The Girl in the Glass

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this year. That means we might go.”
    Up the eyebrows rose, as if she’d thought of something startling and unimaginable. “Is he sick? Is he dying of cancer or something?”
    That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But it suddenly seemed remotely possible. I could see someone with a terminal disease wanting to put things in order before leaving the planet; except I really wanted my dad’s contrition to be based on something more noble than just his own mortality. That would make it all about him. Only about him. I refused to consider it.
    “He’s not sick, Mom! He just wants to set a few things right. Can’t a man do that?”
    “Sure he can,” she said slowly. We were quiet for a moment.
    She finally broke the silence. “When are you going?”
    “He said he’s working on it. I told him the earlier in the summer, the smaller the crowds will be.” Again, silence.
    “Well,” she finally said. “I hope he comes through for you, Meg. I really do.”
    I said nothing.
    She cleared her throat as if to clear away the topic. “Devon would like to have coffee with you sometime—just so you can get to know him. Just you and him. He feels you deserve that. And you can say whatever you want because I won’t be there.”
    “That’s not necessary.” I energetically shook my head for emphasis.
    “But he would like to.”
    “But it’s not necessary .”
    Hurt registered in her eyes. “You won’t even give him a chance? Aren’t you doing what you are accusing me of doing all those years ago? Making me pay the consequences of your decision? I like him, Meg. I really do. He won’t continue to date me if he thinks it will harm my relationship with you.”
    “He doesn’t need my approval!”
    “You can’t say what other people need or don’t need.”
    “All right, all right. I will meet him for coffee.”
    Her face melted into a smile of relief. “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “I can give him your e-mail address?”
    I nodded.
    She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Thank you,” she murmured. “This means a lot to me.”
    “All right.”
    “I know you think he’s too young for me, but when you get to be my age, things like that just aren’t as important.”
    “But he’s not your age. Only you are. And I have to say this isn’t like you, Mom.”
    She sat back in her chair. “And I have to say this isn’t like you. I would think you’d be glad for me. You are always telling me I never take any chances, that I’ve never done anything spontaneous or reckless.”
    “I wasn’t daring you to.”
    “It’s just thirteen years’ difference, Meg. Lighten up.”
    It seemed at that moment that the scaffolding of my little universe was all akimbo. My father and mother were shifting roles before my very eyes. He was morphing into someone who almost came off attentive and responsible, and she was shaking off years of caution the way a wet dog sheds water after a bath.
    My mother pointed to the little white bag sitting by my toaster. “Are there poppy-seed bagels in there?”
    I rose to toast her one. Sofia’s pages were at my elbow as I spread cream cheese on my mother’s bagel. I could see one phrase that peeked from the edge of the folder: My parents loved to dance .

My mother married my father at the villa at Poggio a Caiano where the summer heat was not so severe. There was fine food and madrigals and poetry readings, but it was not the celebration that was her sister Lucrezia’s wedding a few months earlier. It was not necessary to impress the Orsini family.
    I have seen the dishes on which my parents’ wedding feast was served. The borders are etched with Orsini roses and mythical creatures. In the center is the Orsini coat of arms, a shield with a rose above diagonal lines. Whenever I see roses, I think of these dishes. I don’t know where they are now.
    There is also a lovely portrait of my mother in her wedding dress that I’ve not seen in many years. It was a beautiful dress.

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