Work Text:
It’s when she hears him say his vows, when she sees his lips move as they form the words, I honestly never thought I would find real love. It’s that comment in particular that causes a tightening in her chest, a rolling of her insides.
Because what does it mean when your own son admits that to the world?
Her sit bones press against her plastic seat as she glances up, past the glowing lights and toward the rafters of the barn. She knows what his words mean, she remembers how it was for him, a boy whose every friend had a date to the dance. Just not him. “How am I supposed to even find a date?” he’d asked her, and she knew his heart—knew already that what he really wondered was, how am I supposed to find my true love?
Miraculously, he did find a date.
Miraculous, and unfortunate. Her eyes well up at the thought of it, and it hits her that the pain her son had experienced that night eventually led him to Kurt. She smiles through her tears as she sees Kurt place the ring on Blaine’s hand, sees the way Blaine seems to marvel at the ring finally (suddenly!) there on his finger.
I honestly never thought I would find real love. There’s a part of her that wants to make the comment about herself—it’s a thing she does. If Blaine thought love was so rare, in general, is that her fault, too? Is that what he saw, at home, in his own parents? Did he find her—them—so lacking?
The applause, when it comes, is somehow both uplifting and oppressive. As much as she marvels along with everyone else at the doves taking flight, she can’t help but feel a bit envious.
What she wouldn’t give for some wings right now.
Hearing Blaine’s admission hadn’t been the first surprise of the day. Or the last few days, for that matter, which had left her feeling quite like a pinball being shot from one surface to another. First her son had called her, his voice betraying exactly the type of giddy grin he was wearing, to say he and Kurt were together again. And that had been after he'd announced, just a day prior, that he and Dave were breaking up. And then she’d been asked to attend a wedding for two young ladies she hardly knew (actually, she’d been pressed to go, by Brittany), and now, here, her son is the one getting married. And it’s a bit romantic and terrifying at the same time.
She’s happy. Of course she’s happy. But she’s a mother, too, and chides herself for noticing the stack of presents for the girls that the boys (her boys, the both of them now) won’t get, and grumbles at the fact that she knows no one here. No family, anyway. Somehow, she thinks, that must be what Blaine wants—to have no family here—and then she just feels like a bad person for thinking that. Well, she knows to put her game face on.
Then there’s a flurry of waiters, of champagne flutes being lifted from the table in front of her and replaced.
At some point she goes into the dressing room in back and stuffs herself into a stall, then changes into the emerald dress (“We’re all wearing bright colors—with fringe!” Carol had said excitedly on the phone). Earlier, outside the barn, she’d recognized that voice as she stood, alone, not really knowing what to do with herself. She’d hovered there, studying her son and his easy comfort with Kurt as they spoofed the Grant Wood painting she’d seen once in Chicago while at some conference or other with her husband. She’d felt a pang in her heart, as her husband was gone now, and it took all the strength she could muster to walk up to Carol, hand outstretched. “Hi,” she’d said. “I’m Blaine’s mother.”
When she emerges from the stall, she has to ask one of the other mothers to fasten her dress at the back. It’s Carol, again, who gushes, “This color on you, Pam! It’s lovely.” She turns toward Carol, and notices the flush in the other woman’s cheeks, the light in her eyes that happiness (and champagne) have put there. Carols grasps her arms and says, leaning forward, “I’m so happy you came!”
And that’s it, isn’t it: she feels like a guest, rather than a host, at her son’s own wedding.
Smiling, always smiling, she walks out of the bathroom, arm and arm with Carol, stopping at the nearest wait staff member who’s holding a tray. Lifting a fresh glass of champagne she thinks, Ok then—I’m going to be the best wedding guest ever!
She downs the drink in one gulp.
Performing with the other mothers turns out to be the best thing she’s done in a long time, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the fringe or the song or feeling part of the group, but she’s suddenly alive again. I’m about to lose control and I think I like it! she belts, emerald rippling across her body in waves as she shimmies.
The excitement she feels stays with her even after she takes off the dress. It shoots through her in tiny sparks, as if her hair could stand on end of its own accord. The air feels charged, like she’s back home in Ohio, walking along the paved bicycle paths near the power lines, the metal towers connected by their buzzing, crackling cables.
Soon after that she's falling into a young mans arms—military she thinks. Or maybe he’s falling into hers? She keeps her game face on, but she's spiraling already.
She'll find her way back to the hotel, alone. But first, she finds the guestbook—not the girls' but her sons'—and pours her heart onto the page as best she can. She tries to lay the pen down on the table (why does it keep rolling off onto the floor like that?), then brushes off her skirt before heading for the open barn door. From the threshold she spots her son on the dance floor and catches his eye, and lets everything stop for a moment as they smile at each other.
She wishes so much for them. She wishes everything.
I honestly never thought I would find real love. Lightheaded though she is, she remembers his words. Or are they hers, too? She turns from him and wobbles out into the night, in whatever season this is, when crickets seek out each other in the dark.