She Has Your Eyes (35 page)

chapter forty-six

New Year’s Eve

Tony drove my mother to Northampton with him, and both were shocked to find the F
OR
S
ALE
sign on the lawn.

“You’re selling your house?” Mom asked.

I nodded. “Yep.” For a moment, the panic of David’s and my decision barreled through me like a freight train.

“I can’t believe it, Andi. You told me you could never sell the house. You said it would be like leaving Sam,” she said.

“I know,” I said, this time overcome with sadness.

“Then why?”

“David and I need a place of our own.”

“But you said he always loved it.
He
said it felt like home to him.”

“It did.”

“So what changed?”

“Everything changed,” was all I could say.

“Think about what you’re doing, Andi. Once it’s gone, you can’t get it back.”

“Do you regret selling the old house, Mom?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “The worst was packing it up, cleaning it out, going through every item and memory. Your father haunted me every day during those months.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never knew that. I never even considered that it would be so painful for you. I just assumed that it was something you wanted and were ready for.”

“Don’t misunderstand me—I like where I live now. And it’s much easier to take care of than the old house. But sometimes I wish I could’ve kept it. Even if no one lived in it. Just keep it the way you keep a photo album. I know that probably sounds ridiculous to you.”

“Not at all,” I said. I thought about Sam’s and my house as something I could occasionally visit, like a summer or winter house, or David’s Cambridge apartment, which he had also decided to sell. Perhaps on days I wanted to be close to Sam. But I didn’t need a house for that, I thought. And I knew it was time.

David and I were delighted when Wylie showed up at the door, overnight suitcase by her side, poinsettia in hand, and wearing the sweater set I sent her for Christmas. Peter was with her. “Thanks for inviting Janine and me,” he said as she stepped inside and made her way upstairs to her room. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m just dropping Wylie off and not staying.”

“It’s OK,” said David. “And we’ll take her home tomorrow.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Peter.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee or something?” I offered.

“Some other time.”

I believed him. Peter then extended his hand to David, who took it in a firm grasp and shook hard.

“Thank you,” said David. “Thank you for being her father. Thank you for allowing me to get to know her.”

Peter pressed his lips tight and choked back his emotion. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I think Wylie’s fortunate to know
you too.” And with that he bade us a Happy New Year and went back to his truck.

Wylie came back downstairs. I smiled and put my arm around her. “I’m really glad you’re here.” She smiled back. “Come meet my mom,” I said. Together we walked to the living room and found my mother sitting on the sofa, upright, looking stylish as always, but I could tell she was tired.

“Do you want to lie down for a bit?” I asked her. “We can wake you before the party.”

“I’ll be OK,” she replied.

I straightened my posture. “Mom, this is David’s daughter, Wylie,” I said. “Wylie, this is my mother, Genevieve Cutrone.” Never had I spoken with such pride.

“Hello,” said Wylie.

My mother took her in and switched her gaze from Wylie to me. “Her eyes.”

“I know,” I said.

Mom looked at Wylie again. “You have your father’s eyes.”

“I know,” said Wylie.

Mom continued to marvel at her, and finally said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Wylie.”

“Same here,” said Wylie.

“How do you like your new parents?”

I worried that Wylie would be bothered by the term, but she seemed to take it in stride. “Oh, they’ve been really nice to me, especially considering that I totally turned their lives upside down.”

Before I could say anything, my mother said, “Don’t you dare say something like that. A good parent, a parent who loves you, will gladly turn their life upside down, inside out, backward and forward for you without batting an eye. Consider your father and Andi among them.”

I put my arm around Wylie again and pulled her to me. “Of course she knows that, Mom,” I said, hoping I wasn’t coming off as scolding. “She was just joking around. I’m going to introduce her to Tony next. You sure you’re feeling OK?”

“I’m fine,” she said more forcefully. “No p—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. No pussyfooting,” and whisked Wylie away. When we were out of earshot I said, “My mother has a way of making something nice sound like something you did wrong. I hope you didn’t take it that way.”

“Oh, I didn’t think that,” said Wylie. “I’d love to know more about her.”

“I’m sure she’d love to talk to you,” I replied.

Our families and closest friends, including Sam’s brother, all showed up to the party. I appreciated that they all were so willing to come, even though they only had a few weeks’ notice. I spotted Sam everywhere I turned—the wainscoting in the den; the butcher-block table in the kitchen; the hours we spent in front of the fireplace; the warmth and woodsy smell that was so Sam. I tried to gather and store it somewhere inside of me, a permanent keepsake box for the senses, as if it were all going to disappear at midnight.

At eleven forty-five, David and I rounded everyone up and squeezed them all into the living room. David clinked his glass with a swizzle stick and the chatter quickly dissolved into a hushed silence. He cleared his throat.

“Everyone, I know we’ve still got fifteen minutes till midnight, but Andi and I have an announcement to make.”

The room grew silent. I caught a glimpse of Maggie slowly mouthing the words, “Oh my God, are you pregnant?” to me, and I tried to inconspicuously shake my head no. Wylie was grinning like the Cheshire cat, although no one seemed to notice, probably because she was the last person anyone would guess to know our secret.

“We’re really,
really
glad all of you could come tonight,” I said slowly, delaying the rest of the sentence, “because…” and when I knew they couldn’t take it anymore, I blurted, “this is our wedding.”

chapter forty-seven

The room erupted into a collective yawp, followed by applause as both Maggie and Miranda rushed and nearly tackled me with their hugs, while my brothers slapped David on the back and shook his hand, taking mock sucker punches at him for not letting them in on the surprise. Wylie, my mother, and Sam’s brother were the only people we had told. I had called him and asked for his blessing, and I was even more touched that he not only approved, but wanted to be here.

Mom was seated on the sofa, but I could see a mix of satisfaction and sadness on her face: relief that we’d granted her request, yet aware that an ominous clock was ticking, and not just until midnight. My eyes already wet, I sent her a signal with my body language:
Is this OK? Do you approve?
She responded by holding up her glass in a toast. Tony caught the gesture, and he went to help her stand—she clearly was fighting to stay awake—and brought her over to us. David and I stood in front of the fireplace. Wylie stood by his side, and Mom by mine. David’s friend Jim, a notary public, agreed to preside over the exchange of rings and vows.

David and I had written our own.

“Andrea,” he began, “I promise to honor our love, and the loves that have come before us. I promise to cherish you, and the people that made us who we have become. I promise to always reread and revise. I promise to listen, to look at the light, to paint in fleeting brushstrokes, to be your student, your teacher, and your partner. I promise to be your best friend.”

“David,” I replied, willing my voice not to get caught in my throat, “you are both my prologue and my epilogue. You are my co-writer, my reader, my teacher, and my student. You are my best friend. I vow to be all that to you and more. I vow to be yours and yours only. I vow that wherever we go, we’ll be home, and we’ll be a family.” I caught a glimpse of Wylie and winked at her.

The moment Jim pronounced us married, the grandfather clock chimed. David kissed me in a tornado of an embrace swirling with whistles and congratulatory cheers.

Tony held up a glass and toasted us. “To David and Andi,” he said. Our friends and family followed suit. We clinked glasses, a melody of bells ringing in the first day of the rest of our lives. And when I looked at my mother, I’d never seen her so proud of me.

chapter forty-eight

Six months later

I was outside tending to the flower beds. Since I never had a green thumb, I had asked Mom to give me a crash course in what seeds to plant and when, when to water and weed them, and what kinds of flowers she liked. I started with orange lilies, planting them in April. Weeding and feeding time became quality time with Mom; working methodically, rhythmically, having conversations with her in my mind, I imagined her standing over my shoulder, correcting me, instructing me, even praising me.

I missed her something fierce.

She had deteriorated sooner than any of us had expected. Maybe David’s and my wedding was the last thing she’d held out for. Maybe the cancer had been worse than she’d let on, or than the doctors had anticipated. Maybe she simply didn’t want to put us through the agony. She had requested in-home care rather than hospice, and we accommodated, David and I paying for anything Mom’s insurance didn’t cover. Joey and Tony and I sat vigil throughout the month of March, all three of us moving in, singing three-part harmony to her, and me reading
Daughters
to her when they weren’t around. She liked the three events I had chosen: my eighth birthday, when she
took me to Carvel, just the two of us; the near bicycle accident I’d mentioned during that first chemotherapy session; and the recipe box she gave me as a wedding present—not quite an “event,” but for that piece I put together a profile of sorts, based on recipes that were passed down from her mother and grandmother. The unifying theme, I decided, was “connection.” More specifically, three moments that had brought us together, bonded us in ways we’d never taken the time to notice.

I promised I’d plant a garden, and that I’d try to take care of it.

I promised I’d sing more often.

I promised I’d be a good parent. And a good spouse.

I don’t know what she told Joey or Tony when they sat with her alone, each saying their good-byes in their own ways, but to me she mostly gave advice: “Just be there for Wylie. Don’t worry about being a mother or a stepmother or whatever you think you’re supposed to be. Be yourself. And do it differently from me.”

“You weren’t so bad, Mom. I was wrong all those years.”

“I could’ve been better. We both could have. Be better with Wylie.”

“I will,” I said, my voice breaking. “I promise.”

She even asked me to give her copy of
Daughters
to Wylie one day, when she was older. Her wedding day, perhaps.

She passed away at the end of March, two days after her wedding anniversary. It seemed fitting. On the particularly difficult days, I would take out the letter she wrote to me—she gave one to each of us for Christmas, along with a framed photo and a keepsake. The photo she gave me was of the two of us in front of the Fontana di Trevi in Rome, almost two years ago. It was one of those candid shots, the kind you don’t pose for, are hardly aware of. One of my brothers caught us in a
moment of sharing something pleasant, the two of us facing each other and smiling. We had too few of those moments. I placed it on the end table next to my side of the bed. The keepsake was the program from my doctoral graduation; she highlighted my name. In the letter, she explained that she had been very proud of me that day.