Wedding For One: Wedding For One / Tattoo For Two. Dawn Atkins
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She could always goof up later. Or in between times.
WHEN SHE GOT HOME that night, Mariah’s mother met her at the door. “Tada!” she said and waved her arm to indicate the sofa on which she’d laid out three business suits with matching handbags and shoes. “Look what I got for you!”
“Mom, you shouldn’t have.”
“Sure I should. You’re a businesswoman. A tiger has to change his spots.”
“Tigers have stripes, Mom, and they don’t change them. That’s the point of the saying.” She went to finger one of the suits—gray and tailored. It was something a funeral director might wear. “This isn’t me, Mom.”
Then she caught sight of her mother’s crestfallen face. She hated that look. She’d caused it so many times as a teen. Since she’d been here, there had already been difficult moments. Her mother had pointed out her bad posture, bad eating habits— “you’ll give yourself cancer”—her colorful language and how loud she played the stereo.
“All right. I’ll wear them.” Dressing like a flight attendant for the few weeks of her visit wouldn’t kill her. She’d spice up the suits somehow. She knew her mother meant well. Mariah was her only child, after all. Why not give her this small pleasure? Clothes weren’t permanent at least.
“Terrific. You can model them for the girls when they come for pinochle.”
Before she could object, the doorbell rang. Her mother bustled to the door. “Why, Sergei, what brings you here?” she said, faking surprise.
“A hair emergency, you told me it was,” he said, sounding gay, Russian and worried at the same time. He looked past her mother at Mariah. “And you were correct, I can see.”
Before Mariah knew it, Sergei had her by the hair, tsking and huffing. She relaxed and let herself be styled to her mother’s satisfaction. No matter what, though, she was not joining the church choir.
6
“TODAY, WE GET IN TOUCH with your inner child,” Mariah announced to Nathan after they’d finished the yoga session.
“My inner child? Shouldn’t we let sleeping kids lie?”
“That’s dogs, Nathan, not kids. And you need to remember the simple joys of childhood, so we can identify what might make you feel that way again.” She folded her legs under her on the loveseat and patted the couch for Nathan to sit. “Let’s talk.”
“I’m not doing anything goofy.” He eased onto the edge of the sofa, looking ready to bolt at the first hint of weirdness.
“Come on. You weren’t even goofy as a kid. Lean back on the couch and picture your childhood….”
Eventually, he opened up to her, sharing a touching story of a childhood spent in apartments all over the country as his mother moved from band to band, town to town, gig to gig. Nathan had had a lot of responsibility as a kid—shopping, laundry, errands—and hadn’t gotten too close to friends, since a move was always around the corner. But he had loved his mother’s music, and that was a perfect place to start.
Finally, she convinced him to bring out that poor abused saxophone and play it for her.
He started out with a few broad squawks, adjusted the reed so the squawks became squeaks, adjusted some more, played a halting scale, then took a few breaths before he launched into an absolutely wretched version of what she eventually recognized as “Satin Doll.” When he faltered to the end, he looked at her with a sheepish smile. “Migraine kick in yet?”
“There’s a learning curve. How long have you been playing?”
“Two months.”
“Two months? Oh. Well, maybe you’re just tense. Let’s pick an easier song.” She sat beside him on the sofa, and flipped through the pages of the music book he had—Jazz Greats Made Easy—looking for something simple. At the back of the book, she noticed a cardboard flap that held a CD. “What’s this?”
“A CD of the songs. So I can compare how awful I am with how it’s supposed to sound, I guess.”
“Maybe if you played along with the CD, your timing would be better.”
“Mariah…”
She rushed to his stereo, put the CD in place and pushed the number for “Satin Doll.” A simple orchestration filled the air. “That sounds easy enough.” She hit Stop. “Play along this time.” She started the song.
Nathan missed the first few notes the first three times, but she put the track on repeat play, and came to sit beside him as he kept trying. By the tenth time, he was getting it.
“That’s enough,” he said, clicking the CD remote so a new song played. “That did help,” she said. “Thank you.”
Terrific. This was working. A hobby was just what he needed to ease his loneliness. “You’re starting to sound good,” she said. “I bet if you get good, you could start performing—”
“Mariah, hold it. I’m better, not transformed.” He grinned and nodded, though, his eyes twinkling. As he looked at her, his expression took on the eager glow it used to have when he would come to pick her up—almost as though if he didn’t see her soon he’d just die.
The CD moved on to a sweet and tender torch song, and Nathan said, “I think my inner child remembers something else I used to like.” He took Mariah’s hand and pulled her to her feet and into his arms, leading her in a slow dance with assurance and grace.
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