That was devastating for him.
He’d been driving since he was fifteen.
His grandfather had taught him on dirt roads near Loon Lake.
On the way home, Mark stared silently at his truck parked beside the garage.
That night, he placed the keys in my hand.
Exactly the way he’d handed me his wedding ring twelve years earlier.
“I’m
sorry, Lee,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”
I held his hand.
“That’s okay, sweetheart.”
He looked at me.
“It’s only a truck. You’re still you. That’s what matters.”
His eyes filled.
Then he held me.
—
A week later, I called Carol.
She answered with that same familiar, gravelly voice.
“Well, honey. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did.”
I hesitated.
“And I’m sorry I hung up on you.”
She laughed softly.
“Don’t worry about that. I’d probably have done the same.”
We talked about Mark.
About the wedding.
About the arrangements she’d made.
And about how frightening the previous few days had been.
When I mentioned that Mark had driven north toward Loon Lake during his moment of confusion, she grew quiet.
“Toward here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“Well, maybe some part of him was trying to find his favorite place.”
I looked out the window.
Perhaps she was right.
—
In early September, Sophie took me dress shopping.
I insisted I didn’t need anything elaborate.
I was fifty-one.
I’d already worn a wedding dress once.
But Sophie refused to let me settle for something ordinary.
“Mom, Dad wants this day to be special.”
“He thinks khakis count as formal clothing.”
“Exactly. That’s why he’s letting me choose.”
At the third boutique, we found it.
A pale-blue dress.
Simple.
Soft.
With short sleeves and a skirt that moved gently when I walked.
It reminded me of the lake on a clear morning.
When I stepped out of the dressing room, Sophie covered her mouth.
“Oh, Mom.”
I looked in the mirror.
I didn’t look twenty-five.
I looked like a woman who’d lived.
A woman who’d raised a daughter, weathered difficult years, laughed, worried, worked, and loved one man for more than half her life.
I looked like
myself.
And that felt right.
“He’s going to cry,” Sophie whispered.
“He cries at dog food commercials.”
She laughed.
“Mom, that’s you.”
