I let her change the subject, but on a cold day in February, when she’s helping me pack some of my summer clothes into boxes for my move to Winston, I feel the need to bring up the topic again.
With boldness, I dive in. “I get a little tired,” I say to her as I fold a shirt into a cardboard box.
She’s been humming an Elvis song, “Love Me Tender,” for the past half hour. She’s unaware that she does this. Once I told her that she hummed often and she looked at me and said, “I don’t know how to hum.” Then, as if to tease me, she started humming once more. Today she asks, “What makes you tired?”
“Your independence.”
“My what?”
“You’re always acting capable, like you don’t need me.”
Her lips pucker like she’s trying to hold back something. I watch her eyes to see if they’ll turn wet. We can cry together, I think. Mother and daughter, a good cry in my living room. This is what movies are made of.
But my mother simply takes a backless sundress off its hanger and folds it into a large box in front of where she’s seated. I wonder if she’s thinking that she ordered that dress for me two years ago and she’s never seen me in it. I’ve never let her know that the material—some man-made stiff stuff—irritates my skin when I wear it for longer than a few hours.
I keep watching her and waiting. As she continues to pick clothes off hangers and fold them into the box, I can’t keep quiet any longer. “Dovie says that you are—”
Mom cuts me off, closing the lid to the box. “Dovie does not know everything about me.”
“She wants to. We all want to know you.” I edge closer to her. Perhaps I can be the daughter who breaks her mom from her stoic mold.
“You are like your father.”
I hate it when she says that because I never quite know what it means and how I’m like a man who was born in Scotland and spoke with a heavy brogue, often mimicked by my classmates. Does she mean that I’m like him because of my love of travel? If so, she has a point. Ever since that family summer trip to his home in Edinburgh, I’ve wanted to hop on a plane and let it take me to lands I’ve only read about. Yet, as my mind snaps back to the conversation Mom and I are having now, I doubt she is weighing any of my thoughts as her own.
Mom says, “You will see that everyone has their way of dancing.”
What has this got to do with Dad? Did my father even dance?
“The dance of life. We all do it differently. But our movements and the music to which we dance are as unique as to how we survive.”
In the movies Beanie and Dovie watch, the young heroine throws up her arms in despair or faints. I want to do one or the other right now.
Determined, I say, “I want you to care that I am moving to North Carolina.”
She pats a pair of shorts with a graceful hand. “I do, Sam. I’ll miss you. And yes, I will make the trip and come and visit you.” She gives me a genuine smile. “You and Carson.” Then as her eyes rove over the boxes, she confides words I have never heard. “I was told I had no skills. Told I needed others to make me succeed. Basically, as a child, I was led to believe that Dovie had talent and I was without any. Those are the things my mother said to me. I’ve had to fight her words. All my life.”
I don’t care if she doesn’t want to be held, I step over boxes, trip on the edge of one, and wrap my arms around her.
We do cry together. She blows her nose with a tissue she produces from her pocket. I wipe my nose on my sleeve.
“Samantha,” she says later as the moon glows in a starless sky, “you make Carson a happy man.”
I want to ask, Do I make you happy? But it’s late and she has her car keys and purse in her hands. So I offer a smile and then take her in my arms and hug her tightly again. This time she feels frail and small. “I love you, Mom,” I breathe.
“I know you do, Sam.” Pulling from me, she meets my eyes. “And I love you more than you will ever know.” Then she leaves me. The clank of the door closing echoes through my apartment’s walls.
After I brew a pot of coffee, I call her to make sure she’s arrived home safely. She tells me not to worry about her.
“I’m the daughter, remember?” I say. “I’m allowed to worry.” I give a light chuckle, hoping she’ll join me.
She asks if I’ve noticed that Butterchurn has gained some weight and then tells me to sleep well. “And oh,” she says as though her next thought is not really important, “I’m going on a date tomorrow night, so if you need me, I will be out.”
“A date?” My voice squeaks.
“Yes, Samantha. Older women do go out, you know.”
“Oh yes, of course,” my words spurt. “And they should go out.”
I want to pry with questions: Do you like him? Do you want to get married again? But I already know the answers. Yes, she likes him. Officer Branson is just her type. He enjoys the classics.
forty-eight
March 1994
I asked Carson what he thought our wedding invitation should look like and he said it didn’t matter. “Can’t we just call people up and tell them to come on over?” he said one day when I dragged him into a stationer’s at the mall. I almost said that perhaps that’s the way Southerners do it down in Winston or Raleigh, but the way I was brought up, I couldn’t. But just as I got ready to speak, he suggested we get some ice cream at Baskin Robbins. So we left the stationer’s for cones of chocolate.
Seeing that Carson didn’t care about the invitation, I asked Natasha her opinion, and a decision was made. The wedding invitation is printed on ivory card stock with a white beaded border; the lettering is gold. The words on it make my heart sing:
Inside a tiny envelope is a glossy card with green wording asking recipients to respond by May 1 for the reception. Le Rue is a restaurant near the Washington Monument, where apparently my parents dined on their tenth anniversary. Mom thought that would be a great place for the reception. I said I had no money for a reception of that caliber, and she assured me that there was money. “Uncle Charlie left me some,” she said. “He told me to spend it on you when the time was right.”
I guess there are some things I still don’t know about my uncle Charlie.
At the Annandale Road post office parking lot, I open my car’s passenger door to remove a large shopping bag filled with the addressed invitations for my wedding. I stayed up too late last night writing addresses and licking stamps while The Sound of Music played on my TV. Carson had his list of family and friends to invite. When Carson took me to meet his mother in Raleigh, she presented me with hers. I was surprised how many friends Mom had on her list, including Maralinda, who has agreed to help Mom in the boutique after I move. Carson thinks that all the time Mom now spends with Officer Branson might amount to another wedding in the near future, but I’m not so sure about that.
I hold the door to the post office open for a weathered man in a wheelchair. He is gracious, thanking me. One leg is missing, and just as I notice this, I see the sticker on the back of his chair: VIETNAM VETS.
My thoughts jumble as an ache brews in my heart. I think of war and how it destroys, divides, and damages. I see the faces of those in the refugee camp and those who found their names on The List and are now in America. I want to tell this wounded soldier that I am sorry for his loss and for the abandonment he may have felt upon his return. I want to say other things, but right now I’m just honored to hold the door for him.
Inside the post office, I wait behind a woman who is letting her child insert a manila envelope into the box. The child, a girl of about six, says with a toothless grin, “Grandmommy and Granddaddy are going to love my pictures.”
The woman says, “They sure will.”
“Excited is what they’re going to be, right, Mommy?” Standing on her tiptoes, she gives the envelope a final push into the narrow slot and then claims, “I’ve gotten so big.”
As I wait, I wonder how my aunt is doing trying to convince Thuy to move to North Carolin
a and board at her home. I’ve told Carson that between Lien and Dovie, Thuy might as well stop fighting. She does not stand a chance of staying in her meager apartment here. When it comes to being pushy about certain things, Lien and Dovie are not forces to try to stand against.
When the woman and child are finished, I remove an invitation from my bag and gingerly touch it. I am getting married, I almost say aloud to the woman, to the vet, to everyone. I grin as I wonder if anyone not invited will show up.
I note how easily the first envelope slides into the blue mailbox. It’s addressed to the original Avery Jones and her husband, Perry. I add another into the thin slot, and then another one, until all ninety-two envelopes are safely inside.
When I walk outside, a breeze blows across the lawn, ruffling the American flag. I zip my coat and look at the sky. I think they’ve predicted snow again, although Mom says it’s definitely not cold enough.
Walking toward my car, I think about all those invitations I’ve addressed and just mailed. Although I hope they make their way smoothly to their intended destinations, I know that there is always that margin of error. Perhaps a woman in need of a second chance will come to my wedding. Maybe she will let herself follow an unlikely script, written just for her. Being at the wedding might just place her in the right place at the correct time to set her next adventure in motion. She might even meet someone from her past who will change the course of her future.
As Beanie would say, “Those kinds of happenings do happen, so I’ve heard.”
I know that they can. I also know that they are right nice when they do.
recipes
Dovie’s Oatmeal Bread
1 cup of old-fashioned oats (not instant)
1½ cups of boiling water
¾ cup of molasses
3 tablespoons of vegetable oil
2 teaspoons of salt
2 cups of warm water
1 tablespoon of active dry yeast
4 cups of bread flour
4 cups of whole-wheat flour
Combine the oats and boiling water in a large mixing bowl and let sit for at least thirty minutes. Add the molasses, oil, and salt to the oatmeal mixture, combining well. In a separate bowl, dissolve the yeast in the warm water. Add to the oatmeal mixture. Stir in the flour, one cup at a time. Once the dough starts to pull from the sides of the bowl, turn dough onto a floured surface and knead in the rest of the flour until smooth. Continue to knead for about 8 minutes. Place the dough in a greased bowl, turning it so that all sides are coated. Cover with a damp cloth. Let rise until doubled in size—about 1 hour. Punch down and divide dough in half. Shape into two loaves and place dough in two greased loaf pans. Cover and let rise for 45 minutes to 1 hour. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Place loaf pans in oven for 5 minutes, then reduce heat to 350 degrees F. and bake for an additional 40 minutes. Loaves should brown and will be ready to take out of oven when they sound hollow when lightly tapped.
Pearl’s Secret Family Recipe for Rhubarb Pie
For crust
3 cups all-purpose flour
2½ teaspoons sugar
¾ teaspoon salt
2⁄3 cup chilled solid vegetable shortening, cut into pieces
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons (1¼ sticks) chilled unsalted butter, cut into pieces
10 tablespoons or less of ice water
For filling
3½ cups sliced rhubarb
3½ cups hulled and sliced strawberries
1 teaspoon of lemon juice
½ cup brown sugar
½ cup white sugar
2 tablespoons of quick-cooking tapioca
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
½ teaspoon salt
1 large egg yolk beaten to blend with 1 teaspoon water (for glaze)
Make crust:
Combine flour, sugar, and salt. Cut in shortening and butter until coarse meal forms. Blend in ice water two tablespoons at a time to form moist clumps. Form dough into ball; cut in half. Flatten each half into a circle. Wrap separately in plastic; refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour. Let dough soften at room temperature before rolling.
Make filling:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Combine first 7 ingredients in large bowl. Toss gently to blend.
Roll out 1 dough disk on floured work surface to 13-inch round. Transfer to 9-inch pie dish. Trim excess dough, leaving ¾-inch overhang.
Roll out second dough disk on lightly floured surface to 13-inch round. Cut into 14 half-inch-wide strips. Spoon filling into crust. Arrange 7 dough strips atop filling, spacing evenly. Form lattice by placing remaining dough strips in opposite direction atop filling. Trim ends of dough strips even with overhang of bottom crust. Fold strip ends and overhang under, pressing to seal. Crimp edges.
Brush glaze over crust. Place pie on a baking sheet. Bake 20 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees F. Bake pie until golden and filling thickens, about 1 hour 25 minutes. Cool completely.
Mom’s Crock-Pot Stew
1 lb. lean stew beef, cubed
1 small onion, diced
4 carrots, diced
3 celery stalks, sliced
4 potatoes, peeled and cubed
1 packet onion soup mix
3 cups water
8 ounces beef broth
1 teaspoon sugar
1 8-ounce can of tomato paste
salt and pepper to taste
Place all ingredients in your favorite crock pot and cook on low for six hours.
questions for conversation
Have you ever tried to teach a child something? What was challenging about the experience? What did you learn about yourself? Have you taught a child from another country?
What strengths does Samantha see in Carson? Weaknesses?
What do you think of Beanie’s character? Do you know anyone like her? How does Dovie help Beanie?
Have you ever received an unusual invitation or ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time?
What do you like or dislike about attending weddings? Share your favorite wedding experience.
Have you ever lost a pet? What happened?
Samantha takes time to just sit and meet with God. How does this affect her? Do you ever do this?
Many refugees have had to leave their homelands due to political unrest and are now scattered around the world. Do you know any who live in your town or another nearby location? If you had to flee your home, where would you go? Would it be easy or hard for you to adjust?
Lien seems to have a large capacity to forgive. Is forgiving others easy for you? Who have you had to forgive recently?
Why do you think Carson wanted to be a part of the Hong family’s life? Did he view his relationship with them differently than Samantha viewed hers? Why do you think Samantha decided to help Lien?
acknowledgments
During the writing of this book, I held a Name-That-Character Contest, asking participants to provide names for three of my characters—a Southern man, an Amerasian girl, and an older woman who collects butterflies. The contest winners were Sarah Palumbo for Carson, Shelly Epps for Lien, and Carly Kendall for Aunt Dovie. My thanks to these three!
Also, gratitude to my agent, Kristin Lindstrom; to the Serious Scribes—Kim, Martha, Katharine, Jen, and Catherine—who gave me insight into this work as it was in-progress; to my editor, Charlene Patterson, and the whole Bethany House team for the fantastic work they do to make a novel shine; and to the fans at the Alice J. Wisler Facebook Fan Club page who kept asking when this novel was going to be published (so that they can each purchase dozens of copies, I’m sure).
To my kids—Rachel, Benjamin, and Elizabeth—I appreciate your predictable and unwavering responses every time I asked if I could read some of my manuscript aloud to you: “Sure, you can read one chapter, Mom, but only one.” And to my husband, Carl, for his encouragement and teapots of Earl Grey—both generously brought to my desk. How nice it is to belong to you!
about the author
&nbs
p; Years ago, when Alice J. Wisler’s family moved into an old house with a magnolia tree out front, an ornate wedding invitation came in the mail. Only it was not for Alice; it was for the previous homeowners. Ever since she received that invitation, Alice has wondered what going to the wrong wedding would be like.
Although this is a work of fiction, Alice did teach Laotian, Cambodian (Khmer), and Vietnamese children in a dusty classroom with rats in the rafters at the Philippine Refugee Processing Center in the Philippines during the mid-1980s. The Amerasian children intrigued her then, and she continues to follow their plight in both Vietnam and after resettlement in the United States. As she wrote in one of her newsletters sent out by World Relief in 1985, “These children long to be accepted.” A Wedding Invitation is about being accepted, being a part, being invited. God invites each of us to commune with Him, no matter what our roots are, the political status of our country, or what others think of us.
Alice lives and writes in Durham, NC. Ever since the death of her son Daniel in 1997, she’s taught grief-writing courses. Learn more about her inspirational novels and her Writing the Heartache workshops at www.alicewisler.com.
Books by Alice J. Wisler
* * *
Rain Song
How Sweet It Is
Hatteras Girl
A Wedding Invitation
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
Facebook: Bethany House
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