“Dad?” Tess waved tothe man I knew was her father. Tall, around my height, and bald. He had a kindset of grey eyes, and when he turned from the people he was talking to, hegranted us a warm smile before heading over. She smiled when he approached, andsaid, “Dad, this is Jon O’Dell. Jon, this is my father, Adam Lang.”
Her arm didn’t leavemine. She held on tight, staking her claim, as I extended my hand to him. “Sir,it’s nice to meet you. I’m just sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
Mr. Adam Lang acceptedmy hand and shook firmly. “My daughter and mother have spoken very highly ofyou. Iactually wantedto thank you, for helping themboth. You’re a good man.”
“Thank you.” I nodded,dropping my gaze and releasing his hand.
“Tess tells me you’re …together now.”
Again, I nodded. “Yes,sir,” I replied, and then, waited. A thirty-something year old man, waitingexpectantly for the disapproving glare of his girlfriend’s father. It waspathetic, and I knew it, but old habits die hard and I couldn’t control theuncalled-for comparison.
Then, Adam said, “Mydaughter’s lucky to have you,” his voice gentle. Genuine.
My face split with anaching grin that felt inappropriate given the setting, but God, I just couldn’tstop. “Maybe,” I said. “But your daughterkindasavedmy life, so I’d like to think I’m luckier.”
***
I kept Lilly and Shelly out of school onThursday to attend the funeral, while leaving Annabel with my mother. She wastoo young to trust that she could sit still and stay quiet during the sermon.
The three of us sat afew rows behind Tess and her family. Shelly was frustrated that we couldn’t sitwith them, and I tried explaining that Margaret’s family sat on that first pewand we weren’t family.
“But we’reTess’sfamily,” Shelly reasoned, and I smiledat her sweet innocence.
“I know it feels likethat, honey,” I said in a whisper, “but Tess needs to sit with her mom and dadright now. We’ll see her after—” The organ stopped playing and the priest tookhis place at the lectern. I pressed my finger to my lips in a silentshh, eyeing my daughters with a gentlewarning.
What I learned was thatMargaret Lang was loved dearly by her community. She’d been a regular at thelibrary, a charitable contributor at the church’s soup kitchen and the localfire department. The community had missed her in her declining years, when shecould no longer attend town board meetings and the local Christmas parade. Iclutched my program on my lap, keeping my head bowed, listening to the priestand Adam speak. They recounted moments in Margaret’s life—these greatachievements, heroic accomplishments—and I shamefully felt that it all seemedso phony. The woman had touched her town, clearly, and she’d been a verysuccessful member of the author community, but what about the little momentsthat truly make someone who they are? Those things that make them a wife, amother, a friend—that’swhat trulymeans something in the end. Not how many books were sold.
I thought about thefirst time I properly met Margaret, when she’d asked me what my favorite bookwas, and how I told her it wasThePhantom Tollbooth. She—this critically acclaimed author of best-sellingthrillers—could’ve scoffed at the mention of a children’s book, coming from themouth of a grown man. She could’ve told me to broaden my horizons and readsomething more on my level, as I’d heard a time or two before. But she didn’t.In fact, she complimented me. She’d continued the conversation and had beenimpressedby something so simple andmundane.
Sometimesthe most magic can be found in simplicity.
I would carry that withme, that moment when, for the first time in a while, I had felt worthy. Amoment when someone truly believed in me. Not for their personal gain, butsimply held a belief that I could accomplish great things.
“Next, we’ll hear fromTessa Lang, Margaret’s granddaughter,” the priest spoke into the mic, and myears pricked at the mention of her name.
“Tess!” Shelly spoke alittle too audibly. A few people loudly shushedherand I apologetically smiled at them as I ducked my head and said, “We need tobe quiet right now, sweetheart.” Shelly nodded abruptly, closing her mouth anddropping her gaze with embarrassment. I laid a soothing hand against her backand looked up to Tess to find her smiling in our direction and biting back agiggle. I wanted to high-five Shelly, for making Tess look that way. For givingher a moment to feel happy in the middle of this somber affair.
Tess took her spot atthe lectern, laying a piece of paper out on the marble top before gripping thesides with white-knuckled hands. She cleared her throat, took a deep breath,and edged toward the microphone.
“A lot of people knewmy grandmother as M.L. Lang, best-selling author of romantic thrillers. Peopleall over the world are lucky to have known her talent and her words, to havebeen touched by the characters and worlds she created. But I’m luckier, becausebefore I knew her as M.L. Lang, I knew her first simply as Grandma.
“What her fans mightnot realize is that there was more to Margaret Lang than the stories she wrote.She was a wife to a man she loved so deeply, that she needed the escape ofwriting to cope with his untimely death. She was absolutely obsessed withRichard Dawson and wouldn’t watch any other seasons ofThe Family Feud, because it would’ve been unfaithful to herRichard. She was also an avid Elvis fan, and when she wasn’t at book signingsor events, she only wore her Elvis t-shirts—she had one for every day of theweek.
“There was so much moreI wanted to write down, but we would’ve been here all day. So, instead, I’dlike to tell you about my favorite memory with my grandma.” Tess took a sip ofwater and dabbed her fingertips underneath her eyes. Then, she began to readagain. “My dad always said the storyteller gene must be hereditary, because Istarted telling stories the moment I could speak. And once I could write?Forget it. I couldn’t stop. I filled notebook after notebook with my sillylittle stories, and boy, did Grandma take notice. I think it was around thetime that I was six or seven when she really started grooming me to follow inher literary footsteps. Whether it was Christmas, my birthday or … the thirdSunday in July, she’d find reasons to gift me with new pens and notebooks. Andwhen I was eleven, she took me to my first of her book signings.
“It was in California,at a big bookstore in San Francisco. At the time, it felt like I was visitingthis far-off land, somewhere I thought only existed in episodes ofFull House. Before we’d even made it tothe bookstore, it already felt like the best vacation ever. But then, uponentering this gigantic book emporium, I watched my beloved,Elvis-shirt-wearing, Richard-Dawson-obsessed grandmother transform into M.L.Lang. She was a beautiful lady with silver streaks in her dark hair, an onyxamulet around her neck, and a leopard print blazer over a silk black camisole.She was confident and held her head up high like she owned the place, as sheread the first chapter from her latest book. And then, she sat down at a table,piled high with her work, at the head of a line of people that seemednever-ending. I watched in marvelous awe as she talked to every one of thosepeople like they truly mattered. The bookstore managers and her agent tried tomake her talk less and sign more, but she refused to listen. It took her threehours to get through that entire line of people, and not once had she lookedanything less than thrilled to be there, even while the managers and her agentbecame more and more angry.”
Tess cleared her throatand turned the page. “Later that night, back at our hotel, I’d asked Grandmawhy she hadn’t listened to them. We had been there for so long, I had gotten sotired, and I wanted to know. She lowered the volume onThe Family Feud, and that’s always when I knew she meant business.She turned to me with the look that she was about to drop some great,noteworthy wisdom and said, ‘Tessa, while I’m writing a story, I am writing forme. I am writing for pleasure and for peace. I am writing to be happy and toheal. But, after that book is finished and I place it in my publisher’s hands,it becomes a gift. It’s a gift to the people who allow me to do what I love fora living. It’s a gift to the readers who wait in line for hours to buy it onthe day of its release, and to the readers who go to work tired the nextmorning because they read the whole thing in one night. It’s a gift to thosewho are only just now discovering me and falling in love with my work. It’s agift toeach and everyone of them. Because withoutthem, I wouldn’t be who I am. And so, when I travel across the country to meetthose people who have essentially paid my bills and kept a roof over my head, I’mmaking sure I show my appreciation for them. So, I don’t care how much time ittakes, or who gets angry. Those readers have given me more of them than I couldever repay them for, and if all I can do is say thank you, you can bet your assI’m properly saying thank you to each and every one of them.’”
The church erupted in achoir of sniffles and laughter. Tess allowed it as she reached into the pocketof her own leopard print blazer and removed a tissue. She dotted at the tearsworking their way over her cheeks and smiled as she stuffed it back into thepocket and the laughter had quelled.
“That was the moment Ibegan to worship my grandmother. I mean, I had loved her before, but that waswhen she also became my hero and I knew I wanted to grow up to be just likeher. Now, maybe I haven’t finished my first novel yet. I’m close, I’ll getthere, but until then, I’m going to write for me. I’m going to write forpleasure and peace. I’m going to write to be happy and to heal. But when thatbook is finished and published, it’s going to be a gift made out to M.L. Lang.To Maury’s wife. To Adam’s mother. To my Grandma.”
Then, with a soddenface and mascara streaking beneath her eyes, Tess grabbed her sheets of paperand hurried over the marble floor and down the steps to touch her hand to herfather’s shoulder. But she didn’t return to her seat. She took the aisle,passing the first, second, and third rows, until she was at mine. I nudged thegirls, urging them to move over and make room, and Tess sat beside me, herthigh pressed to mine. I offered my hand, interlocking our fingers as I took a waddedbundle of tissues from my pocket and wiped carefully at her tears.
“I forgot thewaterproof mascara,” she whispered apologetically, and I smiled gently.
“You’re perfect,” Iwhispered back, cleaning her face as best as I could before settling back againstthe pew as Tess settled her head against my shoulder.
