by Africa Fine
For a long time, I was angry and confused. I had so many more questions that, as Gillian’s health deteriorated, she was both unwilling and unable to answer. Jack humored me, but he agreed with her that I had to let it go. I knew it was true, but months went by and I was still consumed with the lies that had shaped my life and made me a stranger to myself.
And then she fell again. This time, she did not break any bones but caught pneumonia while in the hospital. Her body healed but her mind did not, could not, and I spent the end of the spring semester visiting nursing homes in between grading papers.
I was astounded at how much her care would cost, and it seemed she would get so little in return. Certainly, for nearly $3,000 a month she would receive the best medical care, and in general, she would be comfortable. But as nice as the best places looked, they were still institutional, and placing the word “home” after “nursing” was more of a euphemism than an accurate depiction of the facility.
* * *
But I knew we were fortunate that her insurance would pay for part of the cost, and her savings would finance the rest. In late May, Gillian moved out of our home and into Palm Shores, a place that looked and sounded like a resort but smelled like old age underneath the disinfectant and potpourri.
She had a single room that was the size of a walk-in closet. There was a small, flat-screened television and a private bathroom decorated with a flowered shower curtain that the old Gillian would have despised. She would have deemed it tacky and demanded that I take it down before she set foot into the room. Now she barely glanced at her surroundings as we unpacked her belongings.
I was reminded of that day, just two years ago, when she had moved to Florida complaining of the heat and my driving. She was so different now. I never thought I would miss the old Gillian, but I did.
That first day, I stayed until it was dark, and when visiting time was over, I left a long list of Gillian’s likes and dislikes with her nurse. She hates tomato soup, I wrote. She likes Jack.
I wished he were there with us, but he had scheduled a conference for that week, and I wouldn’t let him cancel. I couldn’t go through life letting the prince save me time and again. He was still waiting for my response to his marriage proposal. I had asked that we keep our friendship as is until I sorted things out in my head. He was great at pretending nothing had changed between us, and he never put pressure on me. I think he understood that Gillian had to be my priority. I loved him for his patience.
Gillian was sleeping when I said good-bye. I kissed her on the forehead and her brow furrowed. I smiled. She still had some of her old spirit left.
* * *
When I got home, I collapsed on the couch and cried. I cried for Gillian, and I cried for myself. Her health wasn’t in any imminent danger, but putting her in a nursing home felt like an ending. When the phone rang, I had managed to stop sobbing but my face and collar were still wet.
“How did it go?” Jack asked.
I sighed. “It was horrible. I mean, she was fine, but I’m a wreck.”
“I wish I was there with you right now.”
“Me, too.” I took a deep breath. The house was quiet but not lonely. I looked around, and for the first time in a month, everything seemed clear.
“Does your offer still stand?”
He was silent for a moment. “My offer still stands. Are you saying—?”
“I’m saying yes.”
He burst into laughter, and it was infectious. I didn’t realize until that moment how long it had been since I laughed.
“It’s not the most romantic thing, getting engaged over the telephone. In the movies, this would never happen.”
I was still giggling. “Hollywood romance is overrated. This is the most romantic moment of my life, actually.”
We laughed together for a long time, and when we finally hung up, I was peaceful.
Chapter 29
“There is only today”
My wedding was nothing like the affair I imagined when I fell for Will Brandiman all those years ago. Then, I saw myself as the fairy-tale bride who had found her prince, the woman for whom love was the answer to everything. I used to believe in the fairy tale even though my real life was far from perfect. I used to believe in the idea of a Prince Charming who would sweep me off my feet. I was the Cinderella, a fat girl who would be saved from misery by the man with the glass slipper.
But now I know better. I found love with Jack, but it didn’t solve everything. I still had so many questions about Aunt Gillian’s story, about myself. I couldn’t believe that I would never know more about my parents, that I came from a family with so many damaged people. Then again, I was damaged, too. Ever since I met Jack I had relied on him, maybe too much. But this wasn’t something he could fix. I had to figure how to live with my history and myself, all on my own.
It’s now August again, and we’re getting married on the anniversary of our trip to Niagara Falls. Am I fixed? I have decided I don’t really know what that means. But I’m okay with myself, and I’ve decided to stop looking for answers to questions that maybe I wasn’t meant to ask. I’ve got tenure now at the university, and I’m not using food to escape anymore. I’ve even started reworking my book about little Brianna. Maybe I’ll finish it, use those drawings Jack made me, and stop being afraid of other people’s judgments.
No, I’m not fixed. Maybe I was never broken in the first place.
* * *
My wedding will be small and quiet. We picked a Methodist church in Coral Gables, even though neither of us is very religious. I just fell in love with the look of the place, with its floor-to-ceiling windows behind the altar, facing out into a tropical garden and pond that reminded me of holding Jack’s hand in the botanical gardens during our trip to Canada. A family of pure white ducks lived in the pond. I saw them and knew this was the place.
Monica and Elaine are wearing simple black strapless dresses as my bridesmaids, and I am wearing white only because they talked me into it. It’s not a real wedding gown, but a simple sleeveless summer dress made of Japanese silk seersucker. One of the things I learned over the past year is that simplicity is important to me. I’ve spent my whole life creating complications for myself, and dealing with those created by others. I’ve vowed not to do it any more.
So I fought Monica when she wanted to arrange for an elaborate celebration.
“What about the floral arrangements? I was thinking something like this.”
She showed me a photo, ripped from a magazine, of enormous bunches of calla lilies overtaking what seemed like hundreds of tables draped in white linen.
“You can’t even see over those arrangements—no one could talk to people across the table,” I pointed out.
She didn’t give up. “You’re planning to have a band, right? DJs are so cheesy.”
A band sounded too fancy to me. “Maybe just a piano player for the ceremony and reception.”
We sat on my back porch. Monica flipped through bridal magazines that she subscribed to after I refused to.
“Look at this cake,” she gushed. “Ten tiers!”
I made a face. She sighed. “At least go somewhere exciting for the honeymoon. Paris? Italy?” Her face was hopeful.
We will honeymoon in Barbados.
I will change my last name, and people will call me Mrs. Jack Kingston. My life will change in ways that I can and cannot anticipate.
Jeremiah is here. When I called to invite him, he was hesitant, wondering if Gillian would be upset that he was there.
I took a breath. “I’m not sure she remembers much about what happened between you. And if she does, I’m not sure it matters.”
There was silence before he spoke.
“When you came to see me, you seemed to think it did matter. What changed?”
“She told me her story. About her parents. About you. About Brenda and Ernest.”
I knew I could ask him to tell me more, to fill in the gaps. But I also knew that hear
ing more would only raise more questions, ones that could never be answered fully enough to satisfy that need to know my family.
“So I guess you know the most important thing, now.”
I didn’t speak.
“Now you know that who you are isn’t just about who your family is. When you’re a child, you don’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice to be an orphan. Sometimes I think I didn’t even have a choice about falling in love with Gillian. But once I did, I made my choices, good and bad. That’s who I am. And that’s who you are.”
I could feel the tears wetting my cheeks, the collar of my shirt.
“Thanks, Jeremiah.”
“Now, you stop all that crying. This is a happy occasion, right? You’re getting married. So when I come down there, we’re not going to talk about all this sad stuff. We’re going to talk about the future. Your future.”
I smiled through my tears. “Can I ask you one more thing? It’s not about the past, I promise.”
He laughed. “Ask.”
“Will you give me away?”
There was another long silence, and I was afraid he would say no.
“I never liked the idea of someone giving away a woman at her wedding. You give away possessions, not people. So no, I won’t give you away because you’re not mine to give. But I will stand next to you and walk you down that aisle.”
He paused. “We’re family. After all this time, it’s nice to have a family again.”
Jack’s sister was invited, but she was in the middle of filming a movie and couldn’t get away. I tried to get him to invite his father and stepmother, but he didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to push. We both had family things to contend with, and I was in no position to tell him how to deal with his.
Gillian isn’t here. She is in a nursing home now, and she is sometimes angry, sometimes scared and always worried when I go see her. She’s worried about money, about who I am, about why I’m in her room, about how she can get out. I have tried to talk to her, but she is fading. This makes my struggle to think of her as Mother even more difficult.
* * *
I have created a number of theories to fill in the gaps. Maybe Gillian told me Brenda was my mother out of guilt. Maybe giving her sister a daughter was a final, futile way to repent for the damage she had done. Maybe my father was not a cheater, but simply a boy torn apart by emotions he couldn’t control. Maybe Brenda was driven by mental illness inherited from Marianne. Maybe Gillian had kept all of it from me out of love.
Or maybe none of it was true. Maybe Gillian’s story was the rambling of an old woman with a failing mind. I will never get more answers. I will never know the truth. This, I have to live with.
* * *
I am nervous, more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life. In an hour, I will be married. I like to think that I am going into this next phase of my life wiser than before. Over the last year, I have learned that knowing is not always better than wondering. I have learned that love is complex and confusing and defies simple explanation.
I have learned that Gillian—my mother—was right. I cannot live in the past, and I cannot change it. There is only today, and, if I’m lucky, tomorrow.
About the Author
Africa Fine has published two other novels, Katrina (2001) and Becoming Maren (2003), along with short stories and essays in print and online journals. She holds a bachelor’s degree in public policy and African-American studies from Duke University and a master’s degree in English literature from Florida Atlantic University. She is an English professor in South Florida.