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BOOTS ON THE GROUND BY DUSK: MY TRIBUTE TO PAT TILLMAN |
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Chapter 6
Sitting in the backseat of the car, I listen to the drone of Patrick and Mike's voices as we drive north on Interstate 5 to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. I pull Pat's brown T-shirt from my bag and clutch a section of it in my fist. Resting my forehead on the cool glass of the window, I look out at the SR 509 bridge, the cable-stayed bridge that connects the 5 to downtown Tacoma. Gazing out at the maritime city, I remember the last time I was here with Pat, Kevin, and Marie. We sat talking for hours in Tully's Coffee on the ground level of a quaint triangular building that was once the Hotel Bostwick. The coffee and conversation were pungent and stimulating. A smile forms on my face as I recall how our raucous laughter incited embarrassed giggles and sideways glances from the patrons around us. The car slows and my purse slides off the seat. I see we have come upon morning commuter traffic. I lean over to pick up my bag and find that my wallet has fallen out. It's open to Pat and Marie's wedding picture. I'm engulfed in sadness as I observe the happiness reflected on their faces. Their eyes radiate joy and contentment that they will be sharing a future together, and their smiles reveal excitement about all the possibilities that future holds. I stare at Marie's lovely face: her large, bright blue eyes, her flawless skin, and her warm, vibrant smile framed by endearing dimples. Her life with Pat was so full of promise: living the military life, feeling good about the service and sacrifice they both made, beginning new careers, having children, good times with family and friends, traveling, building dreams, and enjoying the simple things in life, like conversation over coffee, long walks on windy days, and car rides to unknown destinations. Marie appears to be very delicate and fragile, but she is remarkably brave and resilient, always carrying herself with grace and dignity. I'm struck by how strong she has been over the last seven weeks and how strong she must continue to be in order to rebuild her life. Marie Kathleen Ugenti was born on November 20, 1976, two weeks after Pat. The first time I became aware of her, she was four years old. She and Pat played in the same soccer league, against each other. Later, her father coached her younger brother Paul's Little League team at the same time Pat's dad was coaching Richard's team. Marie would attend the games occasionally with her sister Christine or her cousin Gina. I don't recall ever being introduced to her or speaking to her, but I noticed how pretty she was. Pat, on the other hand, was oblivious. Except for a crush he had on blond, curly-top Stacey Landucci in kindergarten, he was more interested in climbing trees and playing sports than in girls. However, when Pat came home from school the first day of his freshman year, 1991, he said, "Mom, there is the most beautiful girl in my biology class, and her name is Marie." I remember suggesting that he ask her out, but he said, "No, she likes older guys. Besides, she's taller than me." Several weeks later at a football game, Pat ran up to me before his warm-up as I was walking to the stands. He had his helmet in his hand and an excited look on his face. "Mom," he said, discreetly pointing, "there she is. That's Marie." I looked up at the stands. "That's Marie Ugenti," I said with a surprised grin. "Yes, Mom," he replied, grinning back -- and almost hyperventilating -- then turned to run back to the field. I walked into the stands and made a point of saying hello and smiling at Marie. Pat spoke of her frequently, but he didn't ask her out until their senior year, when he was finally taller than she was. Their first date was at the Crow's Nest in Santa Cruz, and a week or so later they went to homecoming together. From then on, they were a couple. Many people said Pat and Marie were the perfect example of opposites attracting, and in some respects that was true. Pat's build was lean and muscular; his face, chiseled and square-jawed; and his eyes, dark, almond-shaped, and intense. He was extroverted, tenacious, athletic, and driven. In contrast, Marie was slender with soft, delicate facial features and enormous, warm, and gentle blue eyes. She was shy, creative, and modestly goal-oriented. These differences may have ignited the spark, but it was their similarities that lent comfort and clarity to the relationship. Both were smart, intellectually curious, quick-witted, and independent, and when it came to each other, they were playful and private. They shared a love of travel, and they appreciated simple joys. Pat and Marie had been seeing each other less than a month when they were invited to a classmate's eighteenth birthday party at a hotel in downtown San Jose. There was drinking, and Pat and others got unruly and were asked to leave. Pat, Marie, and many of their friends ended up at a local pizza parlor in a small strip mall. As everyone talked, ate pizza, and waited for their alcoholic buzzes to dissipate, one of Pat's friends, Jeff Hechtle, left to get something at a nearby convenience store. As he headed across the parking lot, he was confronted by a group of older guys, who started harassing him, pinning him against a wall. Another friend, Eric Noble, walked outside and recognized that Jeff was in trouble. Eric ran back inside the pizza place and yelled that Jeff was getting jumped. Pat and his friends bolted out of their seats and ran outside. When the guys surrounding Jeff saw his friends coming, they started to flee. Pat chased one down and beat him up pretty badly, knocking out his front teeth. The police were called, but Pat was not cited that night. Pat gave the young man his phone number and watched as he got into a car with his friends, who drove home to Sacramento. The following day, Pat's dad took a call from the young man's father, who said his son had a concussion and was in the hospital. When I told Pat, he looked horrified and walked outside. Pat's father had an appointment, and after I saw him off, I looked for Pat and found him sitting in the eucalyptus tree at the side of our house. I told him I needed to talk to him. He climbed down, his eyes red and watery, and sat next to me on the ground. Tears fell down Pat's cheeks as he told me he may have overreacted in the parking lot. He told me he thought he kneed the guy in the head once he grabbed him and that the guy, who was twenty-two years old, said he was fine. I explained that head injuries can be deceiving; a person can receive a blow and appear fine but hours later have serious symptoms and even die. My grandmother had left me an inheritance several months earlier. I told Pat we would drive to Sacramento to visit the young man in the hospital to apologize and offer to pay his medical bills. Pat was relieved that we were going to do something proactive. But when we told Pat's father -- an attorney -- our plan, he felt it was unwise. He said if Pat admitted guilt, we would be setting him up to get charged, and later we could get sued. Reluctantly, Pat and I took his advice and waited to see what would happen. The legal system moved slowly, but eventually Pat was charged with felony assault and several months later pled guilty at his hearing. The judge allowed him to complete his senior year, but the day after graduation, June 19, he turned himself in to juvenile authorities for thirty days. He also was required to fulfill 250 hours of community service. Pat knew he was lucky that he was seventeen. One of the probation officers at juvenile hall sat me down and told me he knew Pat had a football scholarship waiting for him at Arizona State and would have to report to school in mid-August. He said he feared Pat might not be able to complete his community service obligation on time, as the bus that delivered inmates to their various assignments wasn't reliable. He told me I could pick Pat up each day and take him myself. I was so grateful -- not only would it ensure that Pat completed his hours, but it allowed me to spend time with him. Every morning of his stay in juvenile hall, I packed two coolers, one filled with Pat's breakfast and one with his lunch. I picked him up at seven thirty and took him to the Julian Street Inn, a homeless shelter for mentally ill patients, where he was to work off his hours. Marie was scheduled to leave on a senior girls' trip to Mexico a week or so after Pat went to "jail," which is what we called the detention facility. Before she left, however, she rode with us several times to the work site. I had her duck down in the car in case bringing her was a violation of some rule. Seeing Marie lifted Pat's spirits. About two days before her trip, Pat called me on a pay phone from the facility and asked that I get flowers the color of her eyes. That afternoon I drove to a flower shop and picked out an assortment of blue, violet, and white delphiniums and had them wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a delicate bow. I took the flowers to Marie right away. I will never forget the way she looked when I held them out to her and said, "These are from Pat." Her eyes lit up and a natural blush colored her cheeks. She was delighted but simply said, "Thank you," smiled broadly, and closed the door to appreciate her gift in solitude. After Marie returned from Mexico, she continued to stowaway in my car every other morning or so, alternating with Pat's brothers and friends. I enjoyed her company, and after we dropped off Pat she often came by the house to visit. I took pleasure in chatting with her. With Pat away, I was able to get to know her better and found out myself how witty and smart she was. Pat often told me that Marie was one of the smartest people he had ever met. After Pat completed his community service and time in custody, the felony charge was reduced to a misdemeanor. Pat didn't like being in custody, but he served his time without much complaint. He later confided that while he was not proud of what he had done, he was proud that he had learned more from that one terrible decision than all the good decisions he ever made. It was difficult for Pat to miss out on all the fun that summer and being with Marie, his brothers, and his friends. He also nearly missed seeing the visitors that haunted New Almaden while he was away. Maybe it was the lack of winter rains, or maybe the ground grubs and berries were particularly tasty. Whatever the reason, the summer of 1994 was the season of wild boar. Kevin, Richard, Marie, and I were talking in the front room one night when we heard -- and felt -- what seemed like heavy hooves mingled with grunting and rooting noises. We were all startled. The boys jumped up and put their faces to the window to look out into the darkness. "Can you see what it is?" I asked as Marie and I scurried over. All we could make out were large blurry shapes. Kevin ran to turn off the lights so we could get a better look. "Holy shit!" Richard said quietly. "It's a bunch of giant pigs!" Kevin peered out anxiously as Marie giggled nervously. "Damn! They're wild boar," he said. The four of us watched in amazement as the giant boars cultivated half of the yard. "Look at how cute the baby pigs are," Marie said. "Yeah," Kevin said, "but that dad is the ugliest dude I've ever seen." "You don't want to mess with these pigs," I said, "especially with the babies around. The males will charge and slash upwards with their tusks." "The females don't have tusks?" Richard asked. "No, but they will charge you with their mouths open," I answered. "They can hurt you." Suddenly, we saw the lights from a car coming up the driveway. "Dad's home!" Kevin yelped. Richard ran to the front door to caution his dad about the nocturnal visitors. Patrick got out of the car and obviously heard their presence before Richard could speak up. We watched him walk quietly but briskly across the lawn. The pigs weren't disturbed in the least. They just kept rooting and grunting. "Hey, my car is parked in front of Peggy and Syd's," Marie laughed. "How am I going to get to my car?" It was as if the pigs heard her question. Within seconds they gathered together and lumbered down the driveway. A few days later, I was browsing at a little shop and found a handmade, antique-looking stuffed pig with button eyes. I wrapped it in colorful paper and gave to Marie as a souvenir of the exciting evening, not imagining that the pigs would continue to pay almost nightly visits. For weeks, boar families frequented our little "hamlet." Kevin, Richard, or their dad would come home at night and announce, "The boars are rooting around in front of the Pelosis' fence" or "The pigs are rototilling the Bairds' yard" or "The suckers are hauling ass down Almaden Road." The boys' friends who came over at night had to wait in their cars for the boars to wander away. Pat heard all the stories about the boars and was eager to finally see them when he got home. Days passed after his return from juvenile hall, but no pigs appeared. Finally, one night he and Marie were lying on a quilt they had spread on the floor, watching Lonesome Dove. Marie jerked her head up at the faint sound of hooves. Pat watched as a delighted smile appeared on her face. "It's the pigs," she said teasingly. "No shit!" Pat chuckled. He bounded off the floor and ran to the window. They watched the intruders turn the soil in my excuse-for-a-flower-bed garden, marveling at how such ugly creatures could produce such cute piglets. After many minutes, they settled back down in front of the TV, hearing the snorting and grunting in the background. After the show ended, Marie had to get home. The pigs, however, were still grazing in the yard. Pat grabbed a baseball bat and walked Marie to her car. They giggled as they moved cautiously across the yard, defying danger, unaware that the pigs could not have cared less. I smiled as I watched their playful innocence, happy to see them together again. A week before Pat left for Arizona State, I threw a big going-away barbecue. Planning it had kept me sane while he was in jail. Because Pat was headed for Arizona, and because he liked the movie Tombstone as well as Lonesome Dove, the party had a western theme. We had bales of hay delivered to use as seating and for mounting a target for archery. My friend Nikki McLaughlin and I made headstones with goofy sayings, and we strategically placed them around the yard along with potted cacti. Pat's dad bought a Ping-Pong table and set it up in a prominent place to ensure its use. The boys and their friends, we would soon discover, provided beer they stashed in various bushes. The party officially ended around midnight, but Pat, Kevin, Richard, and their closest friends sat around the barbecue chatting until the sun came up. Several days later, along with my husband, Marie, Richard, and his lifelong friend, Collin Berger, I flew to Arizona to escort Pat to Arizona State to report for practice. Kevin couldn't go with us because of his high school football practice schedule. Pat had been to Tempe on a recruiting trip, but this was the first time for his dad and me. The weather had been cool during Pat's earlier visit, but when we arrived, it was about 110 degrees, and the area looked like a moonscape. We were pleasantly surprised when we saw Arizona State's beautiful campus. I kept thinking, "If only it weren't so hot." We arrived at the football offices and were shown around the facilities. That's when we learned that Pat's dorm wouldn't be ready for three or four days, and we decided to stay with him until he could move in. We had time to kill, so I suggested we drive to Tombstone in our rented car, since the kids enjoyed the movie so much. They weren't wild about the idea and let that be known, but I kept telling them it would be interesting. I don't think my husband really cared to go, either. Looking back, I realize he was being a good sport. The six of us piled into the Lincoln Town Car and headed south. After two hours of driving one of the most boring stretches of highway on the planet, I could feel the kids' dirty looks burning a hole in the back of my head; we were only halfway there. Once we arrived, I thought they would be so fascinated with the place that I would be forgiven. Wrong. I was subjected to sighs, rolling eyes, and sulky expressions. Even Marie and Collin were openly mean-mugging me. My husband, feeling a bit sorry for me, pretended he was having fun. After an hour or so of reluctant sightseeing, we had a mediocre meal, which gave the kids an opportunity to send sarcastic one-liners about misery my direction. At that point it seemed they were starting to have fun, but I should have had better sense than to think that was how they wanted to spend their time. Pat had been in juvenile hall most of the summer; he and Marie just wanted to spend time alone before we had to leave. Richard and Collin wanted to hang out at the hotel pool and eat at the burger joint down the street, and my husband wanted to relax in an air-conditioned room. I offered no more brilliant ideas the rest of the trip. Pat's room was ready two days later. We shopped for some items he needed, had lunch in downtown Tempe, and took Pat to his dorm. Then it was time to catch our plane to San Jose. It was so difficult to leave him. Pat was the one who tended to get homesick. I had to remind Kevin and Richard that they lived at our house; they could have moved in with any number of their friends indefinitely and just paid visits to us when the mood struck. But Pat was only content away from home for short periods of time, and now he was moving to a place where he knew no one. We said our good-byes to Pat, then walked away so he and Marie could part in private. Everyone tried to keep from crying. We could see how sad Pat was to watch all of us leave, but it was gut-wrenching seeing how painful it was for him to part from Marie. On the way to the airport, Richard, Marie, Collin, and I cried silently to ourselves. Pat's dad drove with a heavy heart. Pat battled homesickness for several weeks, but as football got under way and classes started, he began to settle in. Marie was able to visit him several times before her classes began at UC Santa Barbara, which made all the difference for both of them. Throughout Pat's years at Arizona State, Marie attended nearly every home game. During the off-season, Pat would travel to Santa Barbara as often as he could to take part in Marie's world. Once they graduated from college, Marie moved to Chandler, Arizona, to live with Pat. It was actually a pretty stressful time for both of them. Pat had been newly drafted to the Arizona Cardinals, and Marie was having trouble adjusting to Arizona. Not only was the weather hard to take, but she missed her friends and family and also was having a hard time finding a job in her field of biology. She considered going to graduate school, but the best programs were at the University of Arizona in Tucson, about an hour and a half away, and she didn't want that commute several days a week. She decided to take a computer graphics course and got a job at the Arizona Republic. After that, she started to adjust to Arizona. During the off-season of 2000, Pat and Marie traveled to Europe for five weeks. They took the train, backpacked, and stayed in hostels in Germany, Italy, France, England, and Ireland. The last two weeks of the trip, they met up with Marie's sister and her husband, Alex. The four of them spent time in Paris, London, Dublin, and County Derry in Northern Ireland, where Pat's paternal grandmother had been born. Pat was training for a marathon, and he enjoyed running in the quaint cities and towns he and Marie visited. When Alex and Christine joined them, Pat and Alex ran the streets of London and Ireland's country roads. They had a wonderful time. Several photographs of their trip stand out in my mind: Marie and Christine doing a little dance on a road in the Irish countryside; Pat and Alex drinking a beer at the Guinness brewery; Pat and Marie smiling into the camera, deliriously happy, as they ride a bus through London; Pat walking into the North Sea. Pat thoroughly loved the trip. He was fascinated with the history and various cultures. He was impressed by the food, the beauty of the different landscapes, and the hospitality of the people. He kept telling me I had to go to Europe and visit Ireland. He said he'd pay my way when I was ready to go. He raved about the cozy pubs and inviting tea houses. No one appreciated a good cup of tea more than Pat. Before the 2001 football season started, Pat and Marie moved to Los Gatos, about ten miles from New Almaden. They rented a little apartment within walking distance of the picturesque town. Marie's sister was expecting her first baby, and Marie wanted to be close by. While they were living in Los Gatos, Pat took Marie on a drive to the coast, to the Crow's Nest, where they went on their first date. It was there that he presented her with a ring encased in a tiny wooden chest and asked her to marry him. Because of football, Pat had to return to Arizona before Alex and Christine's baby was born. The evening after Ryan's birth, many of Marie's relatives were in Christine's hospital room admiring the baby. Suddenly there was a commotion in the hallway; the door burst open and Pat charged in, yelling, "Every day's Sunday, baby!" He had caught a plane right after practice in order to see the new baby, Marie's godchild. He flew out the next morning to be at practice on time. September 11, 2001, had a profound impact on our family. I was aware that Pat and Kevin were especially disturbed by what happened. They talked about it a lot, but Pat was beginning another football season, and Kevin was preparing for surgery on his shoulder in hopes of healing before his baseball season with the Cleveland Indians farm team began. We all got on with our lives, but in the ensuing months, the September 11 attacks were never far from our thoughts and often a topic of discussion when we were together or talked on the phone. However, we were also preparing for the wedding, an event we looked forward to with joy. Pat and Marie's wedding day was set for May 4, 2002, at the Ruby Hills Country Club in Pleasanton, about forty miles northeast of San Jose. By February, I was still unsure about where to hold the rehearsal dinner. Pat's father and I had separated six years earlier, and by this time we had divorced. I called him to get his thoughts on where he wanted to hold the dinner, and he gave me several ideas. Then I called Pat to run them by him. "Ma, I would like the rehearsal dinner to be at your house." "My house? Are you sure, Pat? My house and yard are awfully small." "I liked the party you had for me when I left for college," he said. "Remember the bales of hay and the barbecue?" "Of course I remember," I said with a smile. "We can have something like that, but I think it should be a bit more elegant." "I don't really want it to be elegant, Mom -- and I can pay for it." "No, Pat. Your dad and I want to pay for this. If you want the dinner to be at the house, then that's where it will be." "Good. Thanks, Ma." I planned the dinner for Thursday, May 2, two days before the wedding, so things wouldn't get too hectic. In the preceding months, I made several arrangements: with a caterer who would bring his giant barbecue and cook up tri-tip and chicken; with the ranch down the road to order bales of hay; with a catering company that would provide linen tablecloths; and with the New Almaden Community Center to rent tables. I arranged for one close friend to pick up the wine and beer and asked other close friends to prepare side dishes. The house was a whirlwind of activity the Monday before the rehearsal dinner. Pat, Kevin, and Richard were all home. Their friends were in and out, and everyone was running around picking up tuxes and gifts for the best men and ushers, buying new shoes, and getting haircuts. That evening we had some time to ourselves, and we sat around talking. Everyone was excited about the next several days. Tuesday morning, Richard went outside to cut the grass and came right back, saying there was a terrible smell coming from the side of the house. Pat went out with him to see what the problem was. I assumed a raccoon had died or something. When he and Rich walked back in the house, they did not look happy. "Mom," Pat said as calmly as he could, "the septic tank has burst." "What?" I asked stunned, hoping I had heard him wrong. "The septic tank is leaking into the side yard," Richard said. "Are you kidding me?" Kevin yelled, almost laughing, as he came into the room. "That's just great," I groaned. I was ready to panic. I knew I needed to call someone, but I became paralyzed as I saw dollar signs floating before my eyes. "Pat," I said, nearly dropping the phone book, "I don't know how I'm going to pay for this." "Don't worry, Mom, I'll pay for it," he said reassuringly. "We don't have time to worry about the money right now, anyway. We have to get the damn thing fixed." With that, I called a septic tank maintenance company. The man who answered said he could have someone out the next day. That was Wednesday, the day the boys and I had planned to drive to Carmel to visit my cousin David and his wife, Louise, along with my aunts Lannie and Katie and Katie's husband, Tom, who had flown across the country for the wedding. David thought it would be fun for us to get together at his home before the chaos of the wedding events. My sons hadn't seen my aunts since the boys were small, and I was excited for them to meet as adults. We decided that Kevin and Richard would drive to Carmel, and Pat and I would stay home to supervise the septic tank crew. The septic tank was a dilemma, and the whole situation was complicated by the fact that no one in the crew spoke English. Pat had to keep running into the house to call the supervisor and ask him to translate. Pat also helped the crew dig. In the end, I ended up with a temporary septic tank, which we were told would be good for five years. That was fine. All I wanted was assurance that it would hold out until after the rehearsal dinner. The crew left, and Pat and I cleaned up the yard. Fortunately, all the digging had been done in the side area, so my lawn wasn't touched. Days before, I had borrowed little white lights from Peggy and Syd to hang on the hedges for the dinner and placed them in my shed. Thursday morning we woke up to find Syd arranging the lights where I'd planned to put them. Kevin and Richard went out to help him, then they went with Pat in Syd's truck to pick up the tables at the community center. Richard came up with the configuration for the tables, and when the hay was delivered, he placed the bales around them. Pat realized a lot of guests would have to park down the road because our driveway wasn't big enough. As he stared at the hay Richard was arranging, it occurred to him that it would be fun and convenient for guests to have a hayride transport them from their cars to the house. Syd graciously offered use of his truck, and Pat and Richard hurled three bales of hay into its bed. We placed inexpensive quilts over the hay so it wouldn't be scratchy for people to sit on. Later in the morning, I picked up the white tablecloths I had rented and then met my ex-husband's girlfriend, Mary, at the flower shop to pick out assorted wildflowers for the tables. Before long, the evening was upon us. Members of the wedding party started to arrive, and Pat's dad and Mary pulled up the driveway behind Pat and Marie. Pat got out of the car to start his hayride shuttle. He picked up guests at the end of the road and drove them to the bottom of the tree-lined, whimsically primitive brick stairway leading to my house. Laughter, the hum of conversation, and the scent of mesquite filled the air. As I stood on the front stoop and looked out at the lawn, I was taken with how pleasing everything was. The tables, covered with simple white cloths and wildflowers cascading out of mismatched vases, looked dreamy contrasted with the brightly patterned quilts covering the hay bales that surrounded them. The tiny white lights twinkling in the dusk made the scene appear enchanted. The simplicity and naturalness of the evening seemed to mirror the simplicity and sincerity of Pat and Marie's relationship. I watched Pat closely that night. I was struck by how happy he was. He thoroughly enjoyed everyone and everything, and in his exuberance, he was more content than I'd ever seen him. Thinking back, after months of research and discussions with Marie and Kevin, Pat must have felt such a sense of relief at finally having made the decision to join the military. He was comfortable with his choice, and he was looking forward to sharing this new phase of his life with Marie and Kevin. After the meal, everyone gathered around Pat while he presented each of his best men -- Richard and Kevin -- and his ushers with an axe. Pat always had been intrigued with the lore and superstition surrounding the axe. Axes symbolized thunderbolts and were used to guard buildings against lightning, as it was believed lightning never struck twice. A thrown axe was believed to ward off hailstorms, and when placed in crops with the cutting edge to the skies, it would protect the crops. Pat told me the axe was once the tool of everyman. It is used in forestry, carpentry, combat, and sport. The head of each axe was engraved with the recipient's name and the inscription:
Friday morning, we cleaned the yard, and then I packed for my mother and me and we left for the hotel in Pleasanton. The whole point of getting there early was to relax before the next day's festivities. But when I arrived at the hotel, I realized I had a flat tire. I checked my mom into our room, then spent the next several hours getting my tire fixed. By early evening, Pat, Kevin, Rich, Mike, and most of the ushers had arrived at the hotel. Mom went to sleep early, and I stayed up to write cards to Pat and Marie, hoping to express what I felt in my heart. In the morning, Pat came to my room. He said he had a bit of a stomachache. Maybe he had eaten something that didn't agree with him, maybe he had a hit too much to drink the night before, or maybe it was just a case of nerves. He lay down on the bed for a while and talked to Mom and me. Before he left, I handed him a card I had written. "Thank you, Mom," he said as he gave me a gentle hug. I watched Pat walk down the hall, heading back to his room. Just before he got to the doors that led to the elevator, he turned around, smiled, and waved with a giant stroke that appeared to be in slow motion. I smiled and waved back, then slowly shut the door as he disappeared from sight. Mom and I visited with friends and family by the pool for a little while, then went to get ready. I helped bathe and dress my mother, whose Parkinson's disease sometimes got in the way of her mobility. But she certainly didn't appear to have Parkinson's once she was dressed for the wedding. The cut of her muted gold dress gave her the appearance of height and had a slimming effect. Peggy had hemmed Mom's dress and surprised her by making her a darling little purse with the same fabric. With her hair done and just a touch of mascara and rose color on her cheeks, Mom looked beautiful. As a girl, with her dark hair, exotic eye shape, and tiny stature, my mother looked very Asian. Since there were no Asian children at Saint Francis de Sales Catholic School in Newark, Ohio, during the 1930s, my mother was chosen to play a Japanese doll in a school play. As she stood in front of the full-length mirror, I looked at her admiringly. Tears formed in her eyes when I said, "Mom, you look just like a Japanese doll." Once I was dressed, my aunts and Tom drove Mom and me to the country club where the wedding was to take place. As we drove up the winding driveway, the spectacular setting came into view. Vineyard-covered mountains bordered a villa-style clubhouse surrounded by a rolling green golf course. My aunts took Mom to find her a place to sit. I approached the main foyer of the clubhouse and saw Pat, his father, Kevin, and Richard standing on the steps. They all looked so handsome. I had my picture taken with Pat, then went to the dressing room to see Marie. She was breathtakingly lovely, serene, and confident. Before I left, I gave her the note I had written to her the night before. She read it, then thanked me with her radiant smile. In the area where the reception would be held, the atmosphere was that of understated elegance. Surrounding the dance floor were round tables draped in white linen and adorned with centerpieces of wine and burgundy hydrangeas. Everyone was gathering on the garden patio for the ceremony. Chairs were set up on either side of an aisle strewn with deep red rose petals. As I stood appreciating the landscape beyond the patio, Pat's paternal grandmother, Mary Tillman, walked up and gave me a hug. She looked so happy and proud. I complimented her on her tailored blue suit, and she chuckled and blushed. I have always delighted in the fact that even Mary's laugh seems to have an Irish inflection. Richard and Kevin then came over to tell us the ceremony was about to begin. The grandmothers were escorted to their seats first. Richard took my arm and walked me to mine. I sat looking out at the majestic view as Pat and Judge Kevin Murphy took their places for the ceremony. When the music began to play, everyone turned to watch the ushers and bridesmaids walk down the aisle. Richard and Kevin followed, escorting Christine. The guests giggled as the three-year-old flower girls -- Pat's goddaughter, Alex Hechtle, and my goddaughter, Meg Tillman -- walked down the aisle determinedly scattering petals from their delicate baskets. Meg smiled sweetly at the rows of onlooking grown-ups as she conscientiously slowed her pace to wait for Alex, who sauntered mischievously several paces behind. As the French doors opened, the guests stood to watch Marie and her father emerge through the archway and walk down the aisle. Marie was beaming as she gracefully approached Pat, who stood with pride. He smiled as he watched his lovely bride move toward him and take her position by his side. A soft breeze lifted Marie's veil, and it fluttered around her head. Pat gently caught it and held it tenderly against her small waist. *** I'm suddenly aware that the car is slowing down and the light inside has dimmed. Looking up, I see we are entering the airport's car-rental garage. I glance again at Pat and Marie's picture, then slowly close my wallet. I take Pat's T-shirt and rub it lightly against my cheek before placing it carefully in my bag. |