by Nicole Baart
He was so beautiful. So familiar and foreign, so safe and wild all at once. I trusted him and feared him in the same breath; he held the key to make my dreams come true and yet had the power to destroy me. It was like being suspended above the world where I could soar. Or fall. Whether it was foolishness or true love, I didn’t know. But I let myself go. I held on to him, too.
“No,” Michael said, a certain gravity in his low voice. “I haven’t compared. And I have no desire to measure you against anyone else. You’d win, hands down, every time.”
“Who, me?” I demurred, trying to deflect the solemnity of the moment. Michael wasn’t the sort to wax poetic on his feelings. He told me that he loved me, but it seemed almost factual. As if he was stating the truth instead of giving expression to something that knotted him up inside. I wasn’t used to such flowery professions.
But Michael wasn’t done. “I don’t tell you enough,” he continued, almost whispering. “I don’t take the time to tell you that you’re amazing. You’re absolutely . . . perfect. Gorgeous and funny and strong. You take my breath away every time I see you.”
The lights were so low in the restaurant that I was sure he couldn’t see the fierce blush that rose in my cheeks. “Michael, don’t be silly. It’s just me. You’ve known me for five years. Surely I don’t leave you breathless anymore.”
“You do.” He grinned. And then he sat back to make room for our dessert.
The uniformed waiter was carrying a shallow bowl with two polished silver spoons. He placed it carefully at the very center of our table, where it glimmered in the candlelight like a piece of art. Coils of sugared orange peel decorated the soft rise of a dark, dense hill of chocolate. There were two crisp madeleines pressed into the shape of leaves and an impossibly delicate filigree of dark chocolate in the very center of it all. I was grateful for the distraction and ready to grab a spoon and dig in when I realized that I hadn’t quite accounted for everything. On the highest tip of the chocolate latticework dangled something that glowed, that sparkled and danced with a hot, white light.
I would have gasped if I could breathe, but as it was, the only thing I could do was whirl to face Michael. He had slid off his seat and was kneeling beside me.
“You said I’ve known you for five years,” he whispered. “But I want to know you for fifty more. And Lord willing, another fifty after that. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Julia. Will you marry me?”
I was speechless. Completely beyond any sort of reasonable reaction because this was the last thing I expected when Michael told me that he had a plan. I couldn’t even open my mouth.
But Michael took my silence as a yes. He reached for the engagement ring, the graceful white gold band that cradled a diamond like the fragment of a promise. Singling out the ring finger of my left hand, he slipped it past my knuckle to the place where it would fit for all my days to come.
Forever.
Decisions
I was engaged.
Beloved. A wanted woman. A wife-to-be.
Ever since I was a little girl, I had longed to hear those four incomparable words—Will you marry me? I believed they would validate my existence, affirm my worth, make me feel cherished and special and deserving of love. Marriage was a thing of beauty, a promise of “till death do us part” underpinned with declarations of commitment, devotion, and happily ever after.
But after only five minutes of wearing the ring, I knew that engagement was a different thing altogether.
As Michael drove me home, we talked about the particulars. Or at least, we tried to.
“I was thinking a June wedding,” he told me as he turned out of the restaurant parking lot. “Early in the month.”
“June?” He might as well have said next week, June felt so close.
“Yeah. It’ll be perfect timing. I’ll finish up classes in the middle of May, and then we can get married, move, and have a week or so to settle in before I start my summer program.”
“You’re doing a summer program?”
“Well, I’m applying. I just heard about it a few days ago. It’s eight weeks long, but it’ll give me a big head start if I’m accepted. I’ll be shadowing a physician, working in an emergency room, doing a clinical care-based case study . . .”
I managed to utter, “Sounds exciting,” but the only thing I could think about was how Daniel, Simon, and I would spend those long hours in a new city while Michael slaved away at the university hospital.
“Don’t worry,” he said as if reading my mind. “There will be lots for you to do. Iowa City is a great place to live. We have tons of parks and trails, a couple of nice lakes nearby, and a really cool summer rec league. I’ve already checked into it.”
“Daniel’s in kindergarten,” I said softly.
“He’ll be eligible this summer. He could play soccer, tennis, or T-ball . . . or you can sign him up for swimming lessons. He’ll love it!”
“And Simon?”
Michael glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. It was too dark for me to read his expression, but I bristled a little when he asked, “Is Simon coming with us?”
The realization that I didn’t know the answer to that question made me deflate like a slashed tire. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “What else would he do?”
“Stay with Nellie? What about Janice? Have you heard from Janice lately?”
Of course I hadn’t heard from Janice. What was he thinking? But I bit back my prickly retort and said, “I don’t know what Simon wants. I guess we’ve got some things to work out.”
Michael laughed. “That’s marriage! Compromise, fighting over the blankets, and sacrificing for the one you love.”
But I couldn’t help feeling like I was the only one who had to sacrifice anything.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, Michael’s hand over mine on the gearshift of his car. When he had to switch gears, he pressed my hand against the smooth ball of the shaft and slid the car from first to second or third to fourth. It was how I had learned to drive a standard. I had ground the gears and popped the clutch on more occasions than I could count, but Michael’s patience with me knew no bounds. And while I had mastered the art of the manual transmission years ago, he still guided my hands through the motions so that I never forgot.
It was one of our small, unspoken connections—a way to remind ourselves that the time and distance between us didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things—and I was startled when Michael tapped the brakes for an upcoming stop sign and nudged my hand off the gearshift. He downshifted quickly, and I folded my hands in my lap as if nothing had happened. But it was hard to pretend. Michael had never before removed my hand.
“You don’t seem as excited as I hoped you’d be,” Michael finally said when we were stopped at the intersection. His words in the stillness of the warm car seemed hard, polished. “I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted to get married.”
“I do! Of course I do!” I couldn’t stand the sudden tension between us, but if I was honest with myself, I could hardly blame him for jumping to the wrong conclusion. I hadn’t exactly been the sort of fawning fiancée new husbands-to-be expected to parade around. And I’d been engaged only an hour. The sparkly patina of white gowns, layer cakes, and marital bliss should have been far from faded.
I was botching my marriage already.
Rotating in my seat to face him full-on, I took an unsteady breath and said, “You just took me by surprise. When you said two months ago that you had a plan, it never crossed my mind that this might be it. I’m still wrapping my head around the idea. I guess I’m shell-shocked.”
“Shell-shocked? That term hardly has positive connotations.”
“Stunned,” I amended. “Amazed, blown away, astonished.”
“Better,” Michael conceded.
“Mystified, thrilled, ecstatic . . . ,” I continued.
There was no one on the highway but us, and when Michael turned to kiss me, I gave in and let mysel
f forget every doubt. Every worry.
At least for a moment.
* * *
I was grateful that the boys were already in bed when Michael and I got home. He wanted to wake them up with the good news, but I balked at his enthusiastic suggestion, convincing him that Simon and Daniel were likely fast asleep and would resent the interruption of their dreams. In reality, I was quite sure they were both wide-awake and indulging in a few stolen minutes—Simon reading a book under the covers and Daniel driving new Matchbox cars along the stripes of his comforter. But I wasn’t about to admit my suspicions to Michael. I simply wasn’t ready to tell my boys. Not yet.
Grandma was a different story. We didn’t even bother to shrug off our jackets before we hunted her down in the living room to announce our plans. I couldn’t fathom how she had guessed Michael’s intentions, but she seemed to anticipate our news long before I took my hand out of my coat pocket and showed her the shining ring. There was a thin smile on her face, but it was paired with a look of phony surprise that made it impossible for me to tell if her joy at our upcoming wedding was sincere or not. As she turned my hand this way and that, admiring the cut of the square diamond and the slender rope of the delicate band, I decided that she was happy for us. She was just preoccupied by the same questions that rattled around in my head.
How in the world were we going to make this work?
“June?” Grandma asked. She gave my fingers one last squeeze before letting go. “A June wedding will be lovely. That gives us . . . How many months to plan?”
“A little less than eight,” Michael said without pause. “I’ve already called the church and booked three different dates. I figured Julia would like to have a few options.”
I wasn’t able to suppress the stunned look that swept across my features. My mouth was a little O of disbelief, and I had to make a conscious effort to close it. To smile. “You’ve reserved the church?”
“Fellowship Community.” Michael nodded. “I thought you’d want to get married in your own church.”
“I do,” I whispered. “Of course I do.”
Michael grinned, obviously thrilled that he had gotten it right. “And since you can’t take pictures of yourself, I booked a lady in Glendale who is supposed to be the best around. But she’ll only hold all three dates until Monday. We’ll have to make some decisions fast.”
“The best around?” I parroted lamely.
“Well, you’re the best around,” Michael assured me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders for a quick, placating hug. “But like I said, you can’t take pictures of yourself.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a lot of work already,” Grandma said.
“I don’t want Julia to have to stress about every little detail. Between work and school and the kids . . . she’s got a lot on her plate.”
Though it wasn’t in my nature to be suspicious, it seemed to me like Michael’s tone held the smallest twinge of accusation. But before I could speculate about the origins of his resentment, it hit me that Daniel and Simon weren’t the only things I would have to sort out against the backdrop of a new life, a new home. There was also my schooling, my job, and my fledgling photography business. And I hadn’t even begun to consider what my marriage plans would mean for my grandmother.
“Actually,” Michael began, holding me a little tighter, “my mom has taken care of a few more things. . . .”
“Your mom?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s no big deal, really. I just asked her to take a peek at some flower arrangements and put together a few cake ideas.”
“Flowers? Cakes?”
“Yeah.” Michael grinned. “Remember the bouquet I sent you a couple months ago? the one that you got right before I told you I had a plan?”
My mind flashed to the delphiniums, chrysanthemums, and freesia. The roses that were painted to match a morning sun. It was a bouquet that had been handpicked by someone who knew me. Who loved me.
“Your mom picked out those flowers?”
“No, she has someone to take care of everything for her: decorating, hair, arrangements . . . you name it. The lady at the Flower Cart put together that bouquet. Did you like it?”
“It was perfect,” I whispered.
“It was you.” Michael dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I described you to the florist, and that’s what she came up with.”
“Did your mom find someone to do the cake, too?” Grandma asked.
I couldn’t tell if there was a catch in her voice or if I was only imagining it. Years ago, when I was still naive enough to dream about a fairy-tale wedding replete with bridesmaids, birdseed, and a sumptuous buffet, we had delighted in the idea of making our own cakes, a gift of sorts for the people who came to celebrate in our joy. Little ones for every table, Grandma had decided. A different flavor each, with white fondant and flowers from our own garden.
But Michael didn’t know about our distant daydreams. “Lily’s makes amazing cakes,” he said. Like we didn’t already know that. “She’ll do a three-tiered vanilla cake for a very reasonable price. It’s not big, but we can do the rest as sheet cakes.”
“You sure know a lot about wedding planning,” Grandma said kindly.
I pulled out of Michael’s half embrace and spun to face him. “Hang on. How do you know so much about wedding planning? I can’t believe you’re taking an interest in this. I can’t believe you know anything about three-tiered cakes and wedding bouquets.”
“It’s the only thing my mom and I have talked about for weeks,” Michael groaned, flopping down on the couch as if it was exhausting just to discuss the planning process. “I am so glad that it’s finally official and I can turn it all over to you. My mother has been driving me crazy.”
I almost said, Maybe your mom can just plan our wedding. But even though my heart was a twisted knot of emotions, I knew that my sourness would be misunderstood. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Michael. I did. And the last thing I wanted to do on the night of our betrothal was ruin his excitement with my whininess.
Everything was just happening so fast.
“Crazy.” I said the word quietly, grounding myself. “I can do crazy.”
“Good, because I’ve had more than my fair share.” Michael reached up and pulled me to sit beside him on the couch.
I was concerned that he would want to engage in more wedding talk, but instead of continuing on about the plans he had made with his mom, he reached for the remote and clicked on the TV. It was as if the room exhaled, as if everyone breathed a sigh of relief that the topic of our nuptials could be shelved for at least the length of the late show. We settled into a somewhat-comfortable silence, until Grandma got up and announced she was going to bed. I could hardly believe she had stayed up as long as she did.
“Congratulations again,” she whispered, giving me one last tender look. Michael’s attention was fixed on the television and she didn’t have to manufacture any emotions for his sake. I felt like I was finally able to gauge her real reaction to my new fiancé’s proposal.
There was a gentle delight in her eyes, a soft contentment that told me in no uncertain terms that she still longed for my happiness. But there was more. In her deep, cream-and-coffee eyes, I read uncertainty, disquiet, even melancholy. And I knew exactly why. Michael’s proposal marked the end of an era. The beginning of a new life that neither of us could quite call into focus no matter how hard we tried to squint at the future.
I was sure that my face mirrored her own.
When Grandma was gone, Michael pulled my head down onto his shoulder and relaxed into the couch. I was sure that he would have gladly fallen asleep there, nestled in the warm embrace of his future bride. But when the late show eventually went off air and an old rerun of a corny sitcom filled the living room with canned laughter, I gave him a little nudge.
“I should get to bed,” I whispered. “And so should you. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“A big day?” Michael asked, bli
nking at me as if I had indeed woken him.
“The children’s museum?” I reminded him. “Daniel and Simon have been looking forward to it.”
“Oh yeah. It’ll be fun,” Michael said.
“Not if we’re both cranky and groggy.”
“I’m a med student,” he reminded me. “I sometimes get to see the sun rise.”
“Me too, but it’s at the end of a good night’s sleep. That’s something you’re going to have to learn about me: I need a good night’s sleep.”
Michael left reluctantly, drawing me into long kisses that I had to extract myself from with patience and poise. He was so blinded by the promise of never having to say good night again that he seemed to forget we had to say, “I do” before that particular marital perk kicked in.
By the time I finally had him out the door, I was exhausted, and my head felt like it had taken one too many spins on a Tilt-A-Whirl. It was a sick, hungover feeling, though I could hardly blame the few sips of wine I had with dinner for leaving me so nauseous and dizzy.
What, then?
More importantly: What was wrong with me?
This was exactly what I had wanted. What I’d yearned for since almost the first day I laid eyes on the painfully handsome Michael Vermeer. He was an amazing man. A future doctor. The catch of the century with cornflower blue eyes, hair the color of jet, and a heart so kind, so generous, I would be a fool to do anything but dance at the prospect of being his wife.
So why wasn’t I sashaying across the kitchen floor?
Because I hadn’t expected Michael to propose.
Because I was tired.
Because it meant I would have to make a lot of tough decisions.
Because my future husband hadn’t picked out the flowers I loved or asked me if I would like to get my wedding cake from the local bakery or consulted me about who I wanted to be our photographer.
Because his mother planned our wedding while mine was incommunicado.
I had a hundred reasons marshaled like soldiers ready to take the fall. If one was shot down, another rose to stand in the line of fire. I could massacre an army of excuses and still find recruits among the ruins of my secreted thoughts.