How I Became a Heartbreaker

I’m brushing 40 and turning heads for the first time in 10 years. It feels good, as though, once again, I’ve shed the stigma of disability.

June comes, and with it, a wedding. Paul’s son is marrying his high school sweetheart. Together, Paul and I pick out a lovely black beaded dress and a pair of heels that I’m almost sure I can walk in. I’ll be meeting his ex-wife and her family for the first time, and I can tell he wants me to impress them.

I find myself feeling edgy and upset. Partly, I’m angry. I’m smart and creative. It shouldn’t matter what I look like. Another voice inside me says, I’ll never pull this off. I’m just a crippled girl playing dress-up.

At the church, I sit in a front pew. Paul stays behind to get in position to walk down the aisle with his family. Suddenly, he comes up beside me. “You’re supposed to walk with me,” he says.

“What? No one told me.”

The wedding is about to start. They’re 
waiting for us. People stare as we rush up the aisle so we can walk down it moments later.

I’m miserable. When Richard and I married, we didn’t have a procession. I don’t want to walk with a roomful of people watching me. Now the music starts, and I haven’t a choice. I teeter on my stupid shoes that won’t stay on my feet properly.

During the car ride home, I try to explain to Paul how I felt. “You should have walked with your mother,” I tell him. “It’s not as if I’m family.”

“But you are,” he says. “I felt proud to have you walk with me.”

It’s true that we are getting to be like family. Paul moves into my apartment. He gets along well with my son. We buy furniture together and begin building a loving domestic life.

We’re affectionate. We make each other laugh. I feel happy.

One point of contention remaining 
between us is pinup art. Paul paints wonderfully, can render any likeness. I think he’s wasting his talent on such superficial subject matter. “Don’t you want to say something with your art?” I ask.