Just before the ball drops on Dad’s huge flat-screen television, Mom asks me if I want to go outside and bang pots and pans like we used to do when I was a kid. I tell Mom I don’t really want to bang pots and pans, especially since I am tired from spending the day outside in the cold, so from the couch, we watch people celebrating in Times Square.
Two thousand and six becomes 2007.
“It’s going to be a good year for us,” Mom says, and then forces a smile.
I smile back at Mom, not because I think it is going to be a good year, but because my father went to bed an hour ago, Nikki never came back, there’s not even the slightest inclination to suggest that 2007 is going to be a good year for either Mom or me, and yet Mom is still trying to find that silver lining she taught me about so long ago. She is still holding on to hope. “It’s going to be a good year,” I say.
When Mom falls asleep on the couch, I turn off the television and watch her breathe. She still looks pretty, and seeing her resting so peacefully makes me angry at my dad, even though I know he can’t change who he is, but I wish that he would at least try to appreciate Mom more and spend some quality time with her, especially since he doesn’t even have the Eagles to be grumpy about anymore, because the season is already a success regardless of what happens in the play-offs, especially after making it this far without McNabb. And yet I know my father is not likely to change, because I have known him for thirty-five years, and he has always been the same man.
Mom tucks her knees and elbows in close to her body and begins to shiver, so I push myself up, grab my crutches, and crutch my way over to the closet. I pull a blanket from the bottom of the closet, crutch my way over to Mom, and cover her—but she continues to shiver. Back at the closet, I see a heavier blanket on the top shelf, so I reach up and pull it down. It falls on top of my head just after I hear a little crash. I look down, and by my feet is a videocassette in a white plastic case that has two ringing bells on the cover.
I crutch my way over to my mother and cover her with the heavier blanket.
It is hard to pick up the cassette with my cast preventing me from squatting—I actually have to sit down on the floor to pick it up. After sliding over to the TV, I slip the cassette into the VCR. I look over my shoulder, checking to make sure that Mom is sleeping soundly, and then turn down the volume before I hit PLAY.
The video is not completely rewound, and the part that pops up on-screen is the beginning of the reception dinner. Our guests are seated in the banquet room of the Glenmont Country Club, which is near a golf course in a swanky little town just outside Baltimore. The camera is focused on the entrance doorway, but you can see the dance floor and the band too. Using the microphone, the lead singer says, “Let’s introduce the wedding party Philly style,” at which point the horn section of the band begins playing the opening notes of “Gonna Fly Now!” The guitarist and bassist and drummer soon begin playing, and even though it doesn’t sound exactly like Rocky’s theme song, it’s close enough to get the job done.
“Parents of the groom, Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Peoples!”
Our guests clap politely as my mom and dad cross the dance floor arm in arm, and the painful expression on my father’s face suggests that this was one of the worst experiences of his life—being announced at my wedding.
“Parents of the bride, Mr. and Mrs. George Gates.”
Nikki’s parents do a little skipping routine into the banquet hall, making them look sloshed, which they were, and I laugh thinking about how much fun my in-laws were when they drank. I really do miss Nikki’s parents.
“Bridesmaid, Elizabeth Richards, and groomsman, Ronnie Brown.”
Liz and Ronnie come out waving to our guests, as if they are royalty or something, which was strange, and the tactic all but mutes their applause. Ronnie looks young in the video, and I think about how he was not yet a father, how Emily did not even exist when this video was shot.
“Maid of honor, Wendy Rumsford, and best man, Jake Peoples!”
Jake and Wendy walk across the dance floor and directly toward the camera until their faces are life-size on my father’s huge flat-screen television. Wendy just sort of screams like she is at an Eagles game or something, but Jake says, “I love you, brother!” and then kisses the camera lens, leaving a lip-shaped smudge mark. I see the videographer’s hand emerge and quickly wipe the lens with a piece of cloth.
“And now, for the first time ever, allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Pat Peoples!”
Everyone stands and cheers as we walk into the banquet room. Nikki looks so pretty in her wedding dress. She’s holding her head in that cute, shy position, with her chin close to her chest, and seeing her now makes me cry because I miss her so much.
When we move to the dance floor, the band shifts gears, and I hear those sexy synthesizer chords, faint high-hat taps, and then the soprano saxophonist steps forward and “Songbird” takes flight.
Something in my mind begins to melt, and it feels as though I am experiencing an ice-cream headache—or as if someone is churning my brain with an ice pick. I’m not seeing the television screen anymore, I’m seeing the road through a fogged windshield, and it’s raining something fierce. It’s not even four in the afternoon, but it’s as dark as midnight. I’m upset because we have a big game coming up and yet the gym roof is leaking again like a sieve, which has forced me to cancel basketball practice.
All I want to do is take a shower and then watch game tapes.
But when I enter my house, I hear a soprano sax moaning, and it’s strange to hear Kenny G’s smooth jazz coming from my bathroom at a time like this. Mr. G’s notes are swirling all about. I open the bathroom door; I feel the steam lick my skin, and I wonder why Nikki is listening to our wedding song in the shower. Kenny G’s solo has reached a climax once more. The CD player is on the sink, and two piles of clothes rest on the floor, and a pair of men’s glasses are on the sink next to the CD player. Sexy synthesizer chords, faint high-hat taps.