frozen on the couch, unsure how to say anything without making things
worse.
But then my bookish homebody of a father did something unexpected.
He stood and grabbed our hands—one of Mom’s, one of mine—and said,
You know what we need to get these bad feelings out? We need to dance!
Our suburb had no clubs, just a mediocre steak house with a Friday night
cover band, but Mom lit up like he’d just suggested taking a private jet to
the Copacabana.
She wore her buttery yellow dress and some hammered metal earrings
that twinkled when she moved. Dad ordered twenty-year-old Scotch for
them and a Shirley Temple for me, and the three of us twirled and bobbed
until we were dizzy, laughing, tripping all over. We laughed until we could
barely stand, and my famously reserved father sang along to “Brown Eyed
Girl” like the whole room wasn’t watching us.
And then, exhausted, we piled into the car and drove home through the
quiet, Mom and Dad holding tight to each other’s hands between the seats,
and I tipped my head against the car window and, watching the streetlights
flicker across the glass, thought, It’s going to be okay. We will always be
okay.
And that was the moment I realized: when the world felt dark and scary,
love could whisk you off to go dancing; laughter could take some of the
pain away; beauty could punch holes in your fear. I decided then that my
life would be full of all three. Not just for my own benefit, but for Mom’s,
and for everyone else around me.
There would be purpose. There would be beauty. There would be
candlelight and Fleetwood Mac playing softly in the background.
The point is, I started telling myself a beautiful story about my life, about
fate and the way things work out, and by twenty-eight years old, my story
was perfect.
Perfect (cancer-free) parents who called several times a week, tipsy on
wine or each other’s company. Perfect (spontaneous, multilingual, six foot
three) boyfriend who worked in the ER and knew how to make coq au vin.
Perfect shabby chic apartment in Queens. Perfect job writing romantic
novels—inspired by perfect parents and perfect boyfriend—for Sandy
Lowe Books.
Perfect life.