“Hi, Mom,” I said, and she waited a beat.
“Oh, hello, Chloe dear,” she replied, managing to sound unconcerned and somewhat surprised I’d called. She knew it was me; she had caller ID right there on the phone—but no matter. I’d be cool as well.
“I’d like to come by the house to talk to you, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Will it be soon? I’ll put on some tea.”
“I can come now. I’ll just get changed and be right over.”
“Still in your pajamas?”
Only four words, and yet oh so much judgment. I sidestepped the obvious trap. “I’ll be there in twenty,” I replied, clenching my hands.
“I’ll be here,” she said.
“Oh, and Mother?”
“Hmm?”
“If I see his car in the driveway, I’m turning around.”
Silence. Sigh. And then finally, “I’ll see you in twenty.”
I’d won nothing in actuality. But I unclenched my hands, and that was good. I then texted Charles:
Hi.
He responded right away:
Hi.
I wasn’t a robot. I could feel a bit of remorse beginning to poke through.
I’d like to call you later, talk about some things?
He didn’t respond right away, so I went to get changed. I was, in fact, still in my pajamas. But as I pushed my head through a San Diego State sweatshirt of my dad’s, I heard my phone beep.
Talk about some things? I’ll say we need to talk about some things. I’ll come by at 5 and pick you up.
I didn’t want to see him. Not yet.
No, no that’s not a good idea. I need some more time. I’ll call you, let’s start there.
Whatever you say . . .
I texted him bye, but for the first time, didn’t add XOXO.
I pulled on some sweatpants and went downstairs. “I’m heading over to Mom’s to talk; you need anything while I’m out?” I asked my father, who was reading another newspaper. Each Sunday he had the New York Times, the LA Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Wall Street Journal delivered. He liked to “cover his bases.” What he covered were his fingerprints with ink, as well as doorjambs and countertops.
“You want me to go with you?” he asked. “Nice outfit, by the way.”
“Thanks. If I hold up the pants on the side I should be able to keep them on,” I laughed. “And no, I’m good to go solo. If you hear a sonic boom coming from her side of town, you’ll know how it’s going.”
“I’m familiar with that boom,” he replied, one corner of his mouth turning up.
So I headed out the front door to explain to my mother why I’d canceled her perfect wedding. Hopefully I’d be able to think up a good reason on the way over.
I walked into the house, my house, and saw that everything was still exactly as it was yesterday. Chairs were arranged in the living room in the semicircle I’d been in when I’d freaked out. There were still nail polish bottles on the coffee table. One thing was different, though. My wedding dress had been in my room but was now displayed in the entryway, hanging from the banister so you couldn’t miss it.
Point: Mom.
“Hello?” I called, walking through the foyer and past the living room carnage.
“In the kitchen,” she called back, and I headed for her voice. I found her sitting at the breakfast table. Teapot. Cups. Saucers. Milk. Sugar cubes. And holy fudge, she was wearing her Chanel. The suit she wore when she felt she needed something a little extra.
I hovered in the doorway. “Hi.”
“Hello, dear,” she said softly. Uh-oh. Softly again. Usually her default position. She rose, deposited a quick kiss on my cheek, then poured the tea. “One cube, or two?” she asked. She never encouraged me to have more than a solitary cube. Hmm . . .
“Three please,” I volleyed, and sank into my usual chair.
Point: Chloe.
She clenched her jaw for just the scantest second, and then three sugar cubes were placed carefully into my teacup with silver tongs. We’d traveled to London when I was in sixth grade, and every afternoon we had tea at Fortnum & Mason. It was something we both enjoyed, and tried our best to replicate when we came home. I can remember the two of us giggling as we ate our crustless sandwiches and spoke in the poshest British accent we could muster.
Over the years, however, it started to feel remote; less of a shared pleasure and more of an opportunity for a talking to. And I could see this was where she wanted it to go now. But I had some talking of my own to do first.
“So here’s the thing, Mother,” I began, startling her into sitting down quickly, a surprised expression on her face. Which she masked just as quickly. I pressed on. “I can’t tell you exactly why I ran out of here so fast yesterday, and I realize that I seemed quite crazy. But I’d had an epiphany, a sudden, frightening epiphany, that I couldn’t marry Charles. And I knew if I stayed in this house for one more minute, I’d let everyone talk me out of it.”