Page 106
Promises
Friday, November 14, 2014 (Clare is 43, Beck is 38, Alba is 13)
Clare: Beck and I have been meaning to get married for a while now. We bought rings last June, when Illinois made same-sex marriage legal. We decided to get married at home. We obtained a special “self-uniting” marriage license from City Hall weeks ago. We’ve managed to invite a few people: Charisse and Gomez and their kids Max, Joe and Rosa; Celia; David and Nancy Kendrick and their children Nadia and Colin; Henry’s friend Ben; some of Beck’s friends from Meeting. Alba is pleased that we are getting around to it at last and happy to have a day off from school. Kimy is feeling unwell but insisted on being here—at ninety-five, her heart is failing, alas. My father is too frail to travel, and Beck’s parents wish I was someone else entirely and aren’t here (they miss Jasper and ask after him wistfully when I’m not around, though they are sweet to me whenever I meet them). My sister, Alicia, sends us a video of her string quartet playing “How Deep Is Your Love” in a church in Berlin. My brother, Mark, calls to congratulate us. We pretend to each other that marrying is no big deal, been there, done that; we don’t want any fuss. I am surprised when the morning arrives and I’m so nervous I can’t eat breakfast.
Beck insisted that she wouldn’t really feel married by a secular ceremony, so we decided on the traditional Quaker ceremony. Beck and I are both dressed simply. She’s wearing a plum-colored sheath dress, subtle makeup, and her box braids are coiled into a bun on top of her head. I’m wearing a pale green suit, and my hair is down. When Henry died, my hair started to fall out, and I had to cut it to shoulder length. This morning, I realized that it’s almost as long as it used to be.
Once we are all assembled in our living room, Beck explains to our non-Quaker friends that there isn’t anyone officiating; that she and I will be exchanging “promises,” that our gathered friends will be witnessing our marriage, that we will be joined by God. Beck and I sit together in straight-backed chairs with our backs to the fireplace. Alba is sitting near the door, next to Kimy, as we’d agreed. Alba looks pretty in her lavender dress with long sleeves, her unruly black hair French braided into neatness. She’s very pale—she has an inward, preoccupied expression that makes me wonder if she’s going to be ill, or worse—but then she smiles at me and quickly looks at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Alba didn’t have any breakfast, either.
We all sit in companionable, nervous silence for a little while; then Beck and I stand and exchange our promises to each other: “In the presence of God and these our friends, I take thee to be my wife, promising with divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful wife so long as we both shall live.” Beck’s eyes shine as she says these words, and I want more than anything to grow old with her. We sign the lovely marriage certificate (made by a friend of Beck’s back in Detroit), Beck’s friend Prudence reads it aloud, people stand and say kind things about us, then the guests all sign the certificate as witnesses. I look around for Alba, so she can sign, too, and I can’t find her.
Alba: I don’t want to bother Mama, but I’ve had a headache all morning and I am worried that I might disappear during the wedding, in front of strangers. I wait for Beck and Mama to say their intentions, and then I take off my shoes and slip out of the room while Prudence is reading the certificate. I make it into my room, shut the door, sit on my bed and wait. Nothing happens for a while. Then, I’m gone.
Thursday, August 10, 2006 (Alba is 13, Henry is 43, Clare is 35)
Alba: I stand in the doorway of their bedroom. They are asleep. I could go away now and they’d never know I’d been here. Mama sleeps on her side, curled away from me, toward Dad. He’s lying on his back, and I can see his feet sticking up under the blanket.
They were so happy. We were all so happy.
I start to cry, and I can’t stop, and they wake up.
“Alba, sweetie, what is it?” Mama says, but I can’t tell her. Dad gives me his bathrobe, we all sit on the bed, they take turns hugging me, rocking me, but I can’t stop crying. “Is it that bad?” Dad whispers, and I shake my head, no, but I can’t tell, they can’t know. I start to hiccup, and Mama brings me water. “Hush, Alba,” Dad says. I wish we could sit here forever, together.
Friday, November 14, 2014 (Clare is 43, Beck is 38, Alba is 13)
Clare: I’m about to go looking for Alba when she reappears, fully dressed, in the doorway, her hair loose and unbraided. She sidles into the living room as though hoping no one noticed she was gone. As I get closer to her, I see that something has happened; she’s been crying. “What’s wrong?” I ask her quietly. She presses the air down slightly with both hands, which means, If I try to talk I will lose it. I take her by the elbow and lead her upstairs. Suitcases cover the bed; Beck and I are flying to Paris for our honeymoon tonight. “Did you time travel?”
She nods.
“Did something frighten you?” She shakes her head, no.
“Do you want to tell me?”
“I can’t,” she says, with a long, shaky intake of breath.
“Is it about today? Us getting married?”
She doesn’t say no immediately. “It’s . . . that’s not it. I love Beck, too. It’s just . . .” Alba breaks down again. When she can speak, she says, “I want you to be happy.” I wrap my arms around her and she hugs me tight. We stand like that, in an uncomfortable silence full of questions, until she mumbles, “I can’t keep all these secrets.”
“Where were you, Alba? Was it that night you showed up in our bedroom, crying?” She nods. “So you couldn’t tell us then—about now, about today?”
“Yes,” she says, relieved. I can’t tell if the relief is a decoy, or if that’s all there is to her distress. I help her wash her face, put on a little makeup, redo her hair. We walk back downstairs, where Nadia and Rosa commandeer Alba and demand that she eat something—they’ve made up a plate for her and saved her a place next to Kimy, now they tow her off into the dining room and I lose sight of her.
Beck finds me then, takes my hand. “What happened?” she asks.
“Grief, I think. It just catches us at weird times.”
“I get that.” Beck’s voice is rueful, her expression opaque. “Come on, dear wife. Everyone is waiting for us.”
“Let them wait, dear wife.” We kiss. In the other room, a hush, and then applause.
Coffee and Pancakes with Ghosts
Sunday, October 27, 1991 (Henry is 28, Clare is 20, Alba is 49 and 12 x 3)
Alba: Here we are, again. I’m sitting in a booth at the Ohio House Restaurant with three twelve-year-old selves. It’s a Sunday morning, kind of early. When I was twelve I had a brief obsession with this time and place; it’s the morning after my parents’ first date. My parents are sitting two booths away, blissfully unaware of our existence/proximity/interest. Neither of them are morning people. They each have a cup of coffee, they are looking at the menus. They are quiet, a little shy with each other.
My twelve-year-old selves are wide-awake and giggly. This is a very small diner, four booths and ten stools, so I keep shushing them. One of them has been hanging around here for almost an hour without any money; she looked pretty relieved when I showed up.
