Authors: Shannon McKelden
I wasn’t sure Chris’s advice was wise.
Nancy Noble and I were dining on the patio of Spago Beverly Hills, and I was too nervous to enjoy it. The salmon—what I’d managed to actually choke down—tasted wonderful, but I wouldn’t be reporting back to anyone on my experience of dining in one of Wolfgang Puck’s famous restaurants. My mind blurred and my stomach knotted. I crossed my fingers under the table and prayed I hadn’t done the wrong thing.
“Well.” Nancy leaned forward and sucked another lungful of smoke, which she blew out of the corner of her mouth. “That changes everything.”
Oh! What winged thing just took off from my shoulder? I think it was Hope. Sighing, I laid my fork across my plate, not even bothering to pretend I could finish my meal. The whole interview had gone so well. Until I decided to be
honest.
Damn Christopher Treem’s honorable soul. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
“Like I said, I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I wasted the photographer’s time and yours. I understand if
Today’s Country
wants to name someone else as Best DJ.”
“Why would we do that?”
“What? Because I thought—”
“You won. That doesn’t change. In fact,” Nancy said, stubbing out her hastily smoked Virginia Slim in the ashtray, “it’s liable to gain you a lot of sympathy.”
“Yeah, well, sympathy doesn’t pay rent.” I chuckled, relieved Nancy wasn’t snatching back my award and running from Spago, leaving me with the check for being a fraud.
“But sympathy could get you job opportunities. Where have you looked?”
For the next half hour, we discussed my job-hunting failures. The calls, the résumés sent. The rejections.
Finally, three cigarettes later, Nancy nodded. “How stuck are you on country?” She grinned at my surprised look. “I’m no country whore. Jazz is more my style. A job is a job. I fell into this one. Not because of a love of Conway Twitty and Hank Williams, believe me. New Country’s kinda grown on me, though.”
I laughed then sighed. “I love country. There just aren’t a lot of places I’d fit. The only thing I listen to other than country music is Elvis.”
“Ah. Then oldies.”
Oldies. Why hadn’t that occurred to me before? “That might work. I’ll have to check the oldies stations when I get home.”
Nancy raised her hand for the check. “Let me check my connections, too. Maybe we can get something set up.”
Amazingly enough, by the next morning, I had a voice mail on my cell phone. “Margo, this is James Friend, from WOLD, Oldies 103, in Manhattan. We got your name from Nancy Noble at
Today’s Country Magazine
and we’re looking for a new morning person. Nancy tells us you’re a huge Elvis fan. So are our listeners. We’d love to have a chance to talk to you, so give me a call.”
In a daze, I wrote down the number, before heading out the door to the wedding rehearsal.
“Most daughters aren’t around for their mother’s weddings,” I protested. “And there’ll be plenty of opportunities to help her dress for future weddings.” The minute the words left my mouth—almost simultaneously with the look of shock on Denise’s face—I realized my error and tried to backpedal. “I mean, not that my mother will have future weddings. She and Quinn are very happy. I just meant…maybe they’ll renew their vows some day. I’ll help her dress then.”
Denise simply nodded mutely and retreated to her own room to get ready.
I kicked my own shin in self-flagellation before packing my bag to take to the church.
Two hours later, I watched my mother peer into the mirror set up in the church dressing room and fuss with her makeup yet again. A bit more lipstick, a brush of color across her cheeks. I was still amazed at her hair, identical to my own. I remembered sitting in her lap as a child, fingering the ends of it. It had the almost hypnotic effect of sucking one’s thumb. Now, having replicated that look, she’d been made twenty years younger. Something about Quinn agreed with her.
I turned away to pace the length of the room, actually missing the bustling chit-chat of Sam and Denise, who had seemingly forgiven my earlier faux pas and was acting as if it never happened. The two of them had gone to see if their father needed anything, leaving me alone with my mother. Probably not a very good idea, at least from my point of view. We were still barely speaking.
“You look lovely, Margo.”
I gave my mother a quick glance and smoothed my hands down the front of my navy satin sheath. It
was
pretty. Even I, the queen of jeans and tees, had to admit I didn’t look half bad. For a wedding anyway.
A wedding I was still sure was doomed.
My mother’s eyes were soft and kind of sad. She was probably still angry with me for my temper the other day. Not that she had mentioned it. The issue hadn’t come up, but we’d all been too busy to discuss anything but whether or not we each had spare pantyhose in case of runs and what “old” item Mom would wear for the wedding ceremony.
“Are you really sure you want to go through with this, Mom? It’s not too late to back out.” I gestured toward the window, where bright California sunshine heated the sill, only half joking about disappearing into the sunset. But, was it her that I wanted to escape the wedding…or me?
“Of course, I’m going through with it. I know you don’t approve, but I know I’m doing the right thing. I love Quinn.”
And I liked Quinn. I had to admit it. Over the last week, I’d grown to really enjoy his company and appreciate his feelings for my mother. But when would it change? Because it
would
change. It always did.
“Margo?”
What had Chris said about honesty? I’d been honest with Nancy, and it had turned out all right. Better than all right. What would happen if I was honest with my mother?
“I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” I told her. “You have the right to do what you want with your life. But, I also have the right to do what I want with mine. Maybe you don’t purposely set out to hurt people. Maybe you truly do love Quinn…maybe you’ve loved all your husbands. But that’s not me. That’s not who I am. I’ll never get married.”
Mom turned back to the mirror and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and blasted it with hair spray again. It was as unruly as mine, despite its smooth exterior. When she finally turned back to me, her expression was solemn. “I wish I was more like you.”
“Me?”
Of all the things I might have expected to hear from my mother, this was not one of them. “After every nasty thing I said, you want to be like me? I’m not sure that’s a wise ambition.”
“You’re so independent, Margo. So in the face of the world. You don’t care what it throws at you, you just stick with it and do what needs to be done. You don’t
need
anyone to make you whole.” My mother sank onto the vanity bench and laid her softly wrinkled hands primly in her lap. “You don’t need a man to complete you.”
Didn’t I? Wasn’t what I felt for Chris just a matter of needing a man in my life, and he just happened to be convenient?
“I’m not so sure about that.” I worked to keep my voice steady. Honesty was one thing. Emotionalism was another. “Do you realize I’ve never been without a man in my life for more than a few weeks or a month at a time?”
“But you don’t feel the need to marry them, do you?”
“No.” I sighed and searched my brain for what to say to make her understand. Maybe, for once, I needed to search my heart.
I felt like I was jumping off a cliff into space. I took a deep breath and crossed the room, sitting on the bench next to her. I needed another breath before I could speak. “Aren’t you afraid? To get married again, I mean.”
“Afraid?” Mom turned to look at my profile, and I prayed she couldn’t tell how much this was taking out of me.
“Afraid of it happening again. The…the abuse.”
I wasn’t sure if I imagined her sharp intake of breath, but when I turned to face her, to look into her eyes so she couldn’t lie to me, I couldn’t tell if she was shocked that I knew or that I was speaking of it.
“I used to be.” She turned haunted eyes toward the door, beyond which Quinn waited for her. A slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?” I demanded, my temper flaring. “I’m still terrified, and I’ve never even had it happen to me.” I leapt up from my seat and began pacing again. “Every guy I’m with—every guy I’ve ever dated—was Dad, just in different skin.”
“Were they really, or did you just see it that way?”
“Don’t you?” I snapped. “Don’t you live in constant fear of being slapped again? Of being pushed down?
Kicked?
” My mind burned and tears bit the backs of my eyelids, long-held emotions clawing their way out. My fury at my mother’s weakness boiled to the surface, tired of simmering all these years. “How the hell do you ever get past that?”
Mom shook her head. “I’m not that woman anymore.”
“How do you know?” I searched her eyes, her face, her hair, her skin, her body—searching for a sign to reassure me she wasn’t that woman any longer. Other than the makeover, I saw no convincing evidence. No one would convince me a bottle of hair dye made a woman stronger.
She patted her heart with her hand. “You just know, Margo. It’s inside of you, the acceptance of abuse, and then it’s gone. And once it’s gone, you know you won’t ever accept it again.”
“But—” I waved toward the door. “Does Quinn know that? Does Quinn know you aren’t that woman anymore? How does Quinn, or any man, know you aren’t the type of woman to take it again? Do you tell them? Do you wear a sign around your neck when you date? Do you remind them every day when you get out of bed?”
I crossed to the window and stared out. Guests were arriving at the church, smiling and laughing, some of them couples, some with families. Were there demons lurking behind those smiles?
“Quinn’s not that kind of man.”
I believed her. Quinn didn’t seem like the kind of man to use a woman as a punching bag.
“But, then, at some point in time, Mom, you didn’t think Dad was either.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. But, back then, when I discovered what kind of man he was, I wasn’t the type of woman to walk out.”
“How many times did it happen before you
were
the type of woman to walk out?” She looked so dignified sitting there, I almost bit my tongue for asking her. But I had to know. I had to know how many times it took before you were brave enough to change.
“Only a few.”
A few. Even a few would be too many times for me. “So, how did you know that you weren’t that type of woman anymore?”
My mother laughed, a bit bitterly. “At first, I didn’t know. I
thought
I was a different person, but I couldn’t be sure. Broke up a couple of perfectly good marriages leaving when no leaving was necessary, just because I suddenly got scared.”
“You mean you were afraid you might be hit, so you left?”
She nodded with a sad smile. “Bert was shocked when I filed for divorce after one little tiff over how to squeeze the toothpaste tube. But I was terrified his little display of temper would escalate.” She paused and shook her head. “No, actually, I was terrified that if it did escalate, I’d stay there and take it. So I got out before he even had the chance to prove otherwise. It wasn’t the last time either. I let go of at least a couple good men.”
I moved across the room and sat on the vanity bench again. “When did you finally stay past that first fight? When did you stop cringing at every raised voice?”
She shrugged. “It took a while. A few arguments, a few fights. Then, one day I knew. I was okay. I wasn’t that woman anymore. Freed up a lot of psychological space in my head, once I figured that out.” She chuckled softly. “Not every man is your father.”
“I guess I don’t trust myself to find that out.”
“But you’ve lived with men before.”
“Lived with them. That’s all I did.”
“You didn’t love any of them?”
I didn’t even need to think about that. “No.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “It’s easier to leave if you don’t love them. Wouldn’t it have been easier to leave Dad when he hit you if you hadn’t loved him?”
Mom looked very carefully into my eyes. “Yes. But just because you love a man doesn’t mean he’ll hit you. Not every man is provoked to violence.”
“Like I’d want to test out that theory.”
“Did any of your boyfriends ever hit you?”
I shook my head.
“Didn’t you ever provoke them?” Mom laughed and patted my knee. “You forget I’m your mother, Margo. I know you have a temper. I can’t imagine you spent two years with Kevin acting like a perfect little angel.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that.
“And what about Christopher?”
My gaze shot up to meet hers. “What about Chris?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
Shit. “I don’t look—”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
That shut me up. “Me?”
She nodded, with a smile. “Yes, Margo. You. I’ve known Christopher a long time, and I know how he looked at you before, and I know how he looks at you now.”
“I don’t think so, Mom. Your ESP has a faulty switch or something.”
Again, she patted my knee. “You go ahead and think what you like, dear. I know better. But, my point is, have you not ever made Chris mad?”
I mentally ticked off all the times I’d pissed him off just in the last few weeks with a half smile. Did ruining his date with Julie count? Forcing him to babysit me for the last four, very long, drawn-out weeks? Making him miss his skydiving trip to bail me out of jail?
I chuckled. “Yeah, I can confidently say I’ve made Chris mad before.”
“And were you ever afraid he’d hit you? It’s not just spouses or lovers that are abusive.”
“No. Chris isn’t that kind of guy.”
“I agree. But could it also be that you know you wouldn’t let yourself be that kind of girl?”
I shook my head. “If that was the case, wouldn’t I have been just as confident with Kevin? Or any of the other guys I’ve been with. Wouldn’t I have allowed myself to get closer to them?”
My mother reached up and turned my chin toward her, looking so deeply into my eyes tears threatened again. “Or is it because, with Christopher, you know yourself better than you knew yourself with any of the other men in your life?”
I started to shake my head again, but she stopped me.
“Chris knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?”
I gave a slight nod.
“And he’s never walked away from you, has he?”
I laughed. “He doesn’t have to live with me.”
Mom smiled. “He’s lived with you the last few weeks. There’s been an airport in every major city you’ve been in. He could have dumped you at any one of them and told you to make your own way here. He could have given you the keys to his car and taken his own flight home. But he didn’t. And you don’t run from him, either.”
“It’s different,” I said. “He’s a friend, not a potential husband.”
“Do you think he’d be a different man if he was?”
I shook my head. “No. If Chris is anything, he’s stable.”
“Would you be a different person, if he were to ask you to marry—”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off with a finger to my lips.
“Just supposing, by some way-out, wild,
unbelievable
chance, that he should be in love with you.” We both laughed. “And if, supposing he went completely out of his head and asked you to marry him, and you, being stark-raving crazy, said yes…would you be a different person? Would he? Or have you been who you really are, with him, for as long as you’ve known him?”
I considered her words, looking down at the tiny Celtic knot pendant she wore at her throat, a gift from Quinn. A symbol of the thread of life they would be sharing.