Beneath the Night Tree (20 page)

After tucking the diamond ring in the dark recesses of my underwear drawer, I woke the boys, made a quick breakfast, and waited for Michael to arrive.

He was late.

I could hardly blame him. After all, we weren’t the only people in his life that he hadn’t seen in two months. His family was large and boisterous, filled with sisters-in-law to balance out all the Vermeer brother testosterone and small nieces and nephews that made mealtime feel like a feeding frenzy at the zoo. I didn’t mind it so much, but Daniel and Simon seemed to find the chaos intimidating. And since no one seemed to notice when we were absent, Michael spent most of his time in Mason over at our house. But I shouldn’t have expected him to slip out so early on his first morning back. It wasn’t fair of me.

“He’s probably catching up with his mom and dad,” I told the boys. “We can’t be mad at him for that. He’ll be here soon.”

When Michael showed up over an hour after our scheduled meeting time, Simon was cross, Daniel antsy. Even I felt slighted—the least he could have done was call to let me know that he was running late. But Michael seemed oblivious to our gravelly moods. As we piled into the car for the long drive to the museum, he gave me a surreptitious wink and a kiss, whispering a quick apology but no explanation.

The rest of the day was not quite the sort of familial bliss I had imagined. Simon acted like he was too old for the interactive displays at the museum, even though I had been convinced the science experiments would be right up his alley. And Daniel was unusually clingy, all but glued to my side as we walked from exhibit to exhibit. He was so out of sorts that he refused to participate in the hands-on activities unless I half forced him.

Since the museum was designed for kids, it was full of opportunities to get messy. I had entertained visions of laughter and bonding as we made discoveries together, but no one seemed willing to participate. After nearly two hours of wandering around, we stumbled upon an entire wing of the museum dedicated to erosion and its effects on the rich farmland of the Midwest. I attacked the display with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, but I was the only person in our little party of four who would dig in the enormous sand basin with my fingers.

It was cathartic somehow, all that dense, wet sand in my palms. I spread it with my fingertips and coaxed it into soft hills and hollows with an almost-childlike abandon. I could have made sand castles or sculptures; I could have climbed up into the display and spread out on the cool, simulated beach. Pretended I was somewhere, anywhere, else. Alone.

But I wasn’t alone. I was orchestrating a reluctant union.

“Make it rain!” I called after I had created a series of creeks and rivers that were supposed to channel the water as a slow spigot dribbled simulated spring melt.

Simon sighed and turned on the pipes full blast. He acted as if it were an enormous chore to rotate his wrist a couple of degrees.

But I ignored the sulky plunge of his lips and watched with fascination as the trickle of water soon turned my carefully constructed canals to soup. I cheered the process on, still flicking wet sand from dirty hands, but when I turned to see how everyone else was responding to the intriguing presentation, they had all slunk away. Simon was scuffing his foot against the concrete floor, making high-pitched squeaks with the rubber soles of his tennis shoes like little cries of protest. Daniel was leaning against a wall sign that read “Area Water and Its Effect on Plants,” head hung as if he was sleepy. And Michael, several steps away, muttered into his cell phone.

I gave up after that. We ate a quiet lunch in the museum cafeteria, then headed back to Mason hours before I thought we’d make the homebound trek.

They know something’s up,
I reasoned as I watched the watercolor landscape fly past my window. It was raining softly, and water streaked the car and blurred the scenery with mellow strokes of ash and gray as if the world had burned and was melting before my eyes.

“Michael and I are getting married,” I said to my reflection.

The car was quiet; there was no way they could have missed my sudden declaration, but for a moment no one said a word.

“Isn’t that great?” Michael chimed in after a heartbeat. He reached for my hand and held it fast.

I swiveled to face him and found that his eyes were balanced between delight and surprise. We had planned on spilling the beans after church tomorrow.

“A June wedding,” Michael continued. “So you boys are going to have to be fitted for tuxes. Monkey suits. I bet you’ve never worn a monkey suit before.”

Pulling out of my fiancé’s grip, I stuck my head between the bucket seats and regarded the boys. Simon was looking out his window, jaw set in a firm, resolute line, but Daniel’s gaze was trained on me.

“What do you think?” I asked him softly.

He just stared.

“Michael and I are getting married,” I repeated. “Do you know what that means?”

It took Daniel a second, but he nodded.

“Exciting news, isn’t it?”

“Congratulations,” Simon muttered from his corner of the car.

“Congratulations,” Daniel echoed.

I watched my boys for a flicker of understanding, for the smallest glimmer of excitement at my life-changing announcement. But they seemed as bewildered as I had been when Michael first slipped the ring on my finger.

Time,
I decided, settling back into my seat. I watched the hazy roadside signs tick past, marking the path home, and thought,
They just need a little time.

* * *

I wish I could say that life went back to normal when Michael went back to school. But I’ve learned that
normal
is a relative term. Loosely applied and often overused.

It’s true that we settled into our daily routine—school, work, family time, sleep—but the whole pattern seemed off, as if someone had nudged the axis of our quiet world and we were left to spin just the tiniest bit crooked. I felt the shudder of each lopsided orbit at the core of my very bones.

There were things we didn’t say. Words that were just below the surface, that echoed through the house like private whispers. Just a smidge too soft. Just out of reach. Murmurs of weddings and husbands and stepdaddies. Soft moans of discontent. Sighs of Parker. The heavy syllables settled in the corners, weighted the walls with unspoken burdens so that each rotation of our unbalanced life allowed new cracks to form in the foundation. I wanted to skimcoat everything. Pretend it was fine.

Near the end of October, Grandma announced that it was time to go wedding dress shopping.

“Now?” I asked, surprising myself. Of course I was thrilled to participate in such an exciting rite of womanhood, but somehow it seemed too rushed. Too soon.

“Actually, we should have gone the day after Michael proposed,” Grandma said. “I’ve heard that you need to order wedding dresses six to nine months in advance.”

“Six to nine months?” I did the math. “We have almost eight.”

“Exactly. How’s Saturday for you? I’ve already called the Walkers, and Jonathan can watch the boys for the afternoon.”

“Mr. Walker? What about Mrs. Walker?”

“She’d like to come with us.” Grandma looked a little sheepish, but there was no need for her to feel awkward. The moment the words were out of her mouth I remembered a long-ago promise I’d made to my friend and mentor. Though Mrs. Walker had two daughters of her own, she claimed that wedding dress shopping with me would be one of the highlights of her motherhood experience. Even after Francesca gave her two beautiful granddaughters, Mrs. Walker still considered me family.

“Sounds like fun,” I managed. “The three of us will have a wonderful time together, I’m sure.”

Grandma pursed her lips like she had more to say.

“We won’t have a wonderful time together?” I amended, confused.

“No, of course we will. I just think that it should be the four of us.”

“Four? Who else would come?”

“Mrs. Vermeer.”

“Michael’s mom?”

“That’s pretty standard procedure, Julia. She’s going to be your mother-in-law. We need to at least invite her.”

It wasn’t that I had a bad relationship with Michael’s parents. It was more that I didn’t
have
a relationship with them. Holidays and Sunday dinners with his family were deafening affairs, filled with chaos and void of any meaningful conversation. We were lucky to get out a “Please pass the potatoes” over the raucous din. Michael’s mother felt like a stranger to me. But I made the requisite call anyway, and she seemed pleased to be invited along.

On Saturday afternoon, we met at our farm for brief introductions, then piled into Mrs. Walker’s Suburban. Grandma and Mrs. Walker sat in the front while my future mother-in-law and I climbed into the back. The radio was turned up a touch too loud, so Mrs. Vermeer and I couldn’t hear what the ladies were discussing in the front seat. We were left to fend for ourselves.

Mrs. Vermeer was a petite woman, well over fifty but a stunning beauty in her own right, with dark hair and bright eyes that left no doubt as to where Michael got his good looks. Fortunately, Michael favored his father in stature. But tiny or not, Mrs. Vermeer was an intimidating woman, the sort of refined lady who never had a hair out of place or a perfectly manicured nail tip smudged. I couldn’t keep my fingernails clean with two boys in the house, much less manicured. I wondered how she did it with five grown sons and nine grandchildren.

Alone in her presence for the first time in my life, I felt utterly tongue-tied and desperate; I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to this woman who would soon be a part of my family. More accurately, I would be a part of hers. What if she didn’t want me?

“I—I love my engagement ring,” I finally ventured after we had traveled a few miles in utter silence. “Did you help Michael pick it out?”

“No,” Mrs. Vermeer said, not unkindly. “He wanted to do it himself.”

“Well, he did a good job.”

“I saved my mother’s ring for Michael’s bride, but he wanted to buy you something new.”

The statement stunned me. Michael had turned down a family heirloom in favor of purchasing a chain store engagement ring that had likely been mass-produced? Why? All of a sudden I feared that Mrs. Vermeer assumed it was my fault—that I had wanted something expensive and new. Had insisted on it.

“I would have loved to have your mother’s ring,” I said quickly. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“Oh, it is. But it probably wouldn’t have fit you anyway.”

Mrs. Vermeer reached to touch the curled ends of her hair, and I saw the tiny bones in her slender wrist when the hem of her coat fell back. If her mother was anything like her, Mrs. Vermeer was right: the ring would never fit me. I wasn’t a large girl, but I was easily double the size of Michael’s diminutive mom.

“Well, then, maybe it worked out for the best,” I muttered, feeling like an idiot.

We drove the rest of the way pretending to listen to the conversation that was going on in the front seat. Mrs. Walker and Grandma had been friends for decades, and they settled into an easy pattern of talk and laughter that we mimicked from the backseat. When they laughed, we chuckled along. When they spoke, we listened intently—or at least attempted to.

The first and only dress shop that we stopped at was in Glendale. Since it was a college town, the boutique stayed busy pretty much year-round, and Grandma had needed to book an appointment for me with the sales consultant. We were right on time, and as we neared the glass doors, they swung open for us as if by magic.

“Welcome to the French Door!” a plastic-looking young woman oozed at us. “I’m assuming you’re with the DeSmit/Vermeer bridal party?”

I stared at the high plane of her marble forehead and the mass of butter-colored curls she had swept into an updo that towered six inches above her head. She was going to help me pick out a wedding dress?

“Yes,” Grandma said, stepping into the brocade interior of the potpourri-scented shop, “that’s us.”

I followed my grandmother dumbly into the store and was struck with a sense of claustrophobia so acute that I almost turned around and left. We were standing beneath a chandelier as big as our kitchen table and surrounded by gaudy silk arrangements in gold urns that were nearly as tall as I was. Wedding dresses lined the walls in a blinding tapestry of pearl on ivory on white, and music that made me think of cherubs and bare-bottomed cupids floated around us. It was stifling. But Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Vermeer were behind me, and my only route of escape was effectively cut off. I couldn’t go anywhere without barreling through them.

“Well, let me take your coats,” the saleslady purred. “My name is Liv and I’ll be helping you today. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water,” I managed.

“Not for you, silly!” Liv grinned at me. “You have to try on dresses, and we wouldn’t want to spill anything on the gowns, now would we? That is, unless you’re the bride.” The clerk tweaked Grandma’s arm conspiratorially.

“No,” Grandma assured her, “the pretty one is the bride.”

My little entourage was brought flavored coffee and spiced green tea while I was whisked away by my Barbie-doll attendant. She marched me up and down the aisles of gowns, pressing me for information about my likes and dislikes, my childhood dreams of marital ecstasy. To her, it all came down to the dress.

“You have to have some idea,” Liv finally said, exasperated. She had grilled me about length, sleeve design, necklines, waistlines, and trains, and when I stared at her blankly, she started in with specific cuts and styles. “Ball gown? Empire waist? A-line? Sheath?”

I shrugged.

Liv moaned. But just as quickly as she showed defeat, she perked up. “So we’re starting with a blank slate. A tabula rasa. And I get to write on you!”

She sounded just a little too excited about the idea.

A half hour later I was standing on a pedestal in front of more reflective surfaces than a house of mirrors. I stared at my hair and wished that I would’ve done something special with it because my limp, mousy brown waves looked downright ridiculous paired with the frothy confection Liv had squeezed me into. I looked like a grubby little girl playing dress-up.