"Love Sounds" by Pamela L. Laskin
A mother suffering from mental illness wants to help plan her daughter’s wedding.
“Short Stories For Long Discussions…”
Mission Statement: After Dinner Conversation is an independent, nonprofit, literary magazine that focuses on short story fiction that encourages philosophical and ethical discussions with friends, family, and students. Each story comes with five suggested discussion questions.
Letter From The Editor
I’m not going to lie. This week I was in Kona, Hawaii watching my wife do the Ironman World Championships rather than working much on the magazine. She crushed it and I’m so proud of her. Then, several long flights home before prepping this in the middle of the night. I hope you enjoy the story this week as it asks a super interesting question about where we draw limits to protect our exposure to loving parents that suffer from mental health issues.
And, as always, you can subscribe via our website (digital or print), or via substack. ~Kolby
Weekly Story Related Poll
“Love Sounds” Related Poll (This Week)
“I, Von Economo” Related Poll (Last Week)
Free Partner eBooks Downloads (Updated Weekly)
"Love Sounds" by Pamela L. Laskin
My daughter’s getting married. She is thirty-two and beautiful. I remember—it seems like just the other day—when she was sprawled and breathless. There she was, flat on her back, covered by pink panda pajamas, the odor of sleep drenched in her pillow. Today she is a young woman, and one whom I am proud of; she’s doing work at Rutgers University, the kind of work her deceased father did, as a researcher. The groom, Mark, does the same kind of work, which is lovely since they can travel to conferences.
I am hoping they can find a nice conference to Hawaii right around June; it would be perfect for the honeymoon. I see her now—her long, auburn hair piled sky-high on top of her head, the lilies streaming down the piles of lace on her long, white gown and taffeta—oh, and such beautiful taffeta. A gust of wind comes from nowhere and blows the window open—a poltergeist, perhaps, here to disturb my reverie. I imagine Mark in his black tux with a blood red tie. Who will be his best man? Who will be her maid of honor? Deidre was named for my dead father, Dave, whose funeral I never got to attend. I wanted to, but I had the flu, and I didn’t want to give it to my nieces and nephews. I’ve always loved the children. I’ll make a fine grandmother!
And what about the mother of the bride? Of course, the color of the dress I wear will depend on Deidre and Mark’s color scheme. I will suggest pastels to her, since I look so good in pastels with my bronzed complexion. Deidre isn’t often open to my suggestions; she often says, “Mom” with a huff and a puff, as some of the young girls do. How Deidre got that pale skin—the slightest touch of the outdoors will burn her—I’ll never know. Her father, was bronzed like me. People always said we made a handsome couple. No one is left from our small circle of friends and relatives to bear witness to the love we once had. Only a photograph of Joseph and me as a young bride and groom, me in silk, him in a smart, gray suit, remains on top of my bureau. That was love! Next to the photograph are many others of Deidre—at one month, three years, the two of us ice-skating at Prospect Park; there’s even one of the two of us at the World’s Fair. Oh my! I took her to so many lovely places.
Yes, the bride will look stunning like her mother once did, and the mother of the bride will be blushing, too. The dress will cover the scar on my chest, the one that appeared after the four-flight episode. Though I haven’t met Mark’s parents (I ask my daughter so often to meet them; after all, Deidre has lived with Mark for seven years), I am certain we will get along fabulously well. That day I will skip my medication, just so I can have a drink. Cheers!
Though my daughter hasn’t formally announced the wedding, I know it is for real for a number of reasons:
She’s watching her weight, so she can fit into a size four dress. I wear size fourteen, and am proud of my weight, but Deidre was never a good eater.
She’s been on edge lately. Just the other days she snapped: “Why do you call me every day?”
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
“You didn’t call me every day at college.”
“You were away at college. I couldn’t afford it. And your father didn’t leave you enough money to afford it, either.”
“Leave my father out of it!”
Whenever I mention her father, she grows angry. The day of her father’s funeral, she was red and ravaged. It was spring; the rain was rampant. All I could think of was April showers bring May flowers. Deidre pounded her fists against the open-casket where Joseph lay, looking as handsome as ever. I crept up behind her, and when she turned around, there was a look of horror on her face. “Why him?” she had screamed, “why him?” then she ran off. Joseph’s second wife looked surprised.
I try to avoid talking about her father, but sometimes I can’t help it. After all, I want to see my baby girl happy.
She’s been very secretive!
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to After Dinner Conversation - Philosophy | Ethics Short Story to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.