I'm Your Daughter

Dress. Aisle. Seat. Ceremony. Pictures. The list repeats in my head. I want to make sure I don’t forget it, even though I’ve had it memorized for what feels like a lifetime. Dress. Aisle. Seat. Ceremony. Pictures. That’s all, I just have to get through those five things. I figure the reception will be so packed that I won’t have to deal with her, that’ll be Dad and Isaac’s job. She’ll see the dress, we’ll have our moment, then they’ll walk me down the aisle before taking their seats, leaving me home free for the ceremony and reception. Guilt creeps into my mind. I shouldn’t be looking forward to not interacting with her.

Thump. Thump. THUMP. The secondhand on the clock sends its announcement of the passing time throughout the room. Each thump is accompanied with an uptick in my anxiety level. My trembling hands smooth out any imaginary wrinkles in the white satin of my dress. My movements slowing as I trace over the intricate design of the lace bodice. For a moment, the thumping ceases to overpower my thoughts. For a moment, there is clarity. But then, as mysteriously as it appeared, it evaporates, and the storm comes back.

Dress. Aisle. Seat. Ceremony. Pictures. We talked about having a smaller ceremony, or even going to the courthouse, but I could tell this means a lot to Jake. I guess I would be lying if I said a part of me hasn’t been looking forward to this day. The planning stages of an event are always the best, open to possibilities and not yet marred by reality. I hear approaching footsteps and take a deep breath. The doorknob turns and slowly opens. Plastering on my best attempt at a smile conveying both sincerity and happiness, I turn to greet her. The woman I once knew is gone, I know that, but it still pains me to look into her eyes. To know she doesn’t know me.

“That’s a beautiful dress. Is it your wedding day?” she asks, skipping the normal social pleasantries.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Your mother must be so happy.”

“Thank you.”

I struggle to find the right next words. It’s one thing to plan out what you will say, it’s another thing entirely to be in the moment.

“I have two daughters, you know,” she says, breaking the silence.

I shift my eyes to the ground. I hate to do this to her, to rip off this bandage, never allowing time for the wound to properly heal, but I know that it never will. I raise my eyes to meet hers, knowing that confusion is about to overtake the child-like wonder.

“No, you only have one now,” I reply.

On cue, the confusion takes its residence in Mom’s expression, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t remember, but there was an accident a long time ago. Beth didn’t make it, but you did.”

Mom gasps, tears coming to her eyes as her head sinks.

“I’m so sorry, I know how much this hurts,” I scoot closer to her chair, placing her hands in mine, “Mom, I…”

Before I can finish the sentence, I realize my mistake. Her head pops up, bewilderment now her latest countenance.

“Who are you?” she asks.

The question comes out, stabbing me in the heart. No amount of preparation could prevent this feeling. Deep inside, I know that. I let the sting wash over me, pushing it aside for now. I’ll have time to cry later, or maybe tomorrow, but, for now, I just have to get through this. Then, there will only be four left: aisle, seat, ceremony, pictures. I nod my head.

“I’m your daughter,” I reply.

“Mom? I’m your…I’m your mother?” she asks.

The word comes out slowly and soft as if speaking it any louder would initiate a series of disasters. She turns to Dad and Isaac, searching for their input on the information. I’ve come to accept her being able to recognize my father as her husband, but I’m perplexed as to how she can acknowledge Isaac as her son while not making the connection to me. One doctor speculated that Isaac’s age at the time of the accident saved him from this constant cycle of heartbreak because his facial features have mostly stayed the same whereas I barely share resemblance with the small child I was on that fateful day. To be fair, I can’t entirely blame her, my own memories are starting to fade. I pray daily that they won’t, they’re all I have left. A healthy brain could make the connections, but that’s not the hand we’ve been dealt.

I always figured I would have to explain these things one day, that the memories would gradually slip away over time. I just didn’t think this day would come so soon. I guess that’s what happens when we try and plan out our lives, we tend to miscalculate the incalculable. That’s when I see the familiar change in her eyes.

“That’s a beautiful dress. Is it your wedding day?” Mom asks.

I look at Dad and Isaac, our disappointment shared without words. I guess the medication didn’t work after all, it was a long shot.

“Yes, it is,” I reply.

Mom’s eyes light up, “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I’m sure your mother is so happy for you. You know, I have a daughter about your age.”