Page 43 of His First Wife

“And there’s no way out?”

“Well,” Damien started, “I did get some advice on my wedding day.”

“What?”

“My uncle told me to hold my breath when they raise the veil, and my father told me not to look at her face at all. Not into her eyes. He said to look at her ears, so everybody thinks you’re looking at her eyes. But you can’t look at her eyes because then you’re definitely going to break down.”

“Any of that work for you?” I asked.

“Hell, nah, J.” he said. “You were at my wedding. You saw how I showed out when Marcy came down the aisle. Shit, I was already crying when I remembered what they told me. Good luck.”

When Kerry walked into the church and the organ started playing the wedding march, I kept reminding myself to hold my breath and look at her ears.

“Breath. Ears! Breath. Ears!”

Shit, I said that to myself so much that aside from saying it, I totally forgot to do it. First Kerry entered the church. Then, just like Damien said, she was an angel floating toward me in that white dress. Then her uncle was raising her veil. Then everybody was looking at me. Then I was looking at Kerry. Her eyes soft. Her lips quivering. A smile suddenly on her face, just to me, just for me. My breath was gone. Like someone had punched me right in the gut. Then I was crying. And still saying to myself, “Breath. Ears!”

I was the punk I never wanted to be. But I really didn’t care. Kerry was more than I could’ve asked for. More than I even dared hope for until I asked her out on our first date and she said yes. I loved that girl through and through. Even with her ways. It was no secret that Kerry was a bit of a perfectionist. I knew this when we started dating; it was what turned me on to her—that she cared about the fine points. That she was passionate. Confused as hell, courtesy of her confused-ass mother, but still passionate about the little things. Feeling. The girl arranged her underwear drawer by putting matching sets into little plastic bags. She lined my shoes up in the closet in order first of activity, second usage, and third color. To most people this was a sign that she was a little over the edge, but to me it was like a light to let me know just how sensitive she was. While Kerry tried to play Ms. Hard-as-Nails-in-Complete-Control, she really needed the world to comply with her. She really needed me to comply with her. Because if one of those things was out of place, if I wasn’t there when she needed me to be there, she’d protest. So even with the pretending and crazy mother, my baby felt things deeper than most people, more than any other woman I’d ever known. And to me, that was what made her heart beat the loudest in any crowd. I couldn’t ignore that beat.

Now, Kerry had spent every waking moment since the engagement planning the wedding with her mother. While I didn’t exactly agree with the 600-deep guest list, filled with only about 90 or so people I knew and 450 Kerry thought she knew (the rest were her mother’s “associates” and people that “had to see us get married”), it was her dream day and I wanted her to have whatever she needed. But at some point she turned from my little passionate perfectionist to a member of the Third Wedding Reich—with the wicked führer being her mother—Lady Hitler herself. I sat back and let them do their crazy wedding thing, sure it would pass . . . kinda wondering when it would pass. Usually when Kerry got trapped in her mother’s control, after a certain point they’d end up fighting and Kerry would come out of it and run back to me. This hadn’t happened yet, and I was waiting for it.

Standing at the altar, a part of me was wondering if the spell would ever break this time. But then it happened. When Kerry was supposed to say the vows she’d typed and spent the last month memorizing in the shower, she opened her mouth and nothing came out. Nervous, I started mouthing the words to her (I’d memorized them too by default), hoping she needed a refresher, but she was frozen. Just looking at me, her eyes wide and still.

“Jamison,” she finally said. But it wasn’t like she was supposed to say it—like the salutations before a speech. It was more like she was unsure I’d answer. Like she was looking for me in a crowded room. “I love you. And I know I love you because I . . .” She paused and looked deeper into my eyes. “I feel it deep inside of me. Like when I’m with you I’m just where I’m supposed to be. I never told you this before, I never told anyone, but I used to feel like I was alone a lot before you came into my life. I felt like I was alone and that no one really understood me. Not who I really was. They all looked at me, but no one could see me. Not the real me. But you always did.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. It was the most vulnerable I’d ever seen Kerry. I reached over and took her hand.

“You always cared to really see me, Jamison. To really hear me. . . . And you accepted me. And that meant everything to me. Even though we’re different and sometimes don’t agree, you always take the time to see and hear me.” Her voice cracked and I squeezed her hand tighter. “And I want to say today that I want to give that back to you. I want to spend the rest of our days together hearing and seeing each other for who and what we are. That’s what I want to do . . . that’s what I want to do with you for the rest of our lives together.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding and trying to see her through the tears in my eyes.

If Kerry floated down the aisle toward me to start the wedding, after the preacher announced that we were man and wife, we must’ve sprinted out. I felt weightless, on cloud 99.9. I was ready to start the rest of my life with my wife, but it seemed like the rest of my life wasn’t coming toward me fast enough.

But like most track stars, after sprinting out of that church, I learned that course-changing injuries came quick, and when least expected. Torn ACLs, pulled muscles . . . My injury came in the form of a permed-out Hitler that I was forced to dance with at the wedding reception.

There I was doing my best to enjoy my wedding, waiting for it to be over with so Kerry and I could get back to the hotel to . . . seal the deal, when Kerry whispered that I had to dance with her mother. Now we both knew this “Mother-in-Law /Groom Dance” was a bad idea. I hated Kerry’s mother; she hated mine. We’d accepted that and decided to rise above it. Kerry didn’t have to dance with my mother. I was doing a pretty good job of keeping t

he two of them apart, so why in the hell did I have to dance with her mother? I’d never seen it done before, but Kerry said it was symbolic of bringing the families together and that it was her dream. I damn sure didn’t want to do it, but when the dance was announced, Kerry pinched me under the table and I put a quick smile on my face to join the crone on the dance floor. Dread wasn’t word enough to describe the moment. It was more like disgust . . . abhorrence. And it wasn’t because of the normal reasons other men didn’t get along with their mothers-in-law. Kerry’s mother had them all beat. She took pushy and nosy to the next level when it came to my relationship with Kerry. If she wasn’t talking about what we weren’t doing correctly, she was talking about what we needed to do. If she wasn’t telling me how she thought I should behave, feel, think, see, and breathe, she was complaining about the way I did all of those things—but never to my face. Of course it was never to my face. No, she’d get Kerry on the phone and get her all riled up and send her to me with the message. So I’d get home and find Kerry pacing the floor. I’d ask what was wrong and she’d say that “I” needed to get a home phone because it didn’t look right for people not to have a home phone, or “we” needed to attend church every week together at her mother’s church before we announced the wedding. Kerry would try to stand firm on this opinion, pretending it was her own, but after we’d discuss it for a little while, or sometimes argue, it would almost always come out that the whole idea came from conversation she’d had with her mother. One day I actually overheard them. “That boy needs to stop letting people call him J,” I heard her mother say. “His name is Jamison and that’s much more acceptable. J is some kind of street name.” I was furious. But I didn’t say anything to Kerry. I just went into the bathroom and shut the door. I guessed Kerry knew not to bring that garbage to me though, because she never brought it up. But even with all of her mother’s drama, she really didn’t bother me that much. Not to call a woman a bitch (my mother raised me better than that), but I’d known many females that could be classified as dogs in my life and they didn’t scare me. I can bark and bite too, so I was cool. What really bothered me about Lady Cujo though was how she got to Kerry. Her nagging and constant critiques had led to Kerry being much too self-conscious about the world and what other people thought of her. Whenever Kerry was happy or had done some great thing, her mother came talking about how so-and-so could have been better. Kerry would be crushed and start second-guessing herself. It seemed like since Kerry’s father got ill, the two of them were cells floating around, bumping into each other to see who hurt the most.

That was partially why I didn’t go to medical school. I didn’t want to leave Kerry alone, floating with her mother as they both starved for love from Kerry’s dad. They needed a buffer. I didn’t want to leave Kerry alone in Atlanta to crash and burn. I loved her and if protecting her meant that I had to put some of my dreams on hold, I was willing to be a man and do that. I’d lose one dream, but gain another in a woman who I knew I would make my wife.

My dream did not include dancing with Kerry’s mother at the wedding. But there I was, trying hard not to vomit and thinking it was so typical of that woman to be all smiling and cheesing for the cameras. She actually looked like she liked me. Like she was proud I was her son-in-law—the steet boy on the come-up who at the time was actually driving a lawn care truck and cutting lawns himself to get his business off the ground. That wasn’t what she’d wanted for Kerry. I needed a more recognizable name and a busload more of dollars in the bank. Shoot, according to her, I wasn’t even going to the right church. She hated me. Period. I was also quite surprised when she started talking to me during the dance. “You were a lovely groom,” she’d said, smiling. “And this was a wonderful day for my daughter.” I just smiled, waiting for the punch line. There was always a punch line in situations like that. But she just smiled. Then I thought maybe, just maybe, she’d changed. Maybe she’d accepted me into the family. Maybe she wasn’t as bad as I thought she was. She was turning over a new leaf. Old dogs could learn new tricks. I looked at Kerry and smiled. This was the family I’d imagined. If only we could get my mother to say two words to Kerry without accusing her of ruining my life, we’d be perfect then. “You looked lovely tonight,” I said, trying to return her nice words. I looked to Kerry again. She winked at me, nudging me on. Her mother looked at me with honesty in her eyes and nodded her head. As the song came to a close, the crowd began to clap and she opened her arms wide for a hug, which made them clap even louder, as if they knew the magnitude of the moment. I played along and hugged her tightly, and when I tried to let her go, she pressed her lips against my lips for a kiss. Then she whispered in my ear, “Good luck.” She stepped back and smiled again, only the look on her face had shifted from fake jubilation to pure evil. “You’re her first husband,” she added just before we parted.

It took me a minute to understand what she was saying. It sounded really positive at first. Her first? Like I was the man or something. But on the way back to my seat, I realized that this wasn’t a friendly communication by any means. It was Kerry’s mother in her real form. I decided I really hated that woman at that moment. I hated everything about her. And, Lord, I hated her for saying what she’d said. I wanted so much to forget it. But like she’d hoped, I never did.

Baby Week II

November 2007

I always thought it sounded clichéd when I’d see a friend who’d just given birth and I’d ask how old the baby was and she’d give me a long, drawn-out answer like, “Two years, four months, two weeks, and a day!”

But my first two weeks with Tyrian were nothing short of cliché. He was the “apple of my eye,” “the beat of my heart,” and, clearly, “the most beautiful baby in the world.” So, whenever Jamison and I would run into folks at the doctor’s office, and they’d ask how old he was, I’d count each second of his life and offer it up with pride. I’d explain that my beautiful baby boy was two weeks, one day, and eighteen hours old. I’d add that since he’d met the world, Tyrian had managed to figure out how to scream to indicate that he was very hungry (which was quite different than his “I’m awake, so I can eat now” hungry cry), blink his eyes without falling back to sleep, and keep his hand open. Then I’d pull out my digital camera to prove that he’d indeed achieved all of these things. The poor innocent bystander would then smile graciously, and inside I’d know that they thought I was crazy (like I once thought of the other mothers I knew), but I didn’t care. I was in baby bliss land and no lack of outside participation could stop me.

Tyrian really was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. Really. His color was the perfect mix of mine and Jamison’s, a soft oatmeal with undertones of caramel and copper. When we first brought him home, he looked like a little scoop of toasted almond ice cream, but even in the cold winter months, he’d managed to find his rich color. His eyes, though, were a complete surprise to everyone. Jamison had been born with dark green eyes, the color of emeralds, so we expected Tyrian’s to be the same, but instead his were an intense brown. So brown, in fact, that they looked black. Little marbles that pierced so deep, even in his two weeks of life when he could hardly focus long on one thing without falling asleep, people would comment about how serious and intense his eyes were. It was as if he could look into you, know that you were hiding something.

Now, my sweet boy, who wanted nothing of the world but to be fed and kissed on his hands (that calmed him), was on to something with these piercing eyes. We were hiding something, Jamison and I. We were hiding something from the world and even ourselves. In fact, we’d taken a few steps past hiding and were establishing permanent residence in the land of denial. That was because with all of the cute stuff we’d had to do with Tyrian, dedicating all of our positive energy to him from the moment he was born, we’d both nonverbally agreed to live separate emotional lives.

We’d smile at the baby, but never at each other. We’d talk to the baby, whoever was visiting the baby, even Isabella, but we

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