The hall closet had always been crowded.
I kept things there that I didn't use every day.
Old blankets.
A vacuum cleaner.
A few boxes of decorations.
And things I couldn't quite bring myself to throw away.
I opened the door and moved the vacuum cleaner aside.
Behind it was a box.
Christmas stockings.
I pulled it out carefully and placed it on the floor.
Then I opened the lid.
I counted them.
One.
Two.
Three.
I counted again.
I always counted.
It was a habit I had developed over the years.
Some people counted money.
Some counted days.
I counted stockings.
There were memories attached to those things.
Some were older than others.
Some had been used so many times that the fabric had become soft.
I touched the edge of one and smiled.
Then I put the lid back on.
I didn't need to explain anything to myself.
Not that afternoon.
I returned the box to the closet.
The following morning, I took out my good dress.
It was navy blue.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing that would make anybody stop and stare.
It fit properly, and that was enough.
I hung it on the bedroom door.
Then I opened the little box where I kept my mother's pearls.
They were not expensive.
My mother had never owned anything particularly expensive.
But she had worn those pearls on important occasions.
She wore them when she wanted to feel put together.
She wore them when she went to church.
She wore them to family gatherings.
After she died, I kept them.
I didn't wear them often.
But I knew this was an occasion when I wanted them around my neck.
I held the necklace in my hands.
The clasp was a little stiff.
I worked it open and closed a few times.
Then I placed it beside the dress.
Ernestine came over later that week.
She inspected the outfit.
"That's nice."
"It's a dress."
"I can see that."
She picked up the pearls.
"You're wearing these?"
"I thought I would."
She nodded.
"Good."
Then she looked at the closet.
"Have you counted?"
I turned toward her.
"Counted what?"
She gave me a look.
I laughed.
"Yes."
She shook her head.
"You and those stockings."
I didn't explain.
Some things were easier to leave alone.
We spent the afternoon talking about the trip.
The party was in Tupelo.
It was a little over two hours away.
Ernestine had agreed to drive.
I wasn't particularly fond of riding with her.
She drove like somebody who believed every road was a personal challenge.
She used both feet.
She braked too late.
She accelerated too quickly.
And she had inherited that habit from our father.
I told her this every time we traveled together.
She told me I complained too much.
Neither of us ever changed.
Two Saturdays later, the day arrived.
I woke up earlier than necessary.
The house was quiet.
I made coffee.
I checked the weather.
I watered the tomatoes one last time.
Then I went back inside and started getting dressed.
The navy dress fit.
I fastened the pearls.
I brushed my hair.
I stood in front of the mirror longer than I usually did.
There were lines around my eyes.
There were wrinkles near my mouth.
My hair had changed over the years.
I looked like a sixty-five-year-old woman.
Because that was what I was.
I didn't try to make myself look twenty-three again.
I had no interest in becoming the woman Garland had left.
That woman had spent too many nights wondering what she could have done differently.
I wasn't going to take her place.
Ernestine arrived shortly before the agreed time.
She came through the door carrying her purse.
"You ready?"
"Almost."
She looked at the table.
Then at the invitation.
"You brought it?"
I nodded.
She didn't ask why.
I slipped it into my handbag.
We left the house.
The morning was bright.
The road was familiar.
Ernestine drove with both feet, exactly as expected.
I held my purse on my lap.
We talked about ordinary things.
The weather.
The price of groceries.
A neighbor who had apparently bought a new lawn mower.
Neither of us mentioned Garland for the first several miles.
Then Ernestine glanced toward me.
"You nervous?"
I looked out the window.
"Not particularly."
She smiled.
"That's a lie."
I adjusted the strap of my handbag.
"I'm sixty-five years old. What would I be nervous about?"
"Seeing him."
I didn't answer.
She continued driving.
After a moment, I said something about being hungry.
She laughed.
We stopped for gas in Grenada.
I got out and went inside.
I bought a pack of Juicy Fruit.
I didn't particularly want gum.
I just needed something to do with my hands.
When I returned to the car, Ernestine was waiting.
She looked at the packet.
"Really?"
"What?"
"You bought gum."
"I noticed."
She shook her head and started the engine.
We continued toward Tupelo.
The closer we got, the more I noticed my stomach tightening.
I tried to ignore it.
I looked at the trees.
The road signs.
The passing cars.
I told myself that forty-two years was a long time.
I told myself that Garland was an old man now.
I told myself that the man I remembered and the man I was about to meet were not exactly the same person.
Still, I remembered his face.
That was the problem.
I remembered him before the gray hair.
Before the extra weight.
Before the years had changed the shape of his body.
I remembered the young man who had stood in my kitchen holding a duffel bag.
I remembered waiting for him to turn around.
He hadn't.
Ernestine reached over and touched my hand.
"You're all right."
I nodded.
She didn't say anything else.
When we finally reached Tupelo, I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
The VFW Hall was easy to recognize.
Gold balloons were tied along the railing.
A large seven and five stood near the entrance.
There were cars in the parking lot.
People were walking toward the building.
I looked through one of the windows.
Long tables.
White coverings.
A sheet cake.
A man standing near a microphone.
And then I saw him.
Garland.
He was standing near the front of the hall.
His hair had turned white.
His face was fuller.
His sport coat looked a little tight around the middle.
He was surrounded by three grown men.
They were talking to him.
One stood close to his shoulder.
Another had his hands in his pockets.
The third was smiling at something somebody had said.
And beside Garland was a blonde woman wearing sequins.
She had one hand resting on his arm.
Bonnie.
I knew it immediately.
I didn't know what I had expected her to look like.
But there she was.
The woman who had written that sentence.
The woman who had invited me to witness her version of a family.
I sat in the passenger seat.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
My knees felt weak.
I looked at Garland through the window.
Forty-two years had passed.
And yet, the sight of him brought back a feeling I thought I had buried.
I felt small.
I felt young.
I felt like the woman who had stood in that kitchen trying to convince her husband that their life could still be worth living.
I hated that feeling.
Ernestine noticed.
She reached across the space between us and took my hand.
"You don't owe that man anything."
I looked at her.
She squeezed my fingers.
"But don't let them have the satisfaction of thinking you came there ashamed."
I swallowed.
She glanced toward the entrance.
"Go in there like you belong."
I looked at the building again.
The gold balloons moved slightly in the breeze.
Inside, somebody was testing the microphone.
A few people laughed.
Ernestine released my hand.
Then she leaned back.
"I'm staying here for a little while."
I turned toward her.
"What?"
She smiled.
"This part belongs to you."
I looked at the entrance.
She nodded toward it.
"Go on."
I opened the car door.
The air outside felt cooler than I expected.
I adjusted my handbag.
I checked that the pearls were sitting properly.
Then I closed the car door.
Ernestine lowered her window.
I turned back.
She gave me one last look.
"You've got this."
I didn't answer.
I started toward the hall.
Every step felt heavier than the one before it.
I could hear the music through the windows.
There were voices inside.
People celebrating.
People who had come to honor Garland.
I reached the steps.
Then I stopped.
I looked at the door.
I thought about the sentence on the invitation.
Come see what a real family looks like.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I finally understood something.
I had spent too many years believing that the person who walked away had the right to decide what my life meant afterward.
He didn't.
I had never needed his permission to build a family.
I took a breath.
Then I climbed the last step and opened the door.
The music continued.
Nobody immediately stopped what they were doing.
But heads began turning.
One person noticed me.
Then another.
I stepped inside.
Bonnie saw me first.
Her smile changed.
It wasn't a dramatic change.
It was small.
The corners of her mouth tightened.
Her eyes moved from my face to my dress.
Then to the pearls.
She looked past me toward the entrance.
I kept walking.
She raised her chin.
"Well," she said loudly enough for the people nearby to hear. "I see you managed to come without anybody."
I stopped.
I looked at her.
Then I looked toward Garland.
He had turned around.
For a moment, he didn't seem to recognize me.
Then his expression changed.
His mouth opened slightly.
His eyes moved over my face.
I saw something pass through them.
Surprise.
Recognition.
And something that looked uncomfortably close to fear.
"Della?"
I stood still.
"Hello, Garland."
He looked toward Bonnie.
Then back at me.
"I didn't think you'd actually come."
I held his gaze.
"You sent me an invitation."
Bonnie shifted beside him.
I reached into my handbag and touched the folded invitation.
"And I believe somebody else wanted me here too."
Her expression tightened.
For a second, nobody said anything.
Then I heard movement behind me.
The entrance door opened.
I didn't turn around immediately.
Another sound followed.
Footsteps.
A voice.
Then the door opened again.
I looked over my shoulder.
And I smiled.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Eleven People Walking Through That Door Had a Connection to My Life Garland Could Never Have Imagined
The Birthday Invitation That Arrived Forty-Two Years After My Marriage Ended Had One Cruel Sentence Written at the Bottom
Part 4 of 20
