Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (16 page)

Mrs. Veneta Novakovich Leonard—always a Novakovich,
I thought.

When my daughter finished, I thought about her promise to me years before. Hearing my name next to her new name took away all my insecurities from the past.

Then she took my hand for our father-daughter dance, and I suddenly realized that my fear of dancing had disappeared. As we swayed to the music with Veneta in my arms, she laid her head on my chest in a childlike manner. I told her I loved her and she simply replied, “I love you, too, Daddy.”

Donald R. Novakovich

Bedtime Fears

H
e has no hope who never had a fear.

William Cowper

When I was a little girl, say four or five years old, there were many things that frightened me: Snakes, bugs, big older boys and
storms
. I remember the dark, rainy nights when a thunderstorm would roll into town and wake me from a sleep, in my childhood room at the front end of the house.

The rain would beat on my window as shadows played games on my bedroom walls. Tree branches screeched against the outside of the house making strange noises. I’d lay there, so afraid, nearly ready to cry. Poking my little foot out from under the covers, I’d slide out of my warm bed and tiptoe quietly into the next room where my mother and daddy slept.

And then, as I had done so many times before, I would crawl over the foot board at the bottom of the bed and make my way over the top of the covers between my mom and dad, looking for a secure place to lay my head between their two pillows.

Dad would roll over and say, “Hey, little girl, what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid in my room. It’s storming.”

Then without another word, the three of us would snuggle close together and go back to sleep. Just my mom and my dad . . . and me.

Morning would come, the sun shining. A new day would begin.

When I was a grown-up girl, not quite twenty years old, there were many things that still frightened me: School, jobs, big older boys and
getting married
. I remember the days leading up to my wedding day. Parties, planning and packing for the honeymoon. Writing thank-you notes. Ironing my veil and cleaning out my closet for the last time. Last-minute lists. The rehearsal dinner.

It was finally here—the night before my wedding day. I went to bed, tired.
Very
tired from all the weeks of preparation.

I lay there, so afraid, nearly ready to cry. Poking my foot out from under the covers, I slid out of my warm bed and tiptoed quietly into the next room where my mother and daddy slept.

And then, as I had done so many times before, I crawled over the foot board at the bottom of the bed and made my way over the top of the covers between my mom and dad, looking for a secure place to lay my head between their two pillows.

Dad rolled over and said, “Hey, little girl, what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid in my room. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

Then without another word, the three of us snuggled close together and went back to sleep. Just my mom and my dad . . . and me.

Morning came, the sun shining. A new day in my life was beginning.

Charlotte Lanham

Going Home

M
arriage is our last, best chance to grow up.

Joseph Barth

“Is everything okay?” Tim asks as we drive through the night’s heavy rain.

“I’m fine,” I say, staring out my window. “Just tired from the plane ride.” The November downpour outside is a harsh contrast to the warm beaches we enjoyed all week on our honeymoon.

“If you want,” he begins slowly, “we can probably stay with your mom and dad.”

“No, that’s okay!” I say quickly, half smiling. I turn to look at our backseat, piled with the wedding gifts we had picked up from my parents’ house. The drive to our new apartment to spend the night for the first time is lonely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks again.

I look at him carefully and I can picture him in his black tux at our wedding. I see us running hand-in-hand to our car while a row of guests on each side tosses tiny leaves into the air. I pass my parents without looking back.

“I just feel different,” I say aloud.

Suddenly, I see my young self. I’m graduating from high school and picking a university 1,500 miles from home, not telling my parents until after making my first tuition payment. A year later, I don’t have a dime for my tuition, but somehow manage without a single terrified call home. My junior year, I tell my parents about my boyfriend, Tim— whom I’d already been dating a year and a half.

Reflecting back, it’s all clear now.

I wanted to do everything on my own and assumed my parents would accept and support the changes. But my independent spirit told me they would always be waiting when I decided to come back.

“You know,” I tell Tim, my throat tightening, “up until a week ago I’ve always lived with my parents. I could leave home to do what I had to do, and then come back whenever I wanted.” The reality of what I’m saying chokes me. “But now I can’t go back to live in my house—I have to grow up!”

With surprise, I feel tears spilling down my face. In between sobs, I hear Tim dialing his cell phone.

“Hello, it’s Tim. Can I speak to Mrs. Gomez?” A pause. “Hi, Mrs. Gomez. No, we’re fine, but I think someone needs to talk to you.” He puts the phone by my ear, and before I can think, I whimper, “It’s just different, that’s all.”

Mom already knows.

“Don’t cry!” she says, her timid voice unusually strong. “Don’t you know I already prayed to God to give me the strength to let you go?” I wipe my eyes as her soothing voice explains, “That’s just life, but it’s all going to be all right.”

She talks to me for a long time, and when I finally say good-bye to her, I’m no longer crying, just sleepy.

Thinking back at that first night in our new apartment, I smile. As I slept next to Tim, surrounded by boxes and empty rooms, I could not possibly know how easily and without notice I would begin to call our new place “home.”

I sleep peacefully now, knowing I can leave and come back and everything will be all right, because I am always home.

Liza G. Maakestad

Angie’s Wedding Day

A
mother laughs our laughter,
Sheds our tears,
Returns our love,
Fears our fears.
She lives our joys,
Cares our cares,
And all our hopes and dreams she shares.

Julia Summers

Dawn is just beginning to show her soft pink face. My bedroom is dark except for a silvery wisp of light stretching a shadow across the floor. I’m awake, have been for a long while, consumed with details and anticipation. Edging quietly from the bed, so as not to disturb my aging mother, who snores contentedly, I tread barefoot on the cold tile of the hall and peek in on my sleeping company.

Aunt Nell and Uncle Mac curl together on the sofa bed, spoon fashion, while their baby granddaughter snuggles deep in Nell’s arms. Five children—nieces, nephews and cousins all under the age of ten—are sprawled across the floor. Gently moving an arm here, a leg there, I cover them with warm quilts. Heading back up the hall, I pause to adjust the thermostat to offset the chilly October morning.

I pad down the hall and listen carefully at my daughter’s door. My angel, my baby, my little girl. I want to see her in her buttercup-yellow bedroom, surrounded by childhood toys and record albums. I don’t want her to grow up, but today she will.

Today is Angie’s wedding day.

I grasp the cool doorknob, turn it gently and step quietly into her room where the pre-dawn light gives the room a luminous glow. One dainty foot protrudes from the blanket’s edge; the rest of her is shrouded in covers, mummy style. Removing the pillow from over her head, I smile. Dark curls tumble and sooty eyelashes lie gently on her creamy skin. I caress her rosy cheek and nudge an errant lock lying across her eyes as she stirs slightly.

“Wake up, baby,” I coo, settling myself down beside her. A slow smile spreads across her face then reaches her chocolate eyes as they flutter and focus on mine.

Angie struggles against twisted bed covers, gives a deep yawn and props herself on fluffy pillows. “Mama,” she whispers, “I was dreaming about the time you taught me to dive into that pool in Ft. Lauderdale, the summer I turned seven.” We laugh, for her words bring the moment immediately to mind. “Remember, how I kept saying, ‘I can’t do it’?”

“Yes, but you kept on trying.”

“I was so tired, my eyes burned, but I had to get it right.”

“Well, Angie, you are my determined little girl.”

“Just like you, Mama,” she giggled.

“Yes,” I smile back, “just like me.” We hug each other tightly.

We speak of silly things, tender things, things that spark memories of the past and ramble through eighteen years of her life. Despite my wish to hold it back, the morning sneaks in to light her room . . . and all that’s in it: Small posters with “This is my mess” and “A teen lives here” printed in her schoolgirl hand; a Dothan High victory banner waving from across the room; her doll collection dancing across the headboard; ridiculous hats and teen magazines; visible proof of her happy childhood; snapshot souvenirs within my heart.

Watching me eye the remnants of her youth, Angie sighs. “I should’ve packed this junk away by now, you know. But it just doesn’t seem to belong anywhere else. I’m afraid my kid stuff will be out of place in our new apartment.”

I hear the tears in her voice and can’t help hugging her closer.

“Do I have to move them right away?” A sob catches her words; I know she is crying.

“Of course not,” I say, determined to soothe her worry. “You don’t have to move anything until you’re ready.”

She turns, takes my face in her small hands, and looks me straight in the eyes, “I love you, Mama, and I’m sure gonna miss you. But please, let’s not change my room for a little while, okay? I need to know that sometimes, if I want to, I can be your little girl again.” Angie’s voice cracks and she leans her head on my trembling shoulders.

“Angie, you can leave your things here as long as you want, but you don’t need to look at things to know you will always be my little girl.”

We talk some, cry some, hug some—then laugh at our silliness. And before we know it, we start crying all over again. Long before either of us is ready, the rest of the household stirs and we know our private time is ending.

As I leave her room, I realize I’m not losing my little girl. She is changing and will continue to do so for the rest of her life. But—woman or child—she will always be mine, and our relationship will only grow.

As for today, I’m kind of hopeful she’ll need me—at least as much as I need her.

Judith Givens

“Please excuse my mother, Reverend. She always was a bit possessive!”

Reprinted by permission of Dan Rosandich.

The Music Played On

Y
outh fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall;
A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

I stood on the sidelines and watched, unable and unwilling to take my eyes off him. He held her close and they danced under the moonlight to the rhythm of the song. The chill of the night wind brushed my hair while something damp ran down my cheeks. The cool breath of another breeze told me I was feeling my own tears. Were they sad tears or happy tears? I wasn’t sure. My heart stirred with a mixture of emotion.

Why can’t I let him go?
I wondered.

I remembered the first time I held him. Our love was indescribable. Binding and strong. Each passing year gave me events to remember as well as memories to cherish. But now I had to stand back and simply watch their love in action. And there was absolutely nothing I could do, even if I wanted to.

And the music played on.

I knew Chad so well, I could read his heart. He pulled her closely to him and smiled as she gazed into his eyes. Their devotion was obvious. Their affection was radiant. Their love exploded like fireworks. The stars twinkled above and I marveled that several didn’t sprinkle down on the couple.