by Ka Hancock
Sometimes my wedding still comes up in conversations and it always makes me smile. And every once in a while, when the weather is just like it was that day, Mickey and I go outside and dance in the rain.
twelve
JUNE 15, 2011
There’s a picture by the lamp downstairs of a little girl sitting on the lap of a big man. She’s laughing, her entire face alive with joy, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide-open, she could be screaming. I think she’s being tickled. The man’s expression overflows with adoration. You can almost hear Lucy’s laughter lifting off the photograph; you can practically hear her father’s promise that he will always love her.
I want to take a picture just like that when my child is two or three. I want to see that same love in my face and in my child’s. What I really want is to be the kind of man Lucy’s father was.
I had big plans to tackle the junk room this afternoon, but as soon as I looked at it, I knew I was too tired. It was the kind of tired I’d told Charlotte about at my checkup a few days back. At the time, I was worried, but now I knew it was just the exhaustion of being pregnant. I walked into my bedroom, hoping Mickey was having a better day than I was, and dialed the club. Mickey’s partner answered. Jared Timmons sounded upbeat, which was not at all unusual. He was unflappable, and that made him the perfect business partner for my husband. That had been the recipe from the beginning—Mickey brought the energy, the ideas, the creative juice. Jared brought the good attitude, the organization, and the follow-through. This combination of business acumen had made the two of them very successful entrepreneurs. They now owned five clubs and served as backup entertainment for each of them often enough that they had a following.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“He seems great. We had a meeting this morning with the Connecticut Rotary Club—their bigwigs anyway—and Mic was terrific. They’ll probably use us for their convention next spring.”
“So you think he’s back?”
“Getting there, for sure. Right now he’s handling some auditions we decided to hold back before he went into Edgemont. Looking for some new blood, you know. Hey, he told me your news. Wow, girl. A baby. I have to say it’s about time. Kids are the best!”
“Oh, well, that’s what I hear,” I stammered, not realizing I wasn’t quite ready for open congratulations.
Jared laughed. “I’ll tell him you called, Lucy.”
I lay down, planning to rest just until Mickey called back. But when I woke up two hours later, it was as if I hadn’t slept at all. I left Mickey another message and went to work on the junk room. First I decided to take the accordion doors off the closet. I wanted to wallpaper the inside and fill it with shelves and wicker bins for baby paraphernalia the way I’d seen in a magazine. Once I started to clear the space, I realized it was a near endless task.
I filled one Hefty bag with empty boxes, papers, and garbage, and another one for Goodwill with old shoes, and a pile of sweaters I hadn’t seen in years. I thought I was done when something on the top shelf caught my eye. I’d never seen it before and figured it must have belonged to Priss. The dusty leather bag was full of ancient papers that, at first glance, I figured were old school assignments. When I looked closer, however, I saw they were love letters written to my mother by my dad.
I was dumbfounded. I could still see my father clearly in my mind’s eye: a big, sturdy man with a good-size belly and a gruff laugh, strong, gentle hands. He wore a heavy gunbelt and a silver badge on his pocket. And he’d written love letters? I sat down, right there in the middle of the rubble, and started to read. I couldn’t believe his beautiful prose. I even found a poem I recognized. Not because I’d ever read it, but because when my mother was dying—just before she died—she was a bit delirious and these beautiful words came dripping out of her. A phrase she said over and over: Your smile is my rainbow, your laughter is my home, your touch is my heaven . . . Now I realized that she was quoting the poetry my father had written for her on paper now yellowed with age and fragile in the fold.
In the midst of all these letters, I found a thick envelope addressed to an editor at Doubleday, stamped and ready to go, but never sent. I opened it and smoothed the pages. An Angel for the Princesses: A Fairy Tale by James Houston.
What? Love letters, poetry, and now a fairy tale. Who was this man?
It started the way they all do . . .
Once upon a time, there lived a king. He was married to the queen, of course, who was beautiful beyond description. She woke with an enchanted smile each day of her life, which was certain proof of her royalty.
And the joy was redoubled because the king and his queen had been blessed with three green-eyed daughters. None could compare to these emerald-eyed beauties: Princess Priscilla, Princess Lilianne, and Princess Lulu. My eyes blurred over when I saw my dad’s nickname for me.
The king’s heart soared when the first princess, Priscilla, was born. Such a beauty. Who could be this fortunate? When the second princess, Lilianne, came to be, he wept with the immensity of such a blessing—two princesses! But then a third? The king could not comprehend being worthy of such treasures, or the responsibility of keeping such treasures safe and loved. Soon the king was losing sleep with worry over his daughters, for though he was a powerful king, he was but a humble father who knew he would die to see even one of them harmed or unhappy.
So the king did what any king would do in circumstances such as these: He commissioned a protector to guard against the dragon bats and wanton wizards that lurked outside the castle walls. He sent word far and wide and promised great rewards. And when all were rejected, worry stirred his royal soul. Night and day the king sent pleas heavenward.
He waited patiently—then impatiently—for a response to his urgent petition. He roamed the halls of his castle nightly. He drank hot milk and read dull books and even considered potions that were said to induce slumber. The good queen rubbed his royal feet, but to no avail. Finally, when he could worry no longer, he wept, and while he was in this state, an angel appeared.
She was small and impish with large eyes the color of the ocean at midnight.
“I’m Abigail,” the angel said.
“I know you,” said the king, though he knew not how he knew her. “You are the protector I seek? Have you the ability to bind the princesses with devotion to one another? Have you the needed magic to salve broken hearts and despair?”
The angel bowed. “Majesty, how can I serve thee?”
“Oh, angel, I would that you bless and keep my daughters. Fill them with my love and guard them in my absence. Can you do this for me?”
“It will be my honor.”
The king considered the small angel, who settled his heart with calm. “Come,” he said. “You must meet the princesses while they yet sleep, for they are purest when they dream.”
In the first bedchamber, Princess Priscilla slept, long limbs splayed over her bed. She had thick lashes and a tiny, upturned nose, and a look of peace that belied the many thoughts that burdened her when she was awake. “This is my beautiful firstborn, on the cusp of womanhood. She is brilliant and driven to perfection, but prone to overlook goodness,” said the king. “Angel, you must work to soothe her soul, for she is easily hurt and hides her tender heart behind a razor tongue.”
The angel smiled, knowing such things take time and pain to cure.
In the next chamber, there were two beds, one of which was curiously empty. In the other, Princess Lulu was nestled in the arms of the Princess Lilianne, who nightly stole into her sister’s bed on the pretense of protection. The king scooped the middle princess into his arms and carried her to the bed near the window. As he drew the coverlet up over her small shoulder, he said, “This princess has the purest heart and the gentlest disposition, but she does not trust her nobility. She worries far too much, angel. I would that you unbridle her laughter. Give her courage to act upon truth.”
“I will help her find her strength,” said the wise angel.
The king then moved to the next bed, where the tiniest princess slept, dark curls spilling over her pillow, a royal thumb in her mouth. The king knelt by this bedside and stroked the child’s smooth brow. “This one, angel, only appears fragile, but she has a tempered soul and a determined nature. There is promise in her that will surely save us all.” A single tear rolled from the king’s eye, and the angel caught it in her palm. He kissed his tiny daughter on the nose and said, “My wish for this princess is that she find the hidden joy in an imperfect life.”
“She was born to do so, sire.”
The king considered this lovely cherub surely sent from the land of gods and dreams. He knew that she alone could relieve his torment and make well his worry. He knew this in his royal heart, but he knew not how he knew. He would ponder it all later when the waiting day dawned. For now, he bid Abigail a good night and crawled in bed beside the beautiful, smiling queen.
Then, and only then, was he able to sleep. . . .
I heard my front door open and Lily called my name. I hugged my dad’s pages to my heart, a chill driving up my spine. My big, strong dad-in-a-uniform had written us a fairy tale. I couldn’t believe how well he knew us, then and today, and how much he loved us. I wiped my eyes and put his story back in the envelope, missing him in a way I hadn’t missed him in years.
When Lily walked in, I looked up at her from my nest of first-edition James Houston. “Lucy, do you hate me?”
I shook my head, as if hating her were even possible, all thoughts of being angry gone.
For a moment she just stood there, looking down at me. From this angle, she looked so thin. She was holding a colorful bag filled with tissue paper, and her bottom lip quivered. “Lucy, I’m awful. I can’t believe how I treated you.”
I patted the floor beside me and she sat down.
“It just knocked the wind out of me, Lu. I’m so sorry.” Lily had been crying. A lot. Her eyes were swollen and red and her nose was raw. She put her arms around me and I said into her neck, “Are you still mad at me?”
“I don’t want to be, Lucy. I’m trying not to be.”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. It’s not your fault. I’m going to be happy for you any minute now. I am happy for you. Just not all the way yet.” She sniffed. “I just didn’t realize this monster was still in me after all this time.”
“What monster? What are you talking about?”
She shook her head. “After we lost our baby, I didn’t get out of bed for weeks. I almost destroyed my marriage. I couldn’t get that little face out of my mind.” Lily’s tears were running down her cheeks and she was struggling to catch her breath. “You were away at school, so you don’t know how bad it got, but if I couldn’t have that little boy, I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
“Lily . . .”
“It was awful and I hated myself for what I was doing. To Ron. To myself. But I couldn’t help it. I try never to think about him, Lucy, because part of me died that day. But now, you with your news . . .”
I looked at my sister. I thought we’d shared every experience in life, but I’d had no idea how much she suffered when she lost Jamie. I’d been totally caught up in my own life.
Lily wiped the tears from her eyes. “I have no business telling you all this. I just want you to understand. It isn’t you. It isn’t your baby. It’s me.”
“I’m sorry, Lil. I didn’t realize.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry! I just wanted to explain.”
“You don’t have to explain anything. It’s okay. It will be okay.”
Lily pulled back and looked at me with teasing fury in her eyes. “How do you do that? How do you stay so good and so nice? There’s something wrong with you, Lucy, and I really hate you for it.”
I laughed a little.
“It’s not funny, Lucy. I want you to fight with me. I’ve been horrid to you. But you never argue. You wake up and Mickey’s done something to mess up your life, and you never complain. Mom dies on you when you need her most. Awful things happen and you just adapt! I rain on your good news, and you won’t fight with me. What’s wrong with you?”
There was nothing to say, so I said, “It’s Priscilla’s fault.”
“It is her fault.” Lily slumped. Then she laughed. Then we both laughed. Whatever we couldn’t pin on anything else, we pinned on Priscilla.
Lily handed me a present. Two actually. Two of the teeniest pairs of shoes I had ever seen: basketball high-tops. The boy’s were bright orange, and the girl’s were powder-puff pink.
After Lily and I had cried and laughed and had tea and read some of dad’s love letters, she went home to put on a pot roast. She’d invited us to dinner and I told her I’d bring a salad. Lily was trying—she was trying to be happy for me despite her pain. She’d always been like that. She had always been the girl in my father’s fairy tale, the gentle one who worried too much and didn’t laugh enough.
I never showed Lily the fairy tale. The afternoon slipped away from us as we read Dad’s letters, and by the time we realized how late it was getting, I’d had a better idea.
After Lily left, I was scooping up all of Dad’s papers when I heard Jan pull into her driveway. I ran across the yard and knocked on the screen door, and Jan sang out, “Come in.” She was at her kitchen sink rinsing off a huge cluster of grapes, her purse still dangling off her shoulder, her dark glasses still resting in her white-spiked hair. She turned off the water and looked at me. “Well, hello, missy. Want some fruit?” She laid the grapes on the counter and pulled a carton of strawberries from a plastic bag. “Sit down, let’s talk.”
I watched her at the sink looking like a model who had wandered into a gingerbread house. Regal and polished all the way down to her red nails, a modest tennis bracelet hanging around her bony wrist. She grinned at me, and that grin held a secret.
“You know, don’t you?” I waited for her to deny it.
“Know what?” she said, feigning ignorance—and not very well.
“Where were you just now? At the store? At Ghosts?”
“I just dropped in to see my son . . .” She smiled a big, motherly, warm smile. “I’m so happy for you, honey.”
“Are you really?”
“Yes! Of course I am.” She set the bowl of fruit on the table and put her arms around me. “I’m worried, too, but Lucy . . . A baby? It’s wonderful news!” She stood back and cupped my chin in her hand, and I could see her happiness was genuine. As was her concern. She knew all about my contract with Mickey. I tried to thank her, but my throat had closed and it came out as a squeak. “Did you see Lily?” I finally managed.
“No.”
“She’s having a hard time with this.”
Nodding, Jan pulled a grape from the cluster. “I’m sure she is. Be patient with her, sweetie. Her heart was truly broken over that baby boy.”
“I’d give anything not to hurt her.”
“She knows that.”
I looked around Jan’s whitewashed kitchen, one end of which currently doubled as her art studio. Not because she didn’t have a studio—it was down the hall—but because the light in here was remarkable this time of year. Summer light: ideal for portraits. I moved to the easel and admired the rough sketch of what promised to be a beautiful young woman.
“That’s Jessica Nash,” Jan said.
“Oh, Jan. How is she doing?”
“Poor baby’s struggling. But I think she’s happy to be home with her friends and grandparents. She came over the day after the memorial service to look at my paintings for her mother’s book, and we ended up talking for the longest time. I just couldn’t resist sketching her.”
“She’s beautiful.”
Jan nodded. “She asked about your mom. I hadn’t realized she knew.”
“I told her at the cemetery. I thought it might help a little to know someone else had gone through it and survived.” Again I was ki
ssed by memories of my parents, and I remembered why I had come over. I took the envelope from my pocket and handed it to Jan. “I have a favor.”
When I got home, there was a message from Gleason, who said, “I understand congratulations are in order. Mickey sounds very happy. Mic, I guess I’ll see you later this week. Lucy, why don’t you come, too.”
I listened with a little mass of discontent churning in my gut. I couldn’t even put my finger on what he’d said to turn my mood. But it wasn’t anything he said. It was that Mickey had called him. Why did Mickey do that? Why couldn’t he have waited until his appointment to tell Gleason about the baby? Was he afraid?
Suddenly I remembered sitting in Gleason’s office all those years ago, cranking out our bloody contract. The No Babies clause hadn’t even been drafted. That didn’t happen until after my cancer and Mickey’s big breakdown. After that, Mickey and I had written the addendum ourselves. Was Mickey having second thoughts?
The evening didn’t get any better. Mickey was annoyed that Gleason had called, so we arrived at Lily’s already a little off. My sister was stiff and hard to be around, and the whole dinner was painful and awkward. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Mickey and I walked home in silence, but we were holding hands. As we turned the corner off Gambol Street onto Chestnut, Mickey squeezed my fingers, “Are you okay, Lu?”
“I’m fine.”
Mickey pulled me close. “Are you mad at Lily?”
“How can I be mad at her? It was just a dumb night. We’ll be okay.”
Mickey kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry about Gleason. It just bugged me that he called.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want anyone thinking I’m going to fall apart over this. Not you, not him. I just called to tell him the good news because I’m excited.”