had been sitting. Extending his hand, my father nodded curtly, “Henry.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Henry replied, shaking the outstretched hand.

  I watched the exchange intently, biting my thumbnail. My father was measuring Henry with this handshake. An initial opinion would be formed based on this one simple greeting. He nodded again, and I smiled inwardly that he seemed pleased with the strength of Henry’s grip.

  Henry turned to my mother, prepared to shake her hand as well, but she engulfed him in a hug instead. His eyes widened in surprise though he recovered nicely and returned the hug.

  “You’ll have to forgive my mother,” I said, pulling her back. “She forgets not everyone is as into hugs as she is.”

  “It’s no problem,” Henry replied as he smoothed his shirt.

  “Well, aren’t you just a tall drink of lemonade,” Mary smiled, and her eyes roved up and down Henry in appreciation.

  “Mom,” – I hissed as Henry’s face colored – “Why don’t you come help me in the kitchen?”

  She threw a wink at Henry, but acquiesced and followed. As soon as we rounded the corner and were out of sight of the men, I whirled on my mother, hands akimbo.

  “What?” my mother asked holding out her hands defensively. “I was just saying he’s handsome.”

  “You don’t have to say it so loud or with those words. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure a man like that is used to hearing it.”

  She waved her hand in dismissal again, and sighing, I turned to the cupboard and pulled several plates down. “Here make yourself usef
ul,” I placed the plates in her hands and pointed to the table.

  My mother rolled her eyes, but took the stack and began setting the table as I finished the last minute preparations. When everything was ready, I called the men in, and we sat down around the small table.

  Dinner was polite though reserved. My father grilled Henry on his job, his plans for the future, and his past. Henry, to his credit, answered each question as it arose, and his answers seemed to satisfy the ex-army man, though both my mother and father seemed surprised about Henry’s religious views.

  After dinner, the men retired back to the living room while my mother and I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. Leaving them to be washed later, we then joined the men. I was surprised to hear my father discussing religion with Henry as I had no idea he had an interest. The conversation progressed for a while, but when my mother began stifling her yawns, I suggested we call it a night.

  Henry rose, and I followed him out, promising to be right back. The air was still warm, even though it was dusk, and it lay like a light shawl on my skin.

  “Thank you for being so amazing.” I touched his arm. “I know my parents are rather quirky.”

  Henry smiled and took my hand. “I thought they were sweet. Besides,” – his eyes clouded over – “my family has some quirks too.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked hesitantly.

  He stiffened, displaying his answer before he voiced it. “No, we’ll talk about it later.”

  I nodded, curious, but deciding to let it go for now. “Are they arriving tomorrow?”

  “They are. Shall we meet for dinner again?”

  “We might as well,” I agreed, “they have to meet sometime.”

  We kissed goodnight, and I re-entered my apartment.

  My mother stood waiting to pounce on me. “He seems lovely.”

  “He is,” I agreed. I curled up on the couch with my mother beside me and began to tell her of how Henry and I met, minus the breakdown and the abortion of course. I had decided I was never going to tell anyone about it besides Peter and Raquel, both of whom I was sure would keep my secret.