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I scanned through the radio stations, trying to find something better than depressing country songs. Billie Jean came on. Another good sign. Another song from back in the day. I turned it up as loud as it would go, trying to drown out my anxiety.
My heart seemed to have moved into my throat.
If you were a perfume, you’d be called Despair, I said to my reflection. Maybe aloud. Maybe in my head. Eau de Despair. You would smell like orchids. And burning tires.
I didn’t know what I was talking about, but this made my reflection smile a little.
I turned the dome light back off and tried to relax so the worry lines across my forehead would disappear. It was times like this that I knew no matter what happened, we go through this life alone and are only truly known by ourselves. I rubbed my belly, knowing even to this baby, I was just its carrier, its incubator. But knowing this is a lot like knowing we will die: We put it away and snap back to the moment. That is called being sane. Denial equals sanity, I whispered to my reflection. My reflection nodded. You aren’t kidding! it said.
I grabbed some lipstick from my purse and did a quick touch-up, then checked my reflection again in my lighted compact, careful to look only at my lips. I put the car back in gear and went a few more blocks, then took a right. There before me was the high school. Parents of the kids on court were parking in front and making their way through the cold snowy evening to see their sons and daughters.
Keep going.
Blend in.
Act normal.
I parked the car, got out, and walked inside. As natural as could be. I had left my gloves in the car, and as I walked in, my left hand instinctively moved to my right ring finger, reaching for Valencia’s class ring, spinning it round and round.
I followed the parents to the gymnasium, which was dimly
lit with twinkling holiday lights and a big archway made of balloons. Everyone was trying to find a good place to stand to see the court. I craned my neck, looking around for my sister. Were they going to turn up the lights? I wasn’t sure if I would be able to recognize her if they didn’t.
“Are you ready for the grand march?” a deep voice boomed over the loudspeakers.
“Woo hoo!” cheered the moms and dads. They clapped and whistled, stomping their slushy boots on the heavily shellacked floors. They were moms and dads just like I knew as a child, these Midwestern men and women wearing jackets that bore the name of their brother’s plumbing company or their favorite bar. I wasn’t in Savannah anymore and these people overwhelmed me. These sincere, tough people, looking like the models of hard living. Even the women wore ugly snow boots. I was melancholy and joyous, sorry for them and strangely proud of them. The lights came on suddenly and the announcer started in.
“First we have Emily Buckley, escorted by Joe Lyle!” The boy dragged the girl quickly around the floor while cameras flashed and their parents stepped a little closer to take photographs. The couple found their way back to the balloon arch and stood in their assigned places.
“Next, we have Coral McCray, escorted by Elliott Johnson!” yelled the announcer. My stomach tightened. A small part of me suspected that in person she wouldn’t look anything like my sister. That her name, the similarities I’d thought I’d seen, had all been just a meaningless coincidence. But then she and her date made their way out from behind the curtain and appeared in the balloon arch.
There she was. She could have been Valencia, if only her hair had been a tiny bit lighter. There was no doubt that this was Valencia’s daughter.
I was crying again I realized, and I brushed at my eyes, scanning the crowd for Valencia. Elliott and Coral were walking more slowly than the previous couple. Everyone was cheering. It was obvious they all loved her just as everyone had always loved my sister.
And then I saw her. My sister, my Valencia. She took a step forward from the crowd, bent down on one knee like she was genuflecting, and snapped a picture. She bounced back up, waved a happy little wave to her daughter, and stepped back into the crowd.
I nearly had not recognized her, having thought for a moment I was looking at my mother. Because that was who Valencia had become: A carbon copy of Patricia Loden, but with scars and broken plains across the side of her face. She had the proud, quiet look of a woman who had lived through something awful. Over an old flannel shirt, she wore a frumpy gray coat with stains covering it, and a purple cap on her head. She wasn’t yet forty, but looked fifty. Her hair, once long and thick, was cut into a short, scruffy, reddish-brown style that stuck out beneath the cap like scruffs of a beaver pelt. She was just another woman who had lost her expectations and therefore, was not unsatisfied.
She had a softer, kinder look than my mother, and behind her out-of-date glasses, her eyes had become sad. That didn’t change even when she was smiling, like she was now at my niece. Beside her stood Rob McCray, fifty pounds heavier with a head of thin, gray hair. I wasn’t even one hundred percent sure it was him, until he put his arm around my sister. There was a boy standing with them who looked about thirteen or fourteen. I could tell he was my nephew because he looked so much like Van.
More couples had come out and taken their places beside the balloon arch while I had been watching my sister and her family. Once the last couple found their place, the gymnasium became startlingly quiet. I twisted Valencia’s ring, waiting.
“And now it’s time to announce tonight’s king and queen!” boomed the voice of the announcer. The gymnasium crowd erupted into claps and cheers, and then quickly quieted itself again, until all that could be heard was the tiny cough of a child, followed by his mother whispering, “Shhh.”
“The 2007 Stewartville Winter Formal King and Queen are… Coral McCray and Elliott Johnson!”
The balloons dropped while Coral and Elliott made another round. The crowd cheered and Valencia snapped more pictures. Rob lifted his pinkies to his mouth and whistled. I found myself edging a little closer to them.
“Congratulations, Val! You must be so proud of her,” I heard a woman exclaim, giving my sister a hug. Coral and Elliott were back beneath the balloon arch and last year’s king and queen were placing crowns on their heads. I inched closer still to Valencia, until I was only ten feet away. The right side of her face bore a long, raised scar from the edge of her nose all the way to her ear lobe. Her cute little nose was crooked now. She was damaged goods, in an unremarkable, dismissible way. Like a farmer missing a couple fingers. Did people wonder what had happened to her? Did anyone know? Did she have a story she had told so many times that it was almost now like a second truth?
She had removed her purple cap and it was hanging out of her pocket. I was close enough to see her gray roots, see her pack of cigarettes popping out of her cheap purse. She was chewing gum, a habit I despised, and when she turned, her open winter coat revealed pleat-front jeans that came up to her belly button, the flannel shirt clumsily tucked into them. Our eyes met and for just a moment locked. I opened my mouth and drew in a breath, ready to say something, yet that breath caught there and didn’t produce a word. And then Valencia’s eyes continued past me and back to her daughter who was beaming for the local paper’s photographer. This scene inspired her to pick up her camera and take some more pictures. Next she grabbed a balled up tissue from her purse, and wiped at the tip of her nose. She did not look back at me.
The crowd began to thin. The lights dimmed and the announcer told us that the parents were welcome to stay and dance. The students looked at one another with horrified expressions on their faces. Valencia and Rob were moving away from me, zipping up their coats, preparing to leave. Their son had already gone on ahead of them. I had come too far to let this go. I followed them, finding it difficult to keep up with my strappy heels and pregnant belly. As they prepared to slip out a side door of the gymnasium, I reached them and tapped on Valencia’s back. She looked back at me, blankly.
“You must be so proud,” I said. My voice was shaking. “Of your daughter,” I added, when she did not immediately respond.
The three of us stood there in that open doorway, blocking traffic. I smiled, waiting to see what happened next. My eyes were moist and my heart was pounding. I swallowed dryly.
