Tapestry of Fortunes

  After she gives it to me, I start to color my cow, making it a Holstein, and then I ask Lindsey if she has a gold marker. When she gives me that, I draw my cow a crown. Lindsey watches with interest. “It is still not a princess,” she says.

  AFTER I GET HOME from the airport, I carry my suitcase up to my room, open the windows, and then go back outside. There’s a good hour of light left, and I head over toward Como Park. I’ll walk around the lake on the pedestrian path. Penny and I took this walk sometimes, and I remember once she talked about how grateful she was for the effort that went into making the place so user-friendly, so beautiful to behold. I see wildflowers that look like little white stars in the grass. Willow trees dip their branches into the water as though stirring up the minnows. I watch the gossipy red-winged blackbirds gather for the night in the high branches of a tree, and the cranes standing motionless in the reeds. The water has smoothed out, as if it has been tucked in for the night, and the sky turns a smudged charcoal pink at the horizon. I pick up my pace so that I can get home before dark. I walk with my head down, my hands in my pockets. All these firsts, these times of doing things without her that I used to do with her, are getting easier.

  When I get back to the house, it’s dark enough that I have to find the keyhole by touch. I let myself in, turn on a few lights downstairs, and put water on to boil for some pasta. I’d intended to go out for dinner—there’s not much in the refrigerator—but now I find that I want to stay here. And besides, I always love an excuse for eating noodles and butter and Parmesan cheese. I hope Joni will have that at her restaurant.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I FIND A STACK OF MAIL ON THE WELCOME mat. Our neighbor had been keeping it for us; she must have seen that I’m home. It’s the usual assortment of junk mail, junk mail designed not to look like junk mail, and bills. But then I spy a postcard, addressed to me, a picture of a Métro stop in Paris. On the back, these lines in his customary black ink:

  Well, croissants and cobblestones and lace curtains and breathtaking beauty almost everywhere you turn. I’ve been assigned a couple more things to shoot, shouldn’t take more than a day or two if the weather holds. And then you know what comes next. More or less.

  À bientôt.

  I put the postcard in my purse and head over to the Arms. I’m really looking forward to seeing Michael again.

  Annie is with someone when I arrive, and I wait for her for a while, then decide to go up to Michael’s room. The door is closed, and I knock softly. It is opened by Phoebe, and what I see in the room behind her takes my breath away. There are long pieces of sheer white fabric tacked up on the walls, which makes for a softening effect, an ethereal effect, and there are candles everywhere. It’s a cliché by now, an overabundance of candles, but here it just seems right. They are white candles, all the same size, and they are all lit already, though the ceremony is twenty-five minutes away. Phoebe puts her finger to her lips: I can see that, behind her, Michael is sleeping. She points to the hallway and I follow her out there.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she says. In the light of the hallway, I can see better the simple but very pretty long dress she is wearing, white lace, sleeveless; and she has flowers in her hair. My eyes fill with tears and she takes my arm and says, “Don’t cry, or I will,” and I get hold of myself immediately.

  “How are you?” Phoebe says, and I say, “How are you?”

  She takes a big breath in, shakes her head, and smiles. “There’s so much.”

  I say nothing, wait.

  “I … Did you hear that I’m pregnant?”

  “Yes, Annie told me. I hope that was okay.”

  “It’s fine. I love that I’m pregnant. I’m so happy I’m pregnant. It’s something Michael and I had agreed upon, that we’d use artificial insemination; he donated sperm before he started his treatment, we did all the paperwork and signed all the forms so we’d be all set whenever we decided the time was right. And I went for the appointment we’d made two days after we came apart. I couldn’t reach Michael to see if it was still okay with him; he wouldn’t talk to me. So I just did it on my own. I figured I’d give it one try, and if it worked, it was meant to be.”

  “How is he?” I ask.

  She looks over at me. “Maybe a week. When he’s awake, we talk. It means everything. When I kept trying to see him, it was because I wanted him to know about the baby, yes, but mostly I just wanted to talk to him. Talking to Michael has always felt to me like … like being held. I knew as soon as I met him that he was the one for me. I knew it right away. And so did he. We moved in together two weeks after we met. Everyone said we shouldn’t, but I’m so glad we did.”

  She looks at her watch. “It’s almost time. Would you go and see if the minister is there? I just want a minute alone.”

  “Of course.” I go into Michael’s room and find both the minister and Annie with him. Michael looks like he has just woken up.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling. “You want to be my best man?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I stand by Michael’s side and I watch his face as Phoebe comes in, watch him as the minister says the few brief things he has to say: True love’s fullness is not bound or measured by time; we are here to bear witness to an occasion of joy, et cetera, et cetera. I watch Michael slide a thin gold band onto Phoebe’s finger and watch her slide a matching band onto his. It’s too big for him, I can tell, but it will stay on. I stand back as Phoebe gently kisses his mouth, then his cheek, then his forehead, then his mouth again, weeping, smiling, and then I look away because I can’t look anymore, it’s like staring into the sun.

  IN THE MORNING, THE MAIL ARRIVES EARLY. I REACH INTO THE box and find another postcard from Dennis. This one, still postmarked Paris but with no date, says:

  Late flight out of Paris in a few days. Can’t quite imagine what it will be like to see you again. Not for lack of trying.

  I read the message again. Flight to where? Cleveland? Minneapolis? When the phone rings, I answer excitedly. It couldn’t be him yet, could it?

  “What are you doing?” Joni asks.

  So it’s not him saying, “I’m at the airport; come and get me.”

  “Making breakfast.”

  “We just had breakfast—at a spa! It was a such a beautiful breakfast I photographed it. Lemon ricotta pancakes, very light, with blackberries and strawberries and boysenberry syrup and edible flowers, too.”

  “Lovely.”

  “We miss you. Fly out here, and we’ll drive back together.”

  “No, I … I’m going to stay here now. I got a postcard from Dennis. I think he’s coming here.”

  “When?!”

  “I don’t know. He sent a postcard but didn’t specify dates. So how’s Renie doing at a spa? She told me she hates spas.”

  She laughs. “Not anymore! She got a hot stone massage yesterday. I think she has a crush on Loni, one of the masseuses. Well, we all do. Later today, we’re going to the Pool of Rising Consciousness, and then we’re going to get a seaweed wrap, and tonight it’s candlelight yoga.”

  “Oh? Well, I’ll be cleaning the house later, so you’re not the only one who knows how to have fun.”

  “How was the wedding, Cece?”

  “It was beautiful.”

  She waits, but I don’t want to say more.

  “Listen,” she says. “We’re going to stay another day here and then start back. So look for us in … maybe three or four days? If Dennis comes, hang a flag outside if we need not to come in.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. Oh, and guess what. Lise called Steve and he might be coming to see her soon. They’ve been talking and talking. Okay, I have to go. We miss you, we love you, we’ll see you soon!”

  THE NEXT MORNING, I put on a Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys CD, change into an old black T-shirt and jeans, put a bandanna over my hair, and go out into the garden. The crew I hired to help me did a fabulous job: I love the blue delphinium next to the sea of lavender. Wi
ldflowers surround the flattened boulder I thought would be good for sitting on to meditate, or just sitting on, period. I work the soil a little, stake up some of the taller plants, do a little deadheading. It’s a warm morning, in the eighties, and I can soon feel sunburn starting on my cheeks, across my nose.

  It’s beautiful out here. Just as good as your other garden.

  “It will be. It needs more time.”

  I love the daisies.

  “I put them in for you.”

  I know.

  “Do you know?”

  Nothing.

  “Penny?”

  I work for another hour or so, then sit down on the top front porch step to think about whether I might want to go to a movie tonight. I’m just about to go inside to see what’s playing when a car pulls up to the curb. I watch as the man in the car sits still for a minute, then opens the door and gets out.

  Dennis.

  I yank the bandanna off my hair, fold my hands tightly together in my lap. As advertised, he’s missing most of his hair. But there are those eyes.

  I watch him come toward me and everything in me goes quiet. I feel like a stopped clock.

  Just before he reaches me, I stand up.

  But he sits down and stretches his long legs out before him. He’s wearing a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, faded jeans, and black cowboy boots. He stares straight ahead to say, “I thought I’d shine my boots before I ask you to go dancing, but I’m going to have to ask you for the polish.”

  I sit down beside him and I can see the tension in his jaw. And at that moment, all my own fear goes away. I am his lover and his sister and his mother and his brother and his friend. I couldn’t look worse and it couldn’t matter less. All that matters is here we are. I say, “I’ve got polish. The rest, you don’t have to ask for.”

  He smiles then.

  We sit out there talking until there’s a red sun hanging low in the sky. Then I take his hand and pull him up. There are eggs we can fry for supper. After that, I’ll take a bath. And we’ll see.

  After he comes into the front hall with me, I say, “How about if we—”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I COME INTO MY bedroom from my bath with a towel wrapped around me. Dennis is sitting at my desk, reading a book I keep on my nightstand, letters van Gogh wrote to his brother. “Listen to this,” he says. And he reads me a quote: “I have a terrible need of—shall I say the word?—religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.”

  I nod, my throat tight, my heart full.

  He turns off the overhead, and in the light of the moon, he takes his clothes off. And then he opens his arms and says, “This is how I was born.”

  I drop my towel.

  He comes over to me and starts to lift me up—that same romantic, sweeping gesture—and drops me. We both fall to the floor, laughing.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, still laughing. “Are you?”

  He puts my face between his hands and kisses me so sweetly I’m glad I’ve already fallen down.

  Then he takes my hand and pulls me up and leads me to the bed. I’d thought, Never again, but I am so spectacularly wrong.

  TWO DAYS LATER, I BRING DENNIS TO MY MOTHER’S FOR BREAKFAST. I’d called and asked her if I might bring someone along for her to meet.

  “Oh God, the hippie?” she asked.

  “His name is Dennis, Mom. He’s a photographer.”

  “Oh, my. He’s back in town.”

  “I think you might like him if you give him half a chance.”

  “Well, do you think he could take a photo of me and Early Nelson?”

  “Sure. What for?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “What for, Mom?”

  “Now, we’re just talking about it. But this way we won’t have to pay someone on the day.”

  When we arrive and she opens the door, my mother gives Dennis a big smile, then a hug. “Well!” she says. “You turned out just fine!”

  “Thank you,” he says. “So did you.”

  She comes out into the hall with us, speaks quietly. “I want you two to meet Early. Don’t say anything about our getting married, though. We agreed that we would give each other time to think. We’ve agreed on forty-eight hours.”

  “That’s not much time,” I say, laughing.

  “We haven’t got much time,” she says, not laughing at all.

  She turns to Dennis. “Honestly, though. Didn’t you turn out just fine. You know, I have to tell you, I thought you’d still have that long hair.”

  “Wish I still did, I could paste some up on top,” he says.

  She opens the door wider, calls out “Early? Sweetheart?” and it doesn’t bother me at all. She calls Early “sweetheart,” and I imagine my father smiling.

  DENNIS AND I have just come back from grocery shopping when the phone rings. I answer it expecting it to be my roommates; I’m going to share with them the news that Dennis has arrived. But it’s not them; it’s Annie. As soon as I hear her voice, I know.

  “Was Phoebe with him?” I ask.

  “Yes. It was very peaceful.”

  I swallow, start to cry, and I think, I hate this. I hate this yin-yang life that is always pulling the rug out from beneath your feet. I feel an odd rush of heat coming up my back and into my neck.

  Dennis stops unpacking the grocery bags and comes to stand beside me.

  He knows about Michael. He knows about how I want to continue to volunteer at the Arms. But now I tell him, “I’m not going there anymore. I’ve had enough. I’m not setting myself up for any more of this.”

  He says nothing, which I think means he’s thinking the same thing I am: Yes, you will.

  “It’s so unfair!” I say, and what can he say to that? It’s true.

  Once, after one of my more bitter breakups, I sat slumped on my sofa with a pile of sodden Kleenex at my feet. It was three in the afternoon and I was still in my pajamas. Penny was trying to console me. “What’s the point in loving anything when it will just change or be taken away?” I asked. And she said, “The point in loving is only that. And when you lose something, you have to remember that then there is room for the next thing. And there is always a next thing, Cece. I wish you would believe me.”

  LATE THAT NIGHT, I’m out sitting on the boulder in the garden. I’m thinking about a story I once heard about a woman who was told by a psychic that her death would be by water. The woman packed up and moved to the desert: no chance of drowning there! Instead, she ran out of water and died of thirst.

  What good does it do to try to be master of your fate if it’s the other way around?

  And now I think of Penny, of the times since she died when I’ve felt so sure that she was near. It’s not always hearing her voice, sometimes it’s only a sense of something, as though she has just brushed by me or just left a room I’ve entered. How much of that is real and how much is just something you want so much you make yourself believe it’s true? I don’t know. If you asked my mother if those we’ve lost are still among us, she’d be as matter-of-factly sure of it as she is about the price of coffee. Once I said, “Well, if that’s true, why doesn’t everyone have the experience?”

  “The dead don’t come if they’re not welcome,” she said. “Not everyone wants to experience such a thing. Not everyone can handle it. Also they don’t come if your reasons are suspect. And believe me, they know.”

  The morning after Dennis arrived, I was standing at the bathroom mirror and Penny came.

  Good for you.

  “Do you like him?” I asked my own image, and in my own eyes I saw her swirling around and around, her head back, something she called her happy dance. Then she stopped and leaned in very close to me, and I could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, I could see them again.

  Still. What good is it to believe in any kind of afterlife in the absence of hard evidence?

  Oh, come on. Hard ev
idence is overrated.

  I look up and smile, as though she might be standing there before me.

  The best things in life have no hard evidence to support them. Hope. Faith. Love.

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  What are you doing out here all alone?

  “I’m trying to figure things out. Help me.”

  I think you’re doing fine on your own.

  I hear the screen door bang shut and here comes Dennis, moving toward me in the darkness.

  He says nothing, just sits next to me.

  After a while, I say, “What do you make of death?”

  He shrugs. “I think people see death as the hunter, but it’s just the ticket taker, the timekeeper. It’s the sound of a record playing in the background.”

  I nod. Then I say, “Maybe it’s also there to remind us to do what we ought to.”

  “And what should you do, Cece?”

  “Be here. Give more.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think? What else should I do?”

  “Be with me? Finally?”

  I feel myself starting to cry and I put my hands over my face. He puts his arm around me and rocks me side to side, slowly, gently.

  I think about the fortune Cosmina gave me, so long ago, which I have never forgotten: Your task will be to learn in what direction to look for life’s greatest riches. I take my hands away from my face and look into his.

  Fate is a part of our lives. Another part is choice. But the biggest part is the mystery, the great unknowable, about which we feel so many things, including joy.

  IT’S BEEN A LITTLE OVER A YEAR SINCE I GOT THE POSTCARD from Dennis that inspired the road trip. Dennis and I are living in a coach house behind a big old house near Lake of the Isles, and it’s full only of the things we really love and use.

  A lot of people worry about how a new relationship between older people can work when those people are so set in their ways, as they say. At least for now, I can report that it works beautifully: the only fight we’ve had of any note occurred during a vacation we took right after we moved in together, and like most spectacular fights, it was about something stupid, I can’t even remember what. We’d gone to Rockport, Massachusetts, which is an artists’ colony; I thought we’d both like it there. And we did, we had a wonderful time, except for the day we so bitterly argued. I think we were both just scared about having moved in together, thinking, What in the hell have I done?