Esteem

Epilogue

ASHTON

I walk down the halls of the church, nervously pacing. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be here yet, or what I'm supposed to be doing. Several months ago I had learned to just keep my mouth shut and let the wedding planner that she'd hired do all the work. I usually didn't do anything wedding-involved without asking at least three people first.

"Ashton?" Alyssa pokes her head out of a room to my left.

"Yeah?" I cough gruffly. Alyssa looks at me a little longer, the sad look of pity mixed with pain and nostalgia that I have been getting so often these days.

"Would you like to see her?" Alyssa asks.

"Am... Am I allowed to?" I ask.

"Yes," Alyssa laughs. "I'll give you two some time." She lets the door close behind her as she walks out, squeezing my hand as she passes. I hesitate in front of the door, steeling myself before I go in. As much as I have prepared for this moment, I am not ready for it. I take a deep breath before I enter the room.

There she is. Standing up on a pedestal, her long white wedding gown flowing around her like something out of a movie. The blonde curls cascade down her back and her eyes—those eyes—meet mine in the mirror. It takes everything I have not to break down in front of her, right here and now. Still, I can't keep the tears from my eyes.

She turns to me and steps down from the pedestal, her own eyes glistening with tears. "Oh, Daddy," she breathes with tears in her voice. The way that she glides towards me and so gently folds herself into my arms nearly breaks me.

"You are beautiful, baby," I whisper in her ear. "You look just like her."

A single tear trails down her cheek when she pulls away from me. "This is her dress," she says, looking down at the gown that was once Claire's, on the happiest day of our lives.

"I know," I say through a tight throat. "She would have loved to see you in it."

"She did," she laughs, catching another tear. "When I was a little girl, she used to let me wear it sometimes." I laugh, too, though the sound is hollow. It has been for years now. "I wish she was here."

"Me too, Anna," I choke out, reaching for my daughter again. "Me too."

"It's not fair," she cries into my shoulder.

"I know, baby," I rub her arms and try to calm her. "I know. Don't cry, now. Today is a happy day."

"I know," Anna gasps, trying to catch her breath. "I know, I just—I'm so sad that she had to miss all of my happy days. She should be here today, and she should have met her granddaughter. She should have been here to be pissed at me for getting pregnant before I was married, and she should have been there when Mark proposed at Christmas." She is crying heavily now, and I release my own tears. It's no use. "I miss her, Dad," Anna sobs. "I miss her so much."

"I miss her too, Annie," I say. "I miss her more every day." I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the white envelope that I tucked there earlier. There are a few more like it in a fireproof box at home, but the number is dwindling. For the past seven years I have been handing them out accordingly, to the addressee on the designated date. Today I took this one out of the box and let my hand run over the ink on the outside envelope... the ink that she wrote with, in her handwriting. To Anna, on her wedding day.

I remember when Claire had written this one, she had tucked it into the box with a tearstained face. "I should be there," she had said.

In the early days of her illness, Claire had cried a lot. She'd done a lot of asking 'why' and hurting over what she would miss, but she got strong. She always got strong. In the end, it was her comforting us. It was the box of letters to keep her memory around after she was gone. It was the scrapbook of tour programs, photographs, and ticket stubs that she gave to Luke on his last birthday before she died. It was how she went to every one of her daughter's gymnastic meets until she physically couldn't anymore. It was her final willingness to see and forgive her estranged parents. It was the way she would let a seventeen year old Anna lay in bed with her every day, and it was her hand still wrapped firmly around mine, the way it always had been, when she breathed her last.