June, 24th
John:
The day Margaret Hale became my wife was unforgettable and one of the happiest of my life.
What made it so memorable wasn't the ceremony, which was a lot like my first one and every one I've ever attended. My vows, they weren't insincere, but they could hardly convey the depths of the feelings and commitment I have for Margaret. It was her first time and they weren't tarnished for her (she loves that word and pronounces it in a particular way), so she remembers it differently.
That the bride looked gorgeous wasn't exceptional, either. She wore a nice white dress which by my suggestion had been designed after a blue dress she used to own, or so I was lead to believe. It didn't really matter. Margaret was radiant and would have looked wonderful in a potato sack. Of course I'd never voice those thoughts - I might not be refined but I know it would hurt her feelings. Besides she did look magnificent and I told her so.
My friend Daniel liked to say that nothing can be easier for a man than getting married: you just have to show up on time and do as told, and I agree with him. I wore a morning suit and laughed at the jokes other male guests seemed compelled to tell me - the inane ones, the obscene ones, the predictable ones. I drank champagne, a beverage whose virtues and subtleties are lost on me since I seldom taste it, ate microscopic items of food, shook hands with everybody and stood close to my bride.
Inspiration struck during the reception to go out of the script, something the wedding planners seemed to loathe disproportionately, I thought. Margaret was getting ready to toss her bouquet when I asked her to hand it to me, just for a moment: I plucked two yellow roses, put them in my inner pocket and handed the bouquet back. In spite of eliciting a collective aww from the female audience (not an exactly enjoyable moment), it provided me with a good first anniversary gift which Margaret still keeps.
The best thing about wedding receptions, if you ask me or probably any groom, is that you can sneak out. Margaret looked a little tired so I took her hand in mine, lead her off the reception and up to our room. It's what happened there what made it so special.
I took off my clothes and sat on the bed to watch my now wife carefully remove her jewelry - some valuable items were loans and she didn't want anything scratched or damaged. I watched her wiping the makeup off her face and letting her long, raven black hair loose. She asked for help with the dress: in my many years of helping this lady out of her clothes - a task I excel at for the sake of speed and ulterior motives that do not concern the immediate fate of the garments, the wedding dress was remarkably challenging but summarily defeated.
With her face clean and in her underwear I then noticed that she looked very tired.
-"I have something for you", I told her while planting a kiss on the top of her head, "how about a hot bath and a foot massage?"
She smiled against my chest and looking up replied,
-"I have something for you too: I think I'm pregnant".
She was right, of course, and some seven and a half months later I became a father for the first time. Being with Margaret in the delivery room made me revisit my notions about women and the weaker sex, which was probably said by a man who never witnessed birthgiving. She pushed like a pro and held herself together like a queen while I was paralized by fear, hardly able to remember what I'd been told to do and too busy trying not to show it. That she thanked me afterwards for my cooperation and cool headed attitude during the delivery indicates that, sometimes, the habit of hiding emotions can come in handy.
And my child... you think you know what it is to love until you hold those seven pounds of flesh, bones and wrinkled pink skin that are your firstborn son, and then you realize that you knew nothing. Even your love for your wife seems selfish and calculated next to the feelings that wash over you like a hit wave, and probably nothing you ever experienced before compare to the mix of exhilaration and utter fear that will make you laugh and cry at the same time.
And the funny thing is, you think that you can't possibly feel that for another person but you are wrong. You timidly try for a second child hoping for a little girl but you get a pocket sized version of the Incredible Hulk instead. You learn several things then: that kids are awfully resilient and not as fragile as you first thought, and that you don't have to spread thin the love you had for your first one: your heart seems to grow bigger and all the love you pour into your wife and son reflects and grows, embracing all four of you, and you come to the conclusion that's what families are made of. Family man becomes the most wonderful hat you've ever worn.
You think you're done with diapers and plan for the first family holiday when life sticks out its tongue and blows a raspberry, and one upset stomach and a rush to the hospital reveals that your wife is pregnant, again, and this time it's twin girls. Your woes so far pale in comparison to the six months of sleep deprivation and complete insanity that ensue, but somehow you survive. Your wife survives. Your marriage survives. The older children survive. And life goes on.
The next two decades or so were filled to the brim with blooming business (I finished paying her back before her thirtieth birthday) mingled with open swimming classes, birthday parties and Christmas mornings, detective work to find matching socks and who spilled the orange juice on the leather couch, laughs and tears, broken hearts and burst zits, school tests and driving lessons, and a home full of noise that grew a little quieter when someone left for college or to live on their own.
Our friends' lives were quite full too. Bessy Higgins rose through the ranks of Marlborough Mills to become head of human resources, her ability to spot talent and cut through crap unparalleled by anyone I've ever worked with. Philip Higgins became Milton's prodigal son: he kept drawing and took courses on animation, went to Hollywood and now works for a big studio and earns a big paycheck. Higgins couldn't be prouder of her son.
Fanny and Robert were married for nearly twenty years, until his death. Nobody expected their marriage to be so solid but it was, and a few years after he passed away my sister remarried, this time a man ten years her junior and with five children of his own. Again to everyone's surprise, Fanny rose to the challenge and found happiness in an unusual situation.
Edith and Ian divorced and remarried a few years later. Their children married and had children of their own, their lives, as Margaret likes to say, safely scripted and funded. Henry had two longtime partners and died of a heart attack a few years ago.
There were hard times, too. My mother's death after a short illness was surprisingly difficult for me. Frederick and his wife died in a car accident when he was fifty years old and left Margaret devastated. Our children's healths gave us a scare or two we'd love to forget, but sometimes the memory of those agonizing hours spent in waiting rooms just comes back.
Our own marriage didn't always sail smoothly... would it ever be possible with two stubborn people like us? We hit a particularly rough patch when Margaret was going through her menopause. She couldn't sleep, hot flashes made her very uncomfortable, gained weight quickly and was very irritable. I tried to make it her easier for her but actually, I lived in the fear that after all the changes in her body settled she wouldn't want to be with me anymore.
One particular afternoon I found her in our bedroom, looking critically at herself in the mirror and seeming displeased with what she found there.
-"I still think you're beautiful" I said truthfully while attempting to reassure her.
Wrong words, Johnny boy.
-"It's not always about you, you know?" she snapped, her eyes gleaming. "You don't look a day over forty-five yourself" she snorted, "I'm so dry and brittle I'm like old parchment. Look!", she raised her left hand, "I scratched my knuckles with a drawer four days ago and this wound is still open." It did look as if had been just done. I tried to say something but she was on a roll. "Oh please, just go. Leave me alone!"
I left the room in that state of defeated bewilderment I always experience when I can't understand what Margaret is going through. But the facts were, she had a scratch on her hand and there was a curative ointment in the bathroom cabinet, so I went there to fetch it not sure of what to do once I got it. I got back to the bedroom door and heard Margaret's voice faintly saying, "Oh, not again".
Tossing my misgivings aside I opened the door carefully and entered the bedroom, only to find Margaret's dress on the floor and her in her undershirt and tights, sitting on the bed with her elbows on her knees and her face resting on her hands. There was a flush creeping on her shoulders and neck, and when she raised her face to me I saw her forehead was beaded with sweat.
I knelt before her, patted dry the moisture with my handkerchief and reached for her scratched hand. Having children taught me that basic treatment for scratches and bruises always require a light kiss on the affected area first, so I put my lips there and said the magic words, "Heal soon", and then I smeared the ointment.
Margaret made a strange noise, and when I looked up I found her eyes brimming with tears.
-"Are you crying because this hurts?" I asked.
She shook her head. I tried again.
-"Is it because you're hot and uncomfortable?".
Wrong again.
-"Is it because you're not young anymore?".
Another shake of the head with tears streaming down now.
-"It's because I told you to get out. I hate being rude to you" a feeble smile stretched her lips. "I'm sorry, John. It's not your fault that I'm going through crappy times, you know?" She closed her eyes and opened them again, the anger gone and just sadness in its place. "I love you".
Margaret once said that hope was the lack of absolute certainty bad things have. In spite of my fears during that difficult time there was hope and just like that day of summer when I simply crossed paths with Frederick Hale, the fates smiled at me again.
I would have thought that going back to just the two of us would be like turning back the clock to when Margaret returned to Milton but I was wrong. Grandchildren like to come and sleep over, adult children drop by often, and this house can be as raucous - or even more, than it was when six people called it home. There was another big difference, consisting of time of leisure: to travel or to stay home, together. We adapted admirably to what my late father-in-law would call "old age unemployment", which was - still is, a very good time in our lives. Maybe not so energetic and with a few unforeseen limitations, but still to be lived to its fullest.
And today I turn seventy-five years old and there is going to be a big party downstairs in my honour.
My lovely Margaret has aged with me, our heads slowly but steadily getting whiter every year and our laugh lines mirroring each other's. Our bodies have grown old and soft and wrinkled, and proximity and love have made them two parts of the same thing, two old trees that have grown into each other, fingers that intertwine often. It's been almost four decades since that night I kissed her mouth for the first time, and that first morning I woke up with her head on my shoulder. I've been in love with her for forty years, my beautiful swan who's always brought out the best of grumpy old me. The thought sometimes still dazzles me.
A knock on the door is followed by her head peering in, that familiar sparkle of mischief dancing on the corners of her dark eyes.
-"Still primping for your grand entrance?", she asks while she glances assessingly my attire.
Actually I was only changing my shirt but to her comment I do the mimics of combing my hair and applying powder to my face, the kind of physical humor my grandchildren adore and makes them laugh like crazy.
-"You're so handsome" she says while she bites her lower lip enticingly. I still feel some sort of amazed pride when Margaret compliments my looks.
-"Come on" I say lowly and stretch my hand, which she takes with a smile and responds to the slight pull coming into my arms. "Happy birthday, Margaret" I say and I kiss her, and then she buries her nose in the crook my neck and takes a deep breath that makes me ticklish.
-"Delicious", she says.
A/N: I would like to thank again five readers for their comments while the story was being written: user TheBlackSister (Beta Reader for quite a few chapters), user fia-blue (formerly exquisiteimperfection), user ArtnScience, Michelle (user allboysshouldhavelonghair), and guest valkscot.
Did you like it? If you read the original book, what do you think about this adaptation? Which parts did you enjoy more and which ones did you like less? I'd love to hear from you, don't be shy and leave a comment or pm!
Thank you for reading me, n-p