[title subtitle=”WORDS Liesel Schmidt
IMAGE Nejron Photo/Shutterstock][/title]
I was sitting alone, folded forward in a padded chair as I considered the shoes on my feet with the concentration of someone making a life-altering decision. My left foot was encased in a bright red patent-leather ballet flat, beacon-like in its shiny cheerfulness. The right foot wore its alter ego, executed in hot pink.
Pink. Red. Pink. Red.
Both?
Pink. Red.
“I vote the red,” said a voice that floated above my head. The toes of a pair of well-worn leather loafers pointed in my direction, curtained by dark jeans with the perfect amount of length and break.
I turned my head and lifted my gaze to find myself looking at a man somewhere around fifty years old, his pleasant face arranged in grave contemplation. Blue eyes assessed my mismatched feet, narrowing in single-minded focus.
“Yes. Definitely the red,” the man said again, nodding as he spoke. Short, chestnut-colored hair had flecks of gray showing at the temples and reached just over the top of his forehead, swept to the side and slightly ruffled. It made him look more approachable, less formal than he might have otherwise.
“You don’t think they’re a little too Wizard of Oz?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t showing the surprise I felt at his unexpected approach.
He considered for a moment. “No. I think they’re great. And I happen to like the whole ruby slippers thing,” he replied, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile back. It seemed so rare that anyone stepped out of their own orbit to make contact with a stranger––unless, of course, it was to complain about something. Pleasantries seemed reserved for only the closest acquaintances and came at a premium when exchanged between strangers. It was shameful, really, though it certainly made moments like this that much more notable.
“So, you’re a Judy Garland fan?” I asked.
“Me? No, not at all. I just like a pretty lady in shiny shoes.” He laughed.
“Well,” I said, smiling shyly. I could feel my cheeks coloring brightly to match the shoes on my feet. Both feet. First the hot pink, then the red. Apparently, even at thirty years old, I wasn’t too old to blush.
“And don’t worry. I don’t actually work here, so I have no stake in your decision. Consider me an unbiased second opinion,” he paused slightly, looking around the small shoe boutique. “Unless, of course, you already have one?”
It took a moment for me to register the meaning of the question. I shook my head.
“No. No second opinion givers here, and the only ones I have in my repertoire are all women. Having a male perspective is certainly helpful.” I smiled at him again, hoping none of my lipstick had migrated to my teeth. “Thank you,” I said, feeling slightly awkward.
“Michael,” he supplied, extending his hand. It was strong and capable looking.
“Christine,” I said, taking his hand.
We stayed like that for a moment, hands clasped in the friendly gesture of a handshake, eyes locked in silent exploration. It was odd, this sensation that seemed to shiver through me at his touch.
Familiar, somehow, like we had met before.
**********
“Michael, I’d like you to meet Edie, my mom.”
Two months later, the stranger in the shoe store had become a good friend, someone I went to often for advice when I wanted an unbiased opinion—especially when it came to my unsuccessful attempts at dating. Unlike my mother, he could offer a viewpoint outside of that seen by a parent. And despite the twenty-year age difference, we seemed to have a great deal in common.
He encased my mother’s finely boned hand in his, lingering only a moment in the formal greeting. I watched in surprise as he abandoned the gesture and swept her into an embrace, his easy affection making the movement fluid and almost dance-like. It seemed to come without hesitation, as though he was greeting a friend.
My mother’s chocolate brown eyes widened in surprise, creeping back down to size as she relaxed into Michael’s arms and returned his embrace. When they separated, her face was flushed and smiling shyly.
“Edie,” Michael said, his deep voice edged with some emotion that I couldn’t really pinpoint. “You’re just as beautiful as I remember.” He paused, a look of concern crossing his face. Lines etched his forehead as his eyebrows rose, creeping toward his hairline. “You do remember me?” Michael’s smile returned as he looked at my mother. “I could never forget you.”
“Of course, I do,” my mother replied, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ears. At fifty, my mother’s dewy youth had matured into a refined glow––like a gemstone smoothed and shined by the slow, abrasive processes of a tumbler. Lessons of life had made her wiser, though she had never allowed them to make her bitter or harsh. To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She looked at me for a long moment before she spoke again. “Christine, Michael’s actually an old friend of mine,” she said, pausing again. “It’s been thirty years, hasn’t it, Michael?”
He gave it a moment of thought before answering, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose it has. Amazing how fast time gets away from us, isn’t it?”
My mother gave a small smile, one that was darkened a bit by what could only be sadness—though what might have been the cause of it I had no idea.
Michael broke the silence. “I’m sorry for that, Edie. I never meant to stay away so long.”
My mother tilted her head and considered him. “Don’t apologize, Michael. I understand. Life, right?” There was that sad smile again.
“Yes, life.” He shifted his gaze to me. “And it looks like you certainly had one of your own,” Michael said, his face breaking out into a smile as he caught my eye.
I couldn’t help but smile back.
“I have. Christine has been my greatest gift,” my mother replied, studying Michael as she spoke. I could see something in her eyes, something searching and contemplative. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Michael laughed, sending a whisper of delight that drifted past my ears and tickled the skin at the nape of my neck. I loved the sound of his laughter; it was full, rich, and warm. It seemed to come from his soul. “That she is,” he agreed. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know her. You raised a fine woman, Edie. You should be proud. And I would imagine her father was, too.”
Beside me, my mother had grown still––so motionless that I couldn’t even detect her breathing. The only movement came from a tear that had escaped, slowly tracing the curve of her cheek as she stared silently at the man who stood in front of her.
“You still like lasagna, I hope?” The question seemed to come from nowhere, an obvious attempt to shift the conversation. I watched her carefully, the thoughts in my mind running wild.
I’d grown up with just my mother, never clear on what had happened between her and my father. She’d told me throughout my childhood that he was a good man that she had loved very much, and I had his eyes. When I was older, I had learned the whole story. She had fallen in love with a handsome young man who had been part of her life until he was sent overseas. He’d gone on to have a distinguished career, rising in the ranks of the military with ease. And she had kept his baby a secret, determined not to stand in the way of his ambition. Her decision not to tell him had been something that I had never understood—and it had been something that had made me angry.
Now, standing in the middle of these two, my mother on one side and Michael on the other, I could finally see. It was there in the way that they looked at one another, the way they spoke, even after all these years. There, in his eyes—my eyes—was love that had never died, never been forgotten. He turned and looked at me again, this time with recognition. And in those eyes, there were the tears of a man who had finally found his way home.
