Good Luck

by Samuel S. Crawford

  Then Mom yells something about the time, and she sticks out her hand for a taxi. Dad asks, “Where are you going now?” and Mom says that she, Dahlia and I have appointments to get fitted for our dresses.

  “What dresses?” asks Dad.

  A cab pulls over and Dahlia jumps in first. “Dresses for the ceremony!” says Mom. Then she asks Dad if he wants the cab to drop him off at the hotel on our way to the dress shop. Dad refuses. Mom, Dahlia and I climb into the cab, then Mom tells the driver to take us to Carol Hannah. Dad walks fast, but our cab is faster. I roll down my window and yell at him as we pass. Dad starts running and catches up to the cab. He yells, “You think this cab is faster than me?” Then he shoves his hand through our window and I pretend to bite his fingers. Dahlia says, “You’re going to get Dad killed!”

  Mom says, “Tell your father he is going to hurt himself if he keeps acting like a child.” I say, “Bye Dad! Eat some food for me!”

  In the cab, Dahlia naps and I pick at my cuticles. “Stop that,” says Mom, “you’re making them worse. You need a Band-Aid,” but I don’t have a Band-Aid, so instead I suck at my fingers until they stop bleeding so bad.

  Dahlia and I are sitting in the middle of Carol Hannah on this huge pink puff while Mom tries on identical white, turtleneck dresses and asks, “What do you think?” I wanted Mom to try on this hooded dress that looked like it was made for an elf, but she refused.

  “Soft,” says Dahlia, holding the train of Mom’s dress.

  “It is soft!” I say, also petting Mom’s dress. Mom smiles at me in the mirror. I notice a small trail of blood on the dress, and for a moment I think that Mom is bleeding. Then I realize that the blood is coming from my finger. Thankfully, neither Mom nor Dahlia notice.

  “I like it,” says Mom, walking towards the big three pane mirror. “I don’t know.” “Dad would like it,” says Dahlia.

  “I don’t think you should get it,” I say, trying not to stare at the blood trail.

  “Why not?” asks Dahlia. “Don’t listen to her, Mom. It’s perfect.” I’m beginning to get real panicked. What if I tell Mom about the blood trail and she makes me pay for the whole dress? I’d never get any allowance again.

  “Try on one with a hood!” I say, but Mom says, “I don’t know, I’m really leaning towards this one.”

  Then the sales lady comes over to us and asks how everything is going. “Good,” says Mom, “thinking this might be the one.”

  “Is there a limit on the number of dresses she can try on?” I ask, standing up to sort of block Mom from view. The sales lady says no, of course not, so I beg Mom to try on a few more.

  “Don’t you want the perfect dress?” I ask.

  The sales lady starts picking up some of the discarded dresses. She smiles and says, “You only get married twice!” and I laugh along with her, because at least she is being helpful. Then she brings Mom another dozen dresses to try on, and Mom makes me come into her room with her to get her “out of this thing.” As I am unbuttoning the dress, it strikes me how frail Mom is. She isn’t frail like she’s too skinny. She’s frail in the way where she might be blown to the ground come a heavy wind. When Mom’s finally out of the dress, she tells me to put it on top of the “maybe” pile, but instead I hide it in the middle of the rejects.

  Mom tries on another satin dress that has a longer train and about a million buttons in the back. “I don’t know,” says Mom. “These buttons are a pain.”

  I say, “I’ll help you. You won’t have to do anything.” Once I am sure that my fingers have stopped bleeding, I button Mom into the dress, tucking her wrinkly skin under the satin. She’s got so many spots and wrinkles; she looks pretty tan against all the white. I say, “It’s nice to be away from Dad for a little bit,” and Mom says, “He loves you girls a lot,” and I say, “I know,” and then I ask, “Do you think he loves you a lot?” I don’t know why I ask that, except that I never see Mom and Dad kiss or even hold hands, and sometimes they fight so much, I wonder if they wouldn’t be happier without each other. Mom is quiet for a minute. Then she says, “I think he loves our life together.” Then Dahlia comes barging in and asks, “Jesus, what is taking you guys so long?”

  I ignore Dahlia and keep buttoning. “Have you ever loved anyone but Dad?” I ask, and Mom says, “A long time ago I was married to another man who I loved a lot, but that didn’t work out so well.” Dahlia’s jaw drops. I stop buttoning Mom’s buttons. Dahlia and I look at each other. Then she asks, “You were married before?”

  Mom says, “I don’t think I can buy this dress. It’ll take hours just to get it on!” I ask, “Who were you married to?”

  Dahlia asks, “Do we have half-siblings?”

  Mom says, “Of course not. You’re being silly.”

  I ask, “How come you never told us you were married before?”

  Mom says, “It was a lifetime ago.” Then she says, “I like this one, but I’m still unsure about all of those buttons.”

  After I promise to be responsible for doing and undoing the buttons, Mom buys the satin dress, with the long train. The three of us are sitting in a coffee shop sipping on cappuccino. I like cappuccino a lot better than straight coffee.

  “What did he look like?” asks Dahlia. “Tall,” says Mom.

  “When’s the last time you talked to him?” asks Dahlia.

  “Thirty years ago,” says Mom. “Was he smart?” asks Dahlia.

  I ask, “Does Dad know about him?”

  Mom says, “Yes, he was smart. Yes, Dad knows about him.” “Did you love him more than you love Dad?” asks Dahlia. “Of course not,” says Mom.

  I ask, “Why’d you get divorced?”

  Mom says, “We just didn’t have anything in common.”

  Then I ask, “What do you and Dad have in common?” And Mom says she has a headache, and not to talk until we get back to the hotel room. I down the rest of my coffee, and then run outside so that I can be the one to hail the cab. When one pulls over, Mom tells our driver to take us back to the hotel. Then Dahlia asks Mom if she can borrow Mom’s phone to text her friends back home. She says, “I, at least, like, want to let them know that I’m alive.” Dahlia and I are about the only people I know who don’t have cell phones yet. We were supposed to get brand new iPhones last year, but then Dahlia dropped Dad’s phone in a toilet, so now we have to wait a whole ‘nother year to be eligible for a free update. At least that is what Dad says.

  While Dahlia texts, I try to count the stories of the skyscrapers as they go by. “How tall do you think they are?” I ask.

  Dahlia says, “Lisa P. says that Lauren G. took Missy A. and went up to Big Bear without you, did you know?”

  I say, “That’s not true, Lauren said she was going to take me when we got back.”

  Then Dahlia shows me the picture Lauren G. posted of Missy A. in front of her cabin.

  She says, “I guess you two aren’t best friends after all.” Then Mom says, “Bet you regret buying those cowboy hats now.”

  I want to tell Mom she’s a crappy parent for trying to hurt me like that. I’m trying real hard not to cry, because I know that if I start, I won’t be able to stop. Even Dahlia looks surprised at Mom. I stare out the window. Mom finally says, “I’m just… tired.” But she doesn’t say she’s sorry. She sighs real loud, then she says, “It’s just that you have the tendency to throw your loyalty at people who don’t seem to want to return that loyalty to you.”

  When we get back to the hotel room, I march over to my bed without saying hello to Dad.

  He asks, “So, how was the dress shopping?”

  Mom and Dahlia come into the room behind me. I pull out the cowboy hats from my luggage. Before anyone can stop me, I throw them on the ground and stomp them.

  Dahlia yells, “Don’t!” and Dad demands, “What the fuck are you doing?” and Mom says, “Oh, really?”

  Dad comes over and shakes my shoulders. “Calm down!” he yells ove
r and over. While he does this, I pretend to be somewhere real nice like Rome or Ireland or Disney Land. When he finally lets go, I run into the bathroom and lock the door. Nobody follows me, but I can hear Mom explain about Lauren G. and Missy A. and Big Bear.

  I run the shower and get in without even taking off my clothes. A couple of minutes later, Mom knocks, but I tell her to go away. I tell her I want to be alone, and she say ok. Then Dad knocks and tells me that everybody is going to dinner. Through the door, he yells, “Are you coming, or not?”

  “Not,” I say. Then he says, “Ok, bye,” and I hear the door shut. After everybody has gone, I take off my wet clothes and hang them up to dry. I get out of the shower, then I make the water so hot that the whole room steams up like a sauna. I trace pictures in the mirror, and then I say, “One day you’ll have proper friends who love you more than anybody else.”

  From the other side of the door, I hear Mom say my name. “What the fuck!” I yell. Mom says, “Don’t say ‘fuck.’” Then she asks, “Will you let me in?” She sounds real sad, and even more defeated than normal, so I tell her I’ll get dressed and come out.

  After I dry off, I find Mom sitting on Dahlia’s and my bed. She asks me to sit next to her, but instead, I sit on the other bed. Mom says she is sorry and I say ok. Mom says she wasn’t trying to be mean, that she was trying to save me money. I say she doesn’t know what she is talking about. “You don’t even have friends,” I say. Mom says that’s true, that she has Dahlia and me instead.

  “And Dad?” I ask. “And Dad,” she says.

  I ask, “Why’d he have to shake me like that?”

  And Mom says, “Your dad has a problem with his temper.” Then I say, “No shit.”

  And Mom says, “You’re a resilient girl. I wish I were as tough as you.” I ask Mom, “How so?”

  And she says, “You don’t let anyone keep you down.” Then Mom asks if I want to meet Dahlia and Dad, and I say no.

  Mom asks, “Want to do our own thing?” and I say ok.

  Mom and I are sitting in this tiny French restaurant, chomping on bread. After we order, I ask if we shouldn’t also get something with meat. I quote Dad’s “A meal isn’t a meal without meat.”

  Mom doesn’t answer, but she offers me a sip of her wine. Then she says, “One day you’re going to do great things, kid.”

  I ask, “Like what?”

  And she asks, “What happened to the biologist dream?”

  I sip Mom’s wine until she makes me give it back. Then I ask, “Why do you love Dad?”

  Mom rubs her forehead. Then she says, “Sometimes you have to make the best of a situation.”

  I ask, “Are you in love with him?” and Mom tells me that you can love somebody without being in love. She says, “One day, you’ll learn that there are more important things than love. One day, you’ll need a real job, and health insurance, and a car, and car insurance. You’ll have your own house and you’ll have to pay for that house, and those are all great things, but they can also trap you.”

  I ask, “Do you feel trapped?” and Mom says no, but I think she is lying.

  I say, “I’m never going to marry anybody unless I know that I could be in love with them for the rest of my life.”

  I say, “I’m never going to settle for anything else.” I say, “I’m never going to be trapped.”

  I say, “I’m gonna have the happiest marriage in the world.”

  And Mom says, “Sure, honey. If anyone can make it happen, you can.”

  It’s the morning of Mom and Dad’s wedding renewal and Dahlia and I are taking turns buttoning Mom into her dress.

  Dahlia is yelling, “Suck in, suck in!” and Mom is yelling, “I am sucking in!” and I’m taking pictures of everybody with Mom’s phone.

  After she’s all buttoned up, Mom looks in the mirror. She says, “I almost feel young!” and Dahlia says, “But Mom, you are, like, so young!”

  There’s a knock on the door, and Dad yells, “It’s me!” and I yell, “Who’s me?” and Dad yells, “It’s your father!” I open the door just a crack, and Dad asks how much longer we are going to take. Mom says, “We’re almost done.”

  Dad says, “I’m going to head out.” Then he asks, “Is anybody going to come with me or what?”

  Intersection

  Dahlia and I have a quick and silent argument about who will get to stay with Mom. Dahlia whispers, “You’ll hurt Dad’s feelings if you don’t go with him.” I say the same thing back to her, but then Dahlia yells to Dad that I’m coming with him, and Mom says, “please,” so I go.

  Dad’s wearing a real handsome suit, and when I tell him this, he claps me on the back and says he’s gonna take it back to the store when the day is over. “Smart, huh?” he asks, and I say, “Sure, Dad.”

  Dad makes us take the stairs instead of the elevator. Even though I know it’s a dumb request, I ask Dad if we can take a taxi to the park. Dad says, “I’m five times your age!” Then he tells me to stand on a bench. He says, “I’ll give you a piggy-back ride,” like I am a kid or something. I’m not wearing the best shoes for walking, so I say ok, and get on.

  Dad asks, “Should we run?” and I say “No!” But then Dad starts to run and all I can do is hold on and scream.

  Outside of the park, I make Dad stop at this stand selling roses. “So I can make an aisle,” I say.

  Dad says, “Ok,” then he hands me his wallet. “Buy whatever you want.” “How much can I spend?” I ask.

  Dad says, “I don’t know, be reasonable.”

  So I buy roses of every color, and ditch the receipt when it’s given to me.

  Even before we enter the park, I can see this series of huge, orange curtains hanging over what looks like a main path. Dad asks, “What are those? Those are awful.”

  “They’re art!” I say, and skip ahead so that I can be under them. The fabric hangs just a little out of my reach.

  Dad joins me. He shakes his head and says, “That’s not art.” I ask, “Can you pick me up so that I can touch them?”

  Dad says, “I’m tired.”

  I look around and ask, “Where are all the strawberries?"

  Dad laughs at me. Then he tells me I have ten minutes before Mom and Dahlia arrive. Dad’s scowling around at all of the park-goers, muttering, “God, I wish everybody would go away. God, I don’t remember there being this many vagrants here thirty years ago.”

  I start pulling the petals off of the roses, and placing them all around this Imagine mosaic.

  Dad says, “What the hell are you doing?” I say, “Don’t swear at me!” Then I say, “Say you’re sorry,” and Dad says, “Sorry. What the heck are you doing?” I tell him I’m making an aisle for Mom to walk down, and Dad says, “You better hope the wind doesn’t pick up and blow all your roses away.”

  But the wind stays quiet, and people are real nice and walk around my flower petals, and Mom and Dahlia arrive before Dad gets too impatient. I see Mom before Dad does, and for one wild second, I want to run at her and stop her from walking down my flower aisle. But Dahlia is practically frog-marching Mom closer and closer to where we are.

  I say, “Wait a second! Who is gonna marry you guys?” and Dad looks at me like I’m an idiot. He says, “This is just ceremonial.” And I say ok. Then Dad kisses Mom on the cheek, and grabs her hand. Mom smiles. She looks real beautiful, like a princess or a queen. Then Dad pulls out a ring from his pocket and asks, “Thirty more years?” and Mom nods. She looks at Dahlia and me and says, “Thirty more years.” And then she lets Dad put the ring on her finger and Dahlia claps and cheers, but I don’t clap. I don’t say anything, but when we walk out of the park, Dad and Dahlia marching towards wherever we are going next, I hang back and take Mom’s hand. The two of us stroll real slow underneath trees that are black against the sky and when Dad yells at us to hurry up, I yell, “Mom and I are walking at our own pace and you can wait for us or not!”

  Note

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  The End

  A story by Samuel S. Crawford.