Until I Say Good-Bye

by Susan Spencer-Wendel

  Marina said not a word.

  We turned the corner to the dressing rooms. The white salon. The famous storage room where hundreds of dresses hang in plastic protector sleeves. The one Randy scurries back to on the show to pluck out “the One” for the flummoxed bridezilla fighting with her mother in the fitting room.

  On television, the storage room is a smorgasbord of frosted delights. In real life, it’s a glorified closet. That morning, Kleinfeld’s seemed much smaller.

  And the dresses much larger, like they were for eight-foot fairy-tale brides in castle weddings. The Spencer-Wendel women are barely over five feet tall.

  Marina and I were overwhelmed.

  “Want to try one on?” I slurred, touching Marina’s hand. We were in a room full of flying dresses, looking up at their bottoms. Extra storage, we were told. A conveyor belt of dresses that stretched all the way to the next block.

  “Okay,” Marina said in her squeaky voice.

  “Tell them the style you’d like. Pick a silhouette.”

  “Pick a silhouette” means pick the shape of the dress—wide ball gown, straight, A-line.

  Marina stood mute.

  I felt badly for bringing her. For foisting such an adult experience on a child. And crying, I knew, would only ramp that up a thousand times. So I held back.

  As Marina disappeared silently into the dressing room, I tried not to think of my little girl on her wedding day.

  I tried not to think of her as a baby in my arms. Nor her with her own baby in her arms one day.

  I tried not to think of Marina right now, embarrassed by her mother’s plans. By things she could not and should not yet understand.

  Rather, I poured out wedding-dress tips to Stephanie.

  I am leaving money in my will for Marina’s wedding dress. Stephanie has promised to bring her back to Kleinfeld’s to purchase it. Which in itself is crazy, amusing, and dear.

  You see, Stephanie’s all-time favorite clothing store is what we call the “Hoochie Mama” store, where tiny polyester sundresses and plastic stiletto shoes are all $9.99.

  When we visited my publisher, I had to tell her, “Cover up. Wear something high on top.” She often pours her ample chest into the polyester in such a way I worry about a wardrobe failure.

  And this was the woman I was counting on to help Marina pick the most sophisticated and lavish dress of her life.

  Alas. I just hoped the godawful glut of strapless gowns would be outsourced to China by then. In my opinion, they made women look like linebackers.

  “No stark white!” I said to Stephanie. “Ivory. Not too much tulle. Think lace.”

  Marina had picked an A-line dress, one that flares out at the bottom like the letter. Or more precisely, the ladies of Kleinfeld’s had picked it for her. Marina was too stunned to do more than nod.

  “Think royalty when picking a dress,” I counseled Steph, as we waited outside the dressing room. “Think Princess Kate. Sophisticated. Elegant. Think long sleeves. They transform dresses to more formal.”

  Marina came out.

  Strapless. Flared. She looked like a fourteen-year-old girl parked in the middle of a giant cupcake, ready to tackle the quarterback.

  “I don’t like poofy,” she said.

  That’s my girl!

  “How ’bout trying on one with long sleeves?” I asked her.

  I had mentioned to the Kleinfeld’s folks that my all-time favorite dress was the one Bella wore in the movie Breaking Dawn. A sheath of form-fitting silk with a sheer lace back and long sleeves with lace points extending over the hands.

  The ladies brought out a dress similar to Bella’s and Princess Kate’s. Long lace sleeves and empire neckline, a ruched, fitted waist, long smooth silk skirt with a train.

  Marina disappeared into the dressing room. I laid on “when the day comes” advice for Stephanie—“When the day comes, choose x.” “When the day comes, do y.” Advice I can’t remember, for my heart was in that dressing room.

  The door opened. Marina appeared, a foot taller and a decade older.

  I could clearly see the beautiful woman she will be one day.

  I simply stared.

  What do you do in bright-line moments, when your loss whomps you on the head? When you glimpse a moment you will not live to see?

  I dipped my head. Breathe, I told myself.

  I looked up. I smiled, and Marina smiled back. I worked my tongue into position to speak.

  “I like it,” I said.

  Marina usually stands with a teenage hunch, but in that dress she stood straight, radiant and tall.

  “You are beautiful,” I whispered, my tongue barely cooperating. I don’t know if she heard me. I was slurring and fighting tears.

  We took some photos.

  And moved on.

  A memory made.

  Marina returned the dress and went back to her jeans shorts and sneakers. We rolled on quietly past the measuring room, the tuxedo room, the large underground room where dozens of women sat hunched over sewing machines.

  There were too many people around to say what I wanted Marina to hear. How special she is to me.

  That I will always be with her in spirit.

  Always.

  Kleinfeld’s was not the place for such a conversation. Not with two saleswomen swirling around us, giving veil advice. Brides wandering red-eyed with team in tow. A stream of people cutting past us, ducking into changing rooms.

  Kleinfeld’s had been hesitant to let us try on dresses, worried that scads of terminally ill mothers might descend on them. No worries. Kleinfeld’s was not the place for saying the words you hope your daughter will remember all her life.

  Which probably is for the best.

  For Marina is a child.

  A child counting on her mother to be with her. To protect her.

  They loaded me back into the handicap van, with its wheelchair cage. Steph made the same joke about the dog pound. I laughed to keep from crying. Oh sweet sister, don’t break my heart.

  “Can we get pizza on the way back?” was all Marina said.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  That night as I slept, Marina lay down beside me.

  “You are so cute, Mom,” Stephanie heard her say.

  She kissed me.

  When I awoke the next morning, my daughter was sleeping beside me.

  For Good

  Our final night in New York, we made it a night just for the three of us: Marina, Stephanie, and me.

  On the trip, there had been no discussions with Marina about illness or death. Not for a child who thinks small talk about pizza is awkward. Not for a child so thrilled by her new clothes bought in New York.

  “It was on sale and the only extra small!” she squealed about a black miniskirt from the three-story wonder store by the hotel.

  No, no deep discussions for her. What-oh-what would I even say?

  So that final eve we did something where you don’t have to talk. Something that left us speechless. We went to a Broadway show: Wicked.

  It’s a riff on The Wizard of Oz—the backstory of the friendship between Glinda the Good Witch and the green Wicked Witch. It was spectacular, with flying monkeys and gorgeous costumes and a green-skinned star who sang her heart out. I sat beside Marina. I touched her hand with my curled fingers, grateful for the dark silence and extravaganza before us.

  In New York, I had cried once, when someone asked me to talk about my children. I didn’t cry at Kleinfeld’s, seeing Marina in that gown. Nor at the wedding. Nor when I was schlepped in that handicapped van like a piece of cargo.

  Not until Marina leaned over to me in the dark theater and began singing along with the show, a song called “For Good.” The witches were singing good-bye to one another, accompanied by harp and horn.

 
It well may be

  That we will never meet again

  In this lifetime,

  Marina softly sang.

  My heart pounded, eyes welled.

  So let me say before we part

  So much of me

  Is made from what I learned from you.

  You’ll be with me

  Like a handprint on my heart.

  I looked at my girl. My little girl. Slowly, I raised my hand, and wiped away tears. Beside me, Marina wiped hers away as well.

  When the show was over, I asked her why she was crying.

  “Because you were, Mom.”

  Okay, I thought. No more of that.

  Captiva Island

  August

  The Lion’s Paw

  My son Aubrey wanted to go to Sanibel Island, Florida, for his special trip. He had gone a few years before with our neighbor Sabra and her children, and it was his favorite place.

  Sanibel Island, and its neighbor Captiva Island, are long, flat barrier islands off the west coast of Florida, places renowned for their seashells and sunsets.

  Mind you, not all beaches have shells. The Florida beach I live near on the east coast usually has just a thin strip of inch-longers and broken fragments deposited by the tide. Sanibel and Captiva are positioned at such an angle to the Gulf of Mexico that millions of shells wash up on their shores.

  A seeker’s dream.

  And the islands were only a three-hour drive west of Palm Beach, an easy jaunt across Florida’s inland swamp. A close world, a familiar one, but separate and special nonetheless.

  Wonderful, I thought. Perfect.

  I set to work.

  Aubrey and I sat in the Chickee hut and looked over websites. He chose a house on Captiva Island that slept ten, right next to the beach. It was three stories tall, “with an elevator, Mom, so you can go up and down.”

  We would be there for a week in late August, with John and the other kids, Nancy and her children, Steph and her family, cycling through. But the first three days would be for me and Aubrey.

  And Steph, my caretaking companion.

  I knew exactly the memory I wanted to plant.

  As children, Steph and I had mooned over a book called The Lion’s Paw. As soon as we read it—in fourth grade for both of us—it was our favorite book.

  We loved Nick and Penny, a brother and sister who run away from a cruel orphanage in search of a better life. They meet Ben, a teenager whose father has gone missing in the war. Ben is convinced that if he finds a lion’s paw, a rare shell found on and around Sanibel and Captiva, his lost father will return to him.

  The children steal away on Ben’s father’s boat in search of that small shell. They travel all over south Florida, fighting alligators, hiding in mangroves, outwitting pursuers, forming a tight friendship, learning lessons, and having the adventures of a lifetime.

  For years, I wanted to be like Penny or Nick or even Ben. I wanted to steal away and find what I was missing in my life.

  I own a lion’s paw shell, a fully intact one, with all five “knuckles.” Knuckles are knobs on the shell that make it resemble a real animal paw. I received my shell as a young adult and kept it through children and travels and career, one of my prized possessions.

  I love it because, on first glance, the lion’s paw is not unique. It is the basic fan shape of almost every shell in the ocean, with a preponderance of brown.

  But a true lion’s paw comes from one particular species of scallop.

  It is the size of a fist. The distinctive ridges are so high and curved they look almost like toes. And the color, on closer inspection, is not brown, but a dozen shades of orange, with purple bands that spiral and melt, or striate the shell, or mix with the orange into ochre. A glance-and-you-might-miss-it beauty, but one that grows the more you look. Each shell a story in itself.

  I decided to take my lion’s paw to Captiva.

  After reading the book with Aubrey, I would take my old-soul son to the beach. One of the landing-strip-wide sections. We would talk of the story of the lion’s paw as the sun set, painting the sky my favorite colors—sapphire, mango, magenta.

  Then, “Oh, look, a lion’s paw.” My lion’s paw, the edge poking out of the sand just where Stephanie buried it.

  Aubrey would smile. He’d probably say, “Here, Mom. You keep it.” But I’d say, “No, no, no, it’s yours, my boy. You found it, just like Nick and Penny. Keep it all your life.”

  Eye-heart-u, son.

  Eye-heart-u, too.

  Of course, if you’ve read up to here, you know events rarely happen as anticipated. The no-show northern lights, Stephanie upchucking on the cruise, Panos’s Bible, even Kleinfeld’s—none of those things turned out just as planned.

  But were perfect memories, nonetheless.

  Because I did not have expectations. I guess that’s a lesson, if there must be one. Accept the life that comes. Work and strive, but accept. Don’t force the world to be the one you dream.

  The reality is better.

  So I did not fret when a host of things went wrong with the Aubrey plan.

  “Your mom tells me she has a lion’s paw!” Ellen said to Aubrey. Ugh. Capsize the surprise, why don’t you?

  My parents told some friends, who kindly bought a lion’s paw online. My mother gave it to Aubrey with such glee. It wasn’t a real lion’s paw, but Aubrey thought it was. Sheeeeesh!

  And of course Aubrey wasn’t eager to read the book.

  Steph chased him around the house for half the summer: “Sugarplum, don’t ya wanna read? It’s my favorite book! And it’s about Sanibel!”

  “No,” he’d say.

  I decided to read it with Aubrey. But my voice was too slurred, and he had no interest in sitting down and reading to his mom.

  No bother.

  The real problem hit the moment we arrived at our house on Captiva Island. The beach. I had begun to form the plan four months before. Back then, I could have walked out with Aubrey. Not far, but far enough.

  But now, after the exhaustion of Cyprus and New York, and four more months of ALS, I could not walk unassisted. Especially on loose sand.

  Do not pine for things you cannot have, I thought, for that is the way to the loony bin.

  I turned away. Went inside our rented house, furnished just so, with a screened pool and jacuzzi, private balconies, five bedrooms, a spiral staircase, a house so lavish and nice that Aubrey didn’t want to leave.

  “There’s a flat-screen TV in every bedroom!” Aubrey gushed.

  He was knee-deep in a two-pound tub of Jelly Belly jelly beans. Jelly Bellies come in scads of flavors, like buttered popcorn, cotton candy, cappuccino, and plum. Aubrey would fish out two matching beans for Steph and me, and we’d guess the flavor. He manned the flavor guide.

  “No! No! That was pomegranate!” he’d say.

  Here’s Aubrey in a nutshell: the other night, he expressed concern about John going back to college soon. “Dad, you’re gonna get pantsed. The younger students will tease you and pull your pants down.”

  When Aubrey gained admission to a prestigious arts middle school this year, he declined to tell a buddy in his band who hadn’t made it. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  Aubrey enjoyed quiet moments with me. But three days? I knew he would enjoy company more. So I invited Nancy and her children, Liam and Devin, who met us there.

  “There’s an elevator!” sunny Devin announced. “In a house!”

  “Yes, dear, it’s for Susan,” said Nancy.

  Now this elevator would be a blessing and a curse. Because at each story it had two doors that had to be closed tightly for it to operate, and these doors tended to stick.

  The elevator was the size of a closet, fitting a wheelchair and two people at most. And it was so stuffy inside, the house
caretaker asked us to keep the doors open to air it out. There was no emergency phone or alarm, just a lone wire. If the doors got stuck, which they often did, you poked a metal rod in a hole above the door and it was supposed to pop open. Supposed to.

  Of course, the doors immediately stuck. Wouldn’t open to let me in. Nancy and Steph ran up and down the stairs, ensuring all the doors were closed so the elevator would operate.

  Finally, they had to carry me up the stairs.

  Steph grabbed me under the armpits, and Nancy grabbed my feet. Imagine a ninety-five-pound sack of potatoes. Now schlep it up two flights of stairs.

  Nancy, bearing my lighter end, wanted to move quickly. Steph with the heavier end: NOT. They kept plopping me on my bum, as gently as they could, but not as gently as I liked.

  Ergo, I was happy to stay on my third-floor private balcony, writing, enjoying the rustle of the palm tree beside me. The balcony became my command center. My place to be alone, a state I was becoming more and more comfortable with.

  I sat on my balcony while the kids explored the house. Turned on every television. Went to the beach with Nancy and Steph. Polished off the entire two-pound container of Jelly Bellies.

  I was not imposing myself on Aubrey. Not forcing him to be near me. He was close. He was having fun, and that was enough.

  In the evening, I came down to lounge. We marinated and grilled steaks, since Aubrey loves steak. Nancy nearly ignited herself along with the gas grill.

  Over dinner, we played Table Topics, a game we found in the house. Cards with questions you can talk about: “If you could meet one famous person, who would it be?” Barack Obama. “Do you love the beach or mountains more?” The beach, of course. (Steph and I resolved to get the game and play it with our parents, to try to get to know them better.) One question for everyone: “When you die, where do you want your remains put?”

  And my old-soul son said: “At the graves of my parents.”

  The game moved on. The kids went for ice cream.

  Alone in bed, I cried myself to sleep.