Of all the wedding receptions, I think Margaret had the best time at Larry and Heidi’s. I know I did. It was an enormous affair at the Spokane Country Club. I felt like I was at a football game. I passed people I hadn’t seen in years, swept along in the buffet line, and shouted, “Hi! I’ll meet you by the bar!” only to be carried along in the current to the dance floor. It was a great party—fun and raucous with lots of people misbehaving and everyone looking gorgeous. One of the Special Olympians lost a beer-drinking contest early in the evening and took off all his clothes in the men’s room. Someone had to call his mom to come pick him up, but she was very cheerful about it. Another guest, a young intern from Larry’s law firm, got drunk and jumped naked into the fountain later that evening. This didn’t go over so well. We Garvins are not as tolerant toward those who should know better, mostly because we have to give so much rope to those who don’t.
Looking back on this, I remembered that I’d done all my misbehaving the night before, so I sipped soda water and nursed a hangover, people-watching and enjoying my family. Larry looked so handsome in his tuxedo, and so did Michael, the best man. Our parents were absolutely glamorous in their fancy clothes, although both of them later confessed that their feet were killing them—my dad with his gout, and my mom not used to her sexy high heels. All I saw of Ann was her back as she dragged her jet-lagged and wailing children out to the car. My second cousin’s kids held me hostage for a good fifteen minutes telling me a gruesome story about a nest of ’coons in the attic and how their gun-toting dad had taken care of them. But here was my beautiful and hugely pregnant cousin Kathy and her husband, David. My hilarious cousin Pat and his wife, Karen, had brought their lovely little girl, in whose face and name I saw my great-grandmother. There were babies everywhere, aunts and uncles, and my tiny, wonderful grandmother gripping her wineglass by the stem and beaming nearsightedly at everyone. It was a regular wedding reception. See, I thought, we can be normal.
Margaret had on a lovely plum-colored skirt and a matching jacket. She wore black hose and black flats. One of the staff members at her group home had helped her put on makeup. She was actually smiling, somehow not put off by all the noise and the people. Lori told us later that they had stopped for cupcakes between the church and the country club in an attempt to fend off any cake-related anxiety, and I imagine that the sugar had helped improve her mood.
That night as I watched my older sister Margaret, my heart was full. It made me happy that she could sometimes blend in with the rest of us and not have everyone staring at her, making her seem like the odd one out. Although she couldn’t express complicated sentiments, I imagined she liked to feel included just like the rest of us did. I felt a surge of gratitude toward my new sister-in-law for making room in her life for Margaret.
Later, when the groomsmen and bridesmaids were making toasts, Margaret hustled in close so she could get right up next to the cake. All eyes were fixed on the lovely couple as their friends and siblings took turns telling funny stories and expressing their good wishes. Cameras flashed as people recorded the special moment.
I’d like to believe that everyone was so intent on the words of love and encouragement pouring into the microphone that probably not very many people noticed Margaret. My dear sister, who had edged in right next to the bride and groom, was waiting tensely, eyes on the cake, with the hem of her skirt tucked down into the front of her pantyhose.
Michael’s wife, who was standing next to me, noticed, too. “Oh, no,” we said in unison. My mother was standing closest to Margaret, and I tried desperately, silently, to get her attention. Mom saw me gesturing wildly and misunderstood. Thinking I was pointing to the bride and groom, she smiled at me, her eyes shining with joyful tears. “I know,” she mouthed. “Just beautiful!”
4.
winging it
In conversation, as in most things, the middle road is best. Know when to listen to others but also know when it is your turn to carry on the conversation.
—On Conversation, EMILY POST’S ETIQUETTE
SOME OF MY relationships have become trapped in the amber of my memories, and comparing the present with the past can be confusing. My fiery dad, for example, somehow became a mild little white-haired person who makes polite dinner conversation with me instead of insisting everyone shut up so he can watch TV. My ever-tired mother, who ignored my decades of nagging about exercise, is now a road-biking demon with calves of steel. We are all always changing, I know. Even Margaret, who appears to stay more the same than most people I know, is moving through time and space in her own individual life just as I am moving through mine.
I was thinking about this one day as I sat in my backyard in Oregon, watching the swallows dip and swoop over the garden.
