The Power of Feeling
We decided not to wait until my father got better to get married. It was important for us to make that tie. We wanted to be husband and wife. We needed all the connections, all the bonds we could muster. So we arranged to have a simple ceremony held in the garden of the Divinity School at Yale. A quadrangle set off the beaten track of campus, quiet and serene this time of year.
As for me, a different doctor and subsequent course of antibiotics had stopped the free fall, had stopped the descent, but did not bring about a return to normal. The pain had softened to a perpetual ache, the anxiety had turned to frustration. I was left with a red and swollen bum knee, frequent headaches, and constant fatigue. I could maneuver well enough through the static air inside our house, but could no longer run freely through the rain, if I wished, or hike deep into the forest to commune among the trees. I could put my hand out and touch the man who loved me, but feared whatever was in me that attracted and held that love was peeling away, layer by layer.
Ross watched over me uneasily on our wedding day, making sure nothing was too much for me, but I could see in his eyes it was becoming all too much for him. His father and sister were there; Dottie, a softer version of Ross, concerned for her brother, disappointed she could not show us her town-and-country dreams. The father and son had stopped their skirmishing for the moment, the father having sense enough to lay down his arms. But underneath his look of concern lurked a deep dissatisfaction that his firstborn, who had the talent and the brains to be the big-time lawyer or rising politician, who possessed the looks, the breeding to have the beautiful wife and darling children—to have it all—would continually, seemingly perversely, attach himself to losing causes. His concern was for Ross’ genuine happiness; he hoped everyone understood that.
Renny materialized as if from a secret place, lumbering across the grass accompanied by Dan Morente’s mother. She had been exiled from her country a year or so ago and was currently working with us in Texas. An extraordinary woman. She hated flying, but she flew here. She came up to Ross, taking hold of both his hands, and he almost lost it. They took a long walk around the perimeter of the garden, away from the others, Mrs. Vallar doing the talking, a good foot shorter than Ross, her hands clasped around his arm. Paul and Cathy came. Tyler—back home in Boston for good—sent a huge bouquet of tropical flowers to the house, and to my surprise, Janet and Meredith showed up. Ross had called them and the two had driven here together. My father was not strong enough to travel, of course, but Maureen and Gary came, bringing us a note with a check from my parents. ‘Buy something pretty,’ Mom had written.
The minister arrived and we assembled in a loose circle, Renny wandering just outside its circumference, head down, hands in his pockets. The minister gave a brief talk, spoke of the service as a bearing witness to love, a giving thanks for the gift that was now here among us. For that short space of time, in that lovely quiet garden, we were all able to put our cares aside, and it was an affecting little ceremony. The summer breeze wafting through the yard eased everyone’s spirits—nature’s small gift—fanning faces, turning everyone for the moment prettier, more revealing of themselves; the balminess evocative, redemptive. A wayward ray of hope ran through us there like the sunshine filtering through the clouds as we were pronounced husband and wife. There was to be a small reception at the house after the service before everyone took off on their separate ways. (No honeymoon right now. When things got better.) Soon the garden reverted to an empty stage, shafts of late-day sunlight illuminating the verdant spot where our gentle play had taken place.
We drove back to the house alone, a status befitting newlyweds. Sitting on the passenger side, I turned and smiled at Ross, my husband now, so handsome in his dark suit with a flower in his lapel. He smiled back and put his hand on my thigh. We were both exhausted. After everyone left the house, we took off our wedding clothes and lay down on our bed, the air, an ever-present spirit, wafting in from the open windows, blowing the curtains softly above us. We held each other and stared out the window, both of us silent, watching the sky darken into evening. I rested in Ross’ arms, feeling his embrace, concentrating on his body pressing against mine, a feeling I tried to burn into my mind, the feeling I wanted to carry with me through eternity.
* * *
Michael sent me a letter, the news of both my illness and my wedding finding its way onto the gossip grid, then spreading without resistance. Congratulations, and was I better now? Was there anything I needed? Convalescence in Europe? Not-yet-legal treatments? Money could talk. No questions. No strings. Ah, Michael, Michael . . . his kind words mattered to me; I did not take them as condescending; I only thought of him now as the boy I first knew, the boy at my art exhibition—it was a passed life. He had matured over the past few years into an interestingly complex man, himself recently marrying a witty, charming woman, an up-and-coming performance artist. I watched her once on cable TV.
Unfortunately, Ross found out about his offer. I’d sent Rachel out to Kinko’s to fax Michael a reply, thanking him but refusing—there was little he could do—without telling my husband, but Michael, not liking my answer, took it upon himself to call Ross at HRI. The Nagles had contacted Ross as well, saying they were planning on returning to the States at the end of the spring semester next year. We had to be out of their house by Memorial Day. They were expecting to be commended for giving this advance notice and were insulted by the strained sullen response. Time to put a down payment on a house, boy, and stop hemorrhaging taxes. Be grateful for the push back into reality. It was their house, was it not? . . . their ocean view . . .
The burden of humiliation Ross labored under was crushing him. It made him question his every judgment. Was he just too immature to make the hard, practical choices in life, to quietly give up his dreams, he continually asked himself. His life was in those dreams. Did he need to sell his soul in order not to feel like real men all around him had to step in and rescue those he loved? Men with power. The power of the possession of money earned in any manner, the power of not feeling too much.
“I’ll get the money; we’ll do something. Whatever you want,” he said resentfully, as if whatever that request might be, whatever it was I wanted, would be the last thing he wanted to do, the thing he had to steel himself to do, but do it he would, bound by some archaic code of honor, some ancient contract, his soul all the while rebelling. He was standing at the desk in the living room, shuffling the mail, most of it bills, including a substantial one from my former doctor who had “fired” me for being a non-compliant patient.
He was so cold. How could he not understand I was angry at just about everything but his lack of funds? I couldn’t reach him any longer, and I was getting too tired, we had grown too far apart to try. “If you ask your sister, you’d better just ask for money to pay the insurance,” I sneered, knowing just where to place the knife. He turned around at this nasty thrust, his worst suspicions confirmed. I hated myself for that last jab. We never ever thought we’d turn on each other. “I’ve been operating under the premise that we’re a team,” I said plaintively, by way of explanation, further accusation.
“Yeah, we’re a great team—we’re just about ready to rule the world,” he said, throwing down the mail and leaving the room. That was it then. My angels were nowhere to be found tonight; those shards of memories were no longer something to be conjured. What a fool I was to expect birdsong across these frozen fields. Maybe Rachel was right. It was time to pay Mrs. Dent a visit.
Image: All the bonds we could muster. Source: Andy F / Shafts of sunlight, Woodrising Wood. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic, Wikimedia Commons. Edited by J. Weigley