A Broken Promise

My father was an organized, methodical man. Losing his mother when he was 12 made it imperative that he control the world around him. To organize his life so there could be no ugly surprises. He bundled his anxiety in an attempt to shed the sadness. I am not sure how well it worked for him, but if I am really being honest it was hard for me and at times, I resented his unspeakable loss.

 It was perhaps not a promise, but I took it as such. He wanted to buy me earrings, diamond studs from Boris who worked in wholesale jewelry. At the Los Angeles Jewelry mart. Doesn't this sound like the perfect profession for an immigrant Jew from Russia? Like my uncle JB who sold shoes and made custom for my father. I sat for an hour at least while JB placed my father's foot in warm, white plaster to make a mold for the black leather, orthopedic model. Not the strange looking "space shoes" full of asymmetrical holes for the laces. Doctor's shoes. For comfort. Before Dansk and clogs.

 Dad's were smooth and hardly noticeable as therapeutic. He had his shoes custom made and his shirts monogrammed and twice weekly golf games and popcorn every night and a swim every morning. Perhaps his way to celebrate life while trying to dissolve the never-ending grief bubbling just below the surface.

It meant a lot to me that he wanted to buy me earrings, that he was at least willing to also bundle his benevolent narcissism to celebrate my successes. But he was not willing to change his Saturday morning golf game. I had only a couple of days in Los Angeles before returning to dance rehearsals and my shift at the Coffee Cantata in San Francisco. Serving drinks to tables full of narcissistic men, but less gracious than my elegant father with the monogrammed shirts and the custom-made suits.

It was challenging for my father to accept this life of mine after divorcing the husband he was sure was my fortunate destiny. So, the earrings and the promise meant something. He asked me to reorient my trip so that we could shop for the earrings. I wanted Saturday morning so I could have lunch with a close friend on Friday. He chose golf and I, uncharacteristically, said "no' to dissolving my plan. If I am really being honest, I was probably angry, maybe masquerading the hurt that me and my earrings weren’t important enough.

 The promise didn't dissolve. We referred to the possibility of buying me earrings periodically over the years. But he died first. I channeled my disappointment by telling my second husband the story. He was not yet my husband and he never met my father. When our kids were young, and our relationship new and challenging, we took our sons to Pt. Reyes. To lunch at the Olema Inn where many years later we would get married. Desert came and Robert pulled out a small box. The boys were old enough to gasp a bit and the couple at a neighboring table looked over. I was nervous, not yet wanting an engagement ring.

 It was a white box with no card and a narrow ribbon. "Open it!" one of the boys requested. Inside were two, tiny diamond, stud earrings. This man, who had also lost his mother when he was very young, had organized his life to buy me the earrings my father had only been able to promise. Years later, after our beautiful wedding, I lost one of the studs. I didn't tell my husband.  In the interim I went to the same jeweler who made me a match. And then some time after that I found the lost earring.

 I think finding the lost one, was like finding my father. Perhaps a sign that the promise wasn't broken. The way my father could love me was regenerated with the return of the lost earring. A sign that he was always there, even when distracted by his own grief and anxiety. My husband echoed my father. Perhaps one picked up where the other left off.