Wear the Pearls

"Wear the pearls."  I knew that's what she would tell me.  'Don't worry about anything and smile, and you'll be fine."

Mom wouldn't be attending her only Grandson's wedding - the invitation she had received just eight weeks earlier came from a much higher source, and even though we truly believed she had gone to what the poets call a "far, far better place," we would miss her.  The marriage wasn't a surprise, the lissome bride had already endeared herself to our family, but the timing was, and none of the New York stores I patronized were much help in getting together a suitable Mother of the Groom ensemble for an Island wedding with only 36 hours notice.

As a matter of fact when I had finally collected what I deemed was an adequate, if not suitable, dress and jacket and presented them to my favorite Salesperson, she lifted her fragile white eyebrow, looked directly at me and said, "You're wearing this to your son's wedding?"

I looked down at the pink silk jacket with its balloon-like polka dots, and knew exactly what she was really saying was, "Princess Diana, you're not, my dear."  Refusing to be intimidated and just too weary to try on any more knee length monstrosities, I calmly returned her gaze and said, "Yes, I am, but I'll be wearing pearls."  She softened immediately, knowing exactly what I meant and proceeded to embrace the bold polka dots with clouds of white tissue, as if their presence could soften the jacket's strident image.

The pearls were a family tradition.  My sisters and I had grown up knowing our Mother's firm belief that ladies always wore pearls and white gloves.  And that the very presence of two crisp white gloves and strands of pearls were appropriate for any circumstance where life could lead us.  The gloves, of course, were abandoned years earlier, but the tradition of the pearls lingered when I charted my own life course.

It had been such a long time ago - so long ago as a matter of fact that when young lovers pledged their love in that wondrous New York city park and heard a footstep, they knew immediately it was another pair of young people drinking in the magical city twilight and believing their world, too, would soon be bathed in wondrous moon beams.  It was on such an April night that I gave my promise to love forever, and my beloved rather reluctantly agreed when I asked for two strings of pearls rather than the traditional diamond.

In the years that passed, both park and people changed.  We were no longer young lovers, but he always remembered the magic of our dreams, and when the children came first three daughters and then our son, I was given two more strands in celebration of each arrival.

The memories crowded into my mind as closely as the clothing I was fitting into my leather suitcase.  And I could hear her voice saying, "Don't forget the pearls.  They will be perfect for a wedding."

The dress was packed, but I decided to wear all ten strands.  It's a long trip to Hawaii, no matter how good the airline connection, and I didn't want to take any chances of a broken strand.  I remember smiling in agreement somewhere over the desert as the young flight attendant admired them telling me how she preferred the small sized pearls I had selected so many years ago.

I dozed a bit on the plane remembering my Mother's advice and attempting to blot out nightmares of polka dot dresses and hula dancers chanting.  By the time the plane landed, jet lag was a reality, and I knew once I fell asleep, it would be at least eight hours before I functioned well again.  As we checked into the lovely room our son had reserved, I decided it would be wise to make an appointment with the beauty salon in the complex before the ceremony at noon the next day.  As I walked toward the door, I told my husband I'd take a key in case he fell asleep before I returned.

Life is a combination of so many things that inevitably turn us from our familiar path - thus it was, and there are so many reasons for what happened.  The tropical sun seemed to shine directly in my eyes, a welcoming voice called from a passing cart, I turned ever so slightly, and in that incredible moment I pitched forward.  It seemed to take forever because I knew I would hit the ground, that black hard concrete, and I was unable to stop.  When I did, I could taste the blood and then miraculously, I could feel wonderful strong arms pulling me up, back from the oblivion that threatened to suffocate me.  I could hear voices reassuring me, promising me all would be well.  Someone rescued the key I had in my fist and went to bring my husband to accompany me on the ride to the hospital.  And in a great distance, I heard someone say, "What are all those white things on the ground?" I reached out and said, "My pearls, my pearls - can you save them?"  And that was all I remembered.

I was lucky.  All the staff at the Medical Center assured me of that. Very lucky, and of course, it would be alright to go to the wedding.  Obviously, I wouldn't look very good, but the important thing was that I could attend.  When we returned to the hotel, we found a large paper bag with what seemed thousands of little white pearls.  And I thought, "Now I won't even be able to wear my pearls," and as I fell asleep, the nightmare of polka dotted dresses and chanting Hawaiian dancers returned.

But it really was such a lovely wedding.  Priorities change quickly.  The polka dotted dress was unimportant, and even seemed to take some of the emphasis away from my polka dotted face with its myriad bandages over lip and cheek and chin.  The bride was lovely, the groom was happy, but I did so wish I'd salvaged at least one strand of pearls to wear for the pictures.  At least for posterity, I thought with chagrin.

Weeks later when the proofs of the wedding pictures arrived in the large padded envelope, I realized despite much healing, an area on my lip seemed to becoming progressively larger and equally padded, rather than softening and fading into the scar tissue the doctors had predicted.  I realized it was time for some more medical advice.

In the forthcoming weeks, there were many consultation with many doctors until ultimately, one incredibly young maxillofacial surgeon asked me to talk a little bit about what happened the day of the accident.  He even had the patience to allow me to describe the polka dotted dress, and how I had been unable to wear my pearls.

Suddenly, he jumped up, took my hand and said, "I think we're going pearl fishing."  The x-rays proved his suspicions were correct, and within an hour, the fisherman was successful.  A pearl was removed intact from my upper lip.

The other pearls have now been restrung.  One strand will always be a bit shorter than the other nine, but my son will be able to say, if anyone asks a question about his wedding, that his Mother wore her pearl.