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Authors: Kristen McGuiness

51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life (37 page)

BOOK: 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life
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My father gets out of the car, and I shocked again by how old he has become. I have my father’s image embroidered in my mind from the photos I hold so dear from when I was young. Though skinny and short, my father cut a dashing figure. He had a wild mass of black curly hair, piercing hazel eyes, and the type of big nose that you just don’t fight with. He wore beautiful Ralph Lauren clothes and though there were times he looked like the seventies drug smuggler he was, there was always an element of stylish class to his demeanor.
 
The man who gets out of the car is old. He has straight white hair and a busted-up nose, and he wears a Hawaiian shirt with shorts and a fleece vest. He is not the father I remember. He gets out and grabs me in a huge embrace, but it’s awkward for me. I hug my uncles all the time because they are
mi famiglia
. But I realize in that moment, that though I know my father in many ways, I do not know him like this. I do not know him in the real world.
 
We go into Noelle’s house, and we play with Rocky, who my father says looks a lot like Red Dog, and I warm a bit. He jokes, “Thank God we have this pup here; it certainly makes it less tense.”
 
I laugh because it sounds like something I would say. Our similarities are real, and sometimes they’re kind of nice. I drive my father to the stables because he was the man who introduced me to horses. He meets Arrow and as we walk away he grabs my hand and says, “Thank you, K, for bringing me here.”
 
We go to my apartment before dinner so he can see where I live, and we look through old photo albums, and he touches these pictures of me growing up, of his parents who both died while he was still in prison, of the lives he never got the chance to be a part of, and he begins to cry. At one point in the night my father quips to me, when I press him about being back in the business, “That’s just who I am, babe. No changing me.”
 
But as he sits there, shaking over a photo of his own mother and father, I know there is a part of him that wishes he had gotten the chance to change. I bend down and hold him. This man who has offered me nothing but a fantastical love and many very real disappointments; this man who pretends that he is who he is, and we ought to just be fine with that; this man whose life is shot through with a thousand forms of fear and pain and loss; this man is real, and he hurts. He cries, and I whisper, “It’s okay, Daddy,” and I realize this night might not actually be about my closure. It’s about his.
 
We go out to dinner, and he stares at me like I am the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. It makes me uncomfortable, but I also know my dad never quite knew who I was. We get gelato at Pazzo, and he puts his arm around me as we walk to the car. For all my family’s jokes about being the Corleones, my father actually looks like a Mafioso, and I wonder what my friends would think if they ran into us. That I was using again, and this was my dealer. That my dad is creepy and cool, all at once. That I look rather awkward next to this man who is my blood, my love, and my oldest sorrow.
 
We drive down Sunset, and the opera Cavalleria Rusticana comes on. It is my favorite opera, so I turn the music up. The notes swell, and my father holds my hand. I look over at him and smile. And for a moment, for one brief moment, he is my dad, and I am his daughter, and the scales fall from my eyes, and the truth becomes clear, and I am guided back to him. And the big picture, and the present moment, and the faith that we are to each other exactly what we are supposed to be, fills my heart. Because as much as I know this will probably not happen again for a very long time, I am so glad it is happening now. Just this moment with each other, this things of ours, or as they say in Sicily,
la cosa nostra
. There is no fear or pain or loss. Just the two of us driving down Sunset Boulevard in my Honda Civic, listening to Cavalleria Rusticana, holding each other’s hand.
 
I say goodbye to my father that night, and though it might not be the relationship for which I waited my whole life, I know that our lives are as they should be. And I do not question. I feel good. I feel blessed. And the next morning, I board a flight, and I walk into the loving arms of the Corleones.
 
Uncle Tom makes dinner, and I spend the evening lying on the shoulder of one uncle or another. And they both tell me consistently how much they love me, how proud they are of me, and I know that this is what I am looking for in a man. Someone who looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world but who also shows up time and time again to be there for me.
 
As I counsel Uncle Tom about his heartbreak and spend the next two days working with Uncle Vic on his depression, I know that I will be there for the right man too. Because I am for these men.
 
The next day, I walk from my grandmother’s house to the condominium where I grew up. I skip along the railroad tracks that I wandered down so often when I was twelve and angry. I listen to The Velvet Underground, and I enter the world of my childhood. I am walking along the creek bed where I spent a good deal of my youth pouting when I see a tree house on the other side.
 
And the next thing I know, I am leaping from rock to rock to cross the creek, monkey-barring my way to the other side, and landing relatively gracefully on the opposite bed, after a swinging jump bigger than I have performed in years. I climb up into the tree house, lie down, and begin the energy work I know so well. I listen to the creek, and I reach out to the ten-year-old who gets scared inside. It doesn’t take long as she is right there, and the fact that I have made this vision quest in her honor is almost enough to make her happy and whole. Because this is a little girl who just wanted to be loved. She wanted her daddy home; she wanted everything to be okay; and so I get to go to her, and I get to tell her that it is.
 
We go home and stop at our childhood McDonald’s for an ice cream cone. We hug Don Corleone and know that as much as we wish we could change others, we cannot. And the only way out of our insecurities is to believe in change for ourselves. I can be confident. I can hold the gaze of a man and smile. But more than that, I can be the strong and loving woman, and the healing force my future partner will need. I don’t need to turn into that little girl, but I don’t need to ignore her either. Because she is the keeper of the light and the source of so much of my love, and she’s on my side. She is on my side.
 
51
 
Date Fifty-One: The Sparkling Ribbon of Time, Act III
 
I find myself standing in the Griffith Observatory, reading again the passage about the Sparkling Ribbon of Time: “From the earliest moments of the universe, the pattern was set for the structure we see today, that structure is revealed by glowing galaxies of stars. Galaxies congregate in clusters which form webbing that extends throughout the universe. This webwork is the ultimate structure of reality.”
 
This webwork is the ultimate structure of reality, and I am just one teeny little speck of dust in the infinite life of God. Just little ole me, looking for romance. I walk into Nat’s bridal suite this morning wondering whether I will have gotten what I seek by the end of the night. Immediately I am greeted by the makeup artist Vincent, who asks me, “Which starlet are you?”
 
I smile and say, “I’m Grace Kelly.” Nat asked all of us which Old Hollywood star we wanted to be styled like for her wedding, and I didn’t even need to think about it. At first she protested, “You don’t even look like Grace Kelly.” But it didn’t matter to me. I knew there was no one else I could be.
 
I tell Vincent this, and he laughs. “Honey, even Grace Kelly had to fight to be Grace Kelly.” And I know he’s right. Because I’ve had to fight to be me too. But then Vincent works his magic, and I slip on my bridesmaid dress, and I know my fight is over. I may not look like Grace Kelly, but I look like me, and I’m happy with that.
 
I saw Ben on Wednesday night after our meeting, and we were talking about the wedding when he realized that it would be occurring at the same time as one of the playoff games for the L.A. Dodgers. At first he was joking that if he got offered tickets, he might not be able to make it to the wedding. I laughed. “Well, I guess neither of us will be going then.”
 
“I’m not kidding, Kristen. If someone gives me tickets, that’s going to be a tough choice.”
 
John is standing there, appalled. John is Reggie’s sponsor and is also in the wedding party, so he’s gotten a chance to see this burgeoning and questionable relationship up close.
 
“You can’t cancel on Kristen,” he tells Ben.
 
“For the Dodgers, I can,” Ben shoots back.
 
John looks at me and back to Ben, “But
it’s
Kristen.”
 
Ben shrugs, “No.
It’s
the Dodgers.”
 
“Whatever,” I say, turning around and walking off.
 
It doesn’t take long for Ben to follow me and tell me he will be there. That he has made the commitment and that he won’t ditch out. I try to be jokey and grab his arm. “It’ll be fun, Ben. Besides, it’s with me, and I’m actually quite charming.”
 
We laugh, and he walks me to my car, and we say goodbye, and I wonder if that’s what I want. Someone who isn’t excited to hang out with me. I stand in the ladies’ room, waiting for Ben to begrudgingly show at the wedding, and I wonder again whether romance will be mine by the end of the night. And if so, do I even want one with Ben?
 
I do a final primp and then go join the bride in her dressing room. She looks perfect, and she is so happy, and excited, and ready to go and embark on this adventure with her new husband, and I feel nothing but joy for her. We walk out to the sunroom, from which the procession will start. Everybody files out, and I am the last one standing with the bride.
 
She looks at me nervously, and I kiss her cheek. “You’re going to have a beautiful marriage.”
 
And I mean it.
 
The wedding is perfect. And the bride and groom are perfect. And I know that though I may not be ready to have one of these affairs right now in my life, I do look forward to having one someday. The bride and groom kiss, and we all head back inside for photos and mingling. I find Ben, and we get some coffee. The wedding is taking place in an old castle in which a wealthy family once lived, but like all great buildings too big for their ancestors, this one has now been converted into artists’ residences above the spaces used for weddings and other receptions.
 
There is a staircase leading up to the rest of the building with a sign that clearly states, “Residents Only.”
 
But Ben and I venture past the sign and up into the rest of the castle. The halls remind me so much of the Chelsea Hotel that it’s a little eerie. I could spend hours looking at the art hanging in the hallways and listening into people’s spaces, but Ben likes to cruise through. I lead us to the top floor because I think there might be something interesting up there, and Ben follows.
 
I like this. I like doing this with Ben. The fact that he instigated the expedition and is quick to follow my lead, makes me forget that he doesn’t often seem so interested in doing so. And as I bound up the staircase, I lose sight of the fact that he doesn’t open doors, that he failed to tell me that I looked pretty tonight, and that he seems to look at me only as a buddy.
 
“You’re not a buddy,” Mimi told me the other night when I explained Ben’s and my relationship.
 
“Well, I am his, I guess,” I replied.
 
“No, but Kristen. You shouldn’t be. You’re somebody’s woman. That’s the type of person you are.”
 
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I used to be buddies with lots of guys. I was in a fraternity for Christ sake.”
 
“Yeah, used to be. You’re not anymore.”
 
And she’s right. I am somebody’s woman. I am not their buddy. And as Ben and I go on our adventure through the Castle Green, I realize that I can do this as Ben’s Grace Kelly, or I can do it as Ben’s Girl Friday. So I lift up my head, toss my shawl across my shoulders, and float back down the staircase like my girl Grace.
 
Ben and I sit down at our table, and after the food and toasts, people get up to go dance. I lean over and tell Ben, “So I need to leave here at eight.”
 
“At eight?” He looks at his watch. It’s 7:05 p.m.
 
“Yeah. For whatever reason, I have found myself at the Observatory with almost every important date. And every time I am there, I see people in line for the show at the Planetarium. I keep waiting for the person I am with to say, “Hey, let’s catch the show,” but no one ever has. So tonight, I want to catch the show. It’s at 8:45. And either I will go alone, or you will come with me.”
 
“I already know the answer to that,” Ben says, smiling. But it’s a Cheshire grin, and I can’t really tell which way he is leaning. I’m not really sure that I know which way I am leaning either, but I know that this is how the chess game works.
BOOK: 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life
12.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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