the wig that looks fabulous tonight.
As I stand before the full-length mirror in my dressing area, I am thrilled beyond words at what I see. For the first time I am not looking for the flaws. Usually when I observe myself in the mirror I am trying to find the faults, the blemishes, the crow’s-feet, the faint stain on the blazer where the salad dressing never fully came out. Tonight is the opposite. I am looking for the places where I look fabulous, and there are many. Not just the hair, or the wig, but plenty more. My eyes are alive and glowing. My coloring has come back—most of it, anyway—so I don’t look pale or gaunt. I am still thin, and there is a pride in my posture I have never seen before, something in the arch of my back, the rise of my chin, the heat of my stare. It says I am here. It says if I was ever gone I am back, and wherever I am going can wait. Tonight I am here, and I am wonderful to behold. And if it took cancer to make me feel this way, to allow me to see myself like this, then so be it. At least something good came of it.
When the intercom sounds, I am ready. I give myself a final glance in the mirror, and a wink, and as I smooth a tiny piece of hair above my eyes I think to myself that I really am filled with loving-kindness, and I am peaceful and at ease, and I am happy. Maybe for the first time since I was a little girl, I am truly happy.
It is Marie who is downstairs. Maurice picked her up and now they are here for me. She is stunningly beautiful in her gown, long and flowing, white in all the right places. By her standards, the dress is conservative; you can hardly see her breasts, which I have become so accustomed to seeing on full display that now I miss them.
“Well, well,” I say proudly, as I step off the elevator. “Here comes the bride.”
Marie is shivering with excitement. “You look so beautiful, Katherine, I could honestly cry.”
“Remember,” I tell her, “it is your night. This is not Katherine’s Going Away Party, this is your wedding and if you aren’t going to act like it I’m going back upstairs.”
Marie smiles. I can see tears in her eyes. “I’m perfect, boss,” she says. “You told me in Aspen that I needed to figure out what makes life worth living. Well, I figured it out, and that’s what tonight is about.”
She reaches out her hand and I take it in mine and squeeze it. She is such a sweet girl, and sometimes so much more insightful than I ever gave her credit for. I love her tonight, with all of my heart.
“It makes me very proud . . .” I start to say, but to my own surprise the words stick in my throat. If I finish the sentence I will start to cry, and I don’t want to cry, not in the lobby, not on Marie’s night.
“I love you, boss,” she says, and I squeeze her hand again, and we go out through the revolving door.
Maurice is standing by the car with the door open, smiling broadly, his hat tucked beneath his arm. It is a beautiful, crisp night, the first of the season that has truly felt like fall. That first night when you feel as though it has been a year since last you were cold. I’ve been cold plenty this year, but not like this. The air is invigorating, and I pause a long moment before I get into the car, just taking it in, looking about at all the twinkling lights of an early New York evening.
“Maurice,” I say, “there is so much beauty in this world, so much in this life that is so beautiful. I don’t know why I haven’t seen it before.”
“You’ve always seen it, boss,” he says. “You’ve just been too busy to pay attention.” If I’m not mistaken, it sounds as though there is a lump in his throat as well. “It’s wonderful to see you looking like this,” he continues. “I’ve never seen you look better than you do right now.”
I smile wickedly. “Well, maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”
And with one final glance around, I duck my head and slide into the car beside Marie.
We sit in silence for most of