Buried to the Brim

by Jenn McKinlay

  Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I wrestled the constricting wool scarf from around my neck, yanked the beanie off my head, and stuffed them in my pockets. I scrubbed my scalp with my fingers in an attempt to make the blood flow to my brain. It didn’t help. Come on, Martin, I coached myself, pull it together. Lastly, I unzipped my puffy winter jacket to let some air in, then I focused on my father.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “Pink and gray, too retro?” Glen Martin, aka Dad, asked. He pushed his wire-frame glasses up on his nose and looked at me as if he was asking a perfectly reasonable question.

  “No, before that.” I waved my hand in a circular motion to indicate he needed to back it all the way up.

  “I’m getting married!” His voice went up when he said it and I decided my normally staid fifty-five-year-old dad was somehow currently possessed by a twentysomething bridezilla.

  “You okay, Dad?” I asked gently, not wanting to set him off. “Have you recently slipped on some ice and whacked your head? I ask because you don’t seem to be yourself.”

  “Sorry,” he said. He reached out and wrapped me in an impulsive hug, another indicator that he was not his usual buttoned-down mathematician self. “I’m just . . . I’m just so happy. What do you think about being a flower girl?”

  “Um . . . I’m almost thirty.” I tipped my head to the side and squinted at him.

  “Yes, but we already have a full wedding party, and you and your sister would be really cute in matching dresses, maybe something sparkly.”

  “Matching dresses? Sparkly?” I repeated. I struggled for air. It was clear. My father had lost his ever-lovin’ mind. I should probably call my sister. Dad needed medical attention, possibly an intervention. Oh, man, would we have to have him committed?

  I studied his face, trying to determine just how crazy he was. The same brown-green hazel eyes I saw in my own mirror every morning held mine, but where my eyes frequently looked flat with a matte finish, his positively sparkled. He really looked happy.

  “You’re serious,” I gasped. I glanced around the bridal store that was stuffed to the rafters with big, white, fluffy dresses. None of this made any sense and yet here I was. “You’re not pranking me?”

  “Nope.” He grinned again. “Congratulate me, peanut, I’m getting married.”

  I felt as if my chest were collapsing into itself. Never, not once, in the past seven years had I ever considered the possibility that my father would remarry.

  “To who?” I asked. It couldn’t be . . . nah. That would be insane.

  “Really, Chels?” Dad straightened up. The smile slid from his face and he cocked his head to the side, which was his go-to disappointed-parent look.

  I had not been on the receiving end of this look very often in life. Not like my younger sister, Annabelle, who seemed to thrive on “the look.” Usually, it made me fall right in line but not today.

  “Sheri. You’re marrying Sheri.” I tried to keep my voice neutral. Major failure, as I stepped backward, tripped on the trailing end of my scarf, and gracelessly sprawled onto one of the cream-colored velvet chairs that were scattered around the ultra feminine store. From the look on my father’s face, I thought it was a good thing I was sitting because if he answered in the affirmative I might faint.

  “Yes, I asked her to marry me and to my delight she accepted,” he said. Another happy stupid grin spread across his lips as if he just couldn’t help it.

  “But . . . but . . . she won you in a bachelor auction two weeks ago!” I cried. “This is completely mental!”

  The store seamstress, who was assisting a bride up on the dais in front of a huge trifold mirror, turned to look at us. Her dark hair was scraped up into a knot on top of her head and her face was contoured to perfection. She made me feel like a frump in my Sunday no-makeup face. Which, in my defense, was not my fault because when I’d left the house to meet Dad, I’d had no idea the address he’d sent was for Bella’s Bridal. I’d been expecting an urgent care. In fact, I wasn’t sure yet that we didn’t need one.

  Glen Martin, Harvard mathematician and all-around nerd dad, had been coerced into participating in a silver fox bachelor auction for prominent Bostonians by my sister, Annabelle, to help raise funds for the Boston Children’s Hospital. I had gone, of course, to support my sister and my dad and it had mostly been a total snoozefest.

  The highlight of the event being when two socialites got into a bidding war over a surgeon and the loser slapped the winner across the face with her cardboard paddle. Good thing the guy was a cosmetic surgeon because there was most definitely some repair work needed on that paper cut.

  But my father had not been anywhere near that popular with the ladies. No one wanted a mathematician. No one. After several minutes of excruciating silence, following the MC trying to sell the lonely gals on my dad’s attempts to solve the Riemann hypothesis, I had been about to bid on him myself, when Sheri, a petite brunette, had raised her paddle with an initial bid. The smile of gratitude Dad had sent Sheri had been blinding, and the next thing we knew a flurry of bids happened, but Sheri stuck in there and landed the winning bid for four hundred thirty-five dollars and fifty cents.

  “Two weeks is all it took,” Dad said. He shrugged and held out his hands like a blackjack dealer showing he had no hidden cards, chips or cash.

  I clapped a hand to my forehead. “It takes more time to get a first paycheck on a new job than you’ve spent in this relationship. Is it even considered a relationship at the two-week mark?”

  “I know it’s a surprise, Chels, but when—” he began but I interrupted him.

  “Dad, a bachelor auction is not the basis for a stable, long-lasting relationship.”

  “You have to admit it makes a great story,” he said.

  “No, I don’t! What do you even know about Sheri? What’s her favorite color?”

  “Pink, duh.” He looked at me with a know-it-all expression more commonly seen on a teenager than a grown-ass man.

  “Who are you and what have you done with my father?” I wanted to check him for a fever, maybe he had the flu and was hallucinating.

  “I’m still me, Chels,” he said. He gazed at me gently. “I’m just a happy me, for a change.”

  Was that it? Was that what was so different about him? He was happy? How could he be happy with a woman he hardly knew? Maybe . . . oh, dear. My dad hadn’t circulated much after my mom’s death. Maybe he was finally getting a little something and he had it confused with love. Oh, God, how was I supposed to talk about this with him?

  I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. Parents did this all the time. Surely I could manage it. Heck, it would be great practice if I ever popped out a kid. I opened my eyes. Three women were standing in the far corner in the ugliest chartreuse dresses I had ever seen. Clearly, they were the attendants of a bride who hated them. And that might be me in sparkly pink or gray if I didn’t put a stop to this madness.

  “Sit down, Dad,” I said. “I think we need to have a talk.”

  He took the seat beside mine and looked at me with the same patience he had when he’d taught me to tie my shoes. I looked away. Ugh, this was more awkward than when my gynecologist told me to scoot down, repeatedly. It’s like they didn’t know a woman’s ass needs some purchase during an annual. Focus, Martin!

  “I know that you’ve been living alone for several years.” I cleared my throat. “And I imagine you’ve had some needs that have gone unmet.”

  “Chels, no—” he said. “It isn’t about that.”

  I ignored him, forging on while not making eye contact because, Lordy, if I had to have this conversation with him, I absolutely could not look at him.

  “And I understand that after such a long dry spell, you might be confused about what you feel, and that’s okay,” I said. Jeebus, this sounded like a sex talk by Mr. Rogers. “The thing is,
you don’t have to marry the first person you sleep with after Mom.”

  There, I said it. And my wise advice and counsel was met with complete silence. I waited for him to express relief that he didn’t have to get married. And I waited. Finally, I glanced up at my father, who was looking at me with the same expression he’d worn when I found out that he was actually the tooth fairy. Chagrin.

  “Sheri is not the first,” he said.

  “She’s not?” I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you.

  “No.”

  “But you never told me about anyone before,” I said.

  “You didn’t need to know,” he said. “They were companions, not relationships.”

  “They?!” I shouted. I didn’t mean to. The seamstress sent me another critical look and I coughed, trying to get it together.

  Dad shifted in his seat, sending me a small smile of understanding. “Maybe meeting here wasn’t the best idea. I thought you’d be excited to help plan the wedding but perhaps you’re not ready.”

  “Of course I’m not ready,” I said. “But you’re not either.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh, really? Answer me this, does Sheri prefer dogs or cats?”

  “I don’t—” He blinked.

  “Yes, because it’s only been two weeks,” I said. “You remember that lump on your forehead? It took longer than two weeks to get that biopsied but you’re prepared to marry a woman you haven’t even known long enough for a biopsy.”

  My voice was getting higher and Dad put his hands out in an inside voice, please gesture. I would have tried but I felt as if I was hitting my stride in making my point. I went for the crushing blow.

  “Dad, do you even know whether she is a pie or cake sort of person?”

  “I . . . um . . .”

  “Do you realize you’re contemplating spending the rest of your life with a person who might celebrate birthdays with pie?”

  “Chels, I know this is coming at you pretty fast,” he said. “I do, but I don’t think Sheri liking pie or cake is really that big of a deal. Who knows, she might be an ice cream person and ice cream goes with everything.”

  “Mom was a cake person,” I said. There. I’d done it. I brought in the biggest argument against this whole rushed-matrimonial insanity. Mom.

  My father’s smile vanished as if I’d snuffed it out between my fingers like a match flame. I felt lousy about it, but not quite as lousy as I did at the thought of Sheri, oh, but no, becoming my stepmother.

  “Your mother’s been gone for seven years, Chels,” he said. “That’s a long time for a person to be alone.”

  “But you haven’t been alone . . . apparently,” I protested. “Besides, you have me and Annabelle, who is always in crisis, so I know she keeps you busy.”

  His smile flickered. “She does at that.”

  “So, why do you need to get married?” I pressed.

  Dad sighed. “Because I love Sheri and I want to make her my wife.”

  I gasped. I felt as if he’d slapped me across the face. Yes, I knew I was reacting badly, but this was my father. The man who had sworn to love my mother until death do they part. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Mom had died seven years ago and Dad had been alone ever since, right up until he met Sheri Armstrong two weeks ago when she just kept raising her auction paddle for the marginally hot mathematician.

  I got it. Really, I did. I’d been known to have bidding fever when a mint pair of Jimmy Choos showed up on eBay. It was hard to let go of something when it was in your grasp, especially when another bidder kept raising the stakes. But this was my dad, not shoes.

  One of the bridal salon employees came by with a tray of mimosas. I grabbed two, double-fisting the sparkling beverage. Sweet baby Jesus, I hoped there was more fizz than pulp in them. The fizzing bubbles hit the roof of my mouth and I wished they could wash away the taste of my father’s bad news but they didn’t.

  “Listen, I know that being the object of desire by a crowd of single, horny women is heady stuff—”

  “Really, you know this?” Dad propped his chin in his hand as he studied me with his eyebrows raised and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Okay, not exactly, but my point, and I have one, is that you and Sheri aren’t operating in the real world here,” I said. “I understand that Sheri is feeling quite victorious having won you but that doesn’t mean she gets to wed you. I mean, why do you have to marry her? Why can’t you just live in sin like other old people?”

  “Because we love each other and we want to be married.”

  “You can’t know this so soon,” I argued. “It’s not possible. Her representative hasn’t even left yet.”

  My father frowned, clearly not understanding.

  “The first six months to a year, you’re not really dating a person,” I explained. “You’re dating their representative. The real person, the one who leaves the seat up and can’t find the ketchup in the fridge even when it’s right in front of him, doesn’t show up until months into the relationship. Trust me.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I’m dating a person. I can assure you, Sheri is very much a woman,” he said. “Boy howdy, is she.” The tips of his ears turned red and I felt my gag reflex kick in.

  “Dad, first ew,” I said. “And second, a person’s representative is their best self. After two weeks, you haven’t seen the real Sheri yet. The real Sheri is hiding behind the twenty-four/seven perfect hair and makeup, the placid temper, the woman who thinks your dad jokes are funny. They’re not.”

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen her without makeup. She’s still beautiful. And she does have a temper, just drive with her sometime. I’ve learned some new words. Very educational. And my dad jokes are, too, funny.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was going to have to do some tough love here. I was going to have to be blunt.

  “Dad, I hate to be rude, but you’re giving me no choice. She’s probably only marrying you for your money,” I said. I felt like a horrible person for pointing it out, but he needed protection from gold diggers like Sheri. It was a kindness, really.

  To my surprise, he actually laughed. “Sheri is more well off than I am by quite a lot. I’m the charity case in this relationship.”

  “Then why on earth does she want to marry you?” I asked.

  The words flew out before I had the brains to stifle them. It was a nasty thing to say. I knew that, but I was freaked out and frantic and not processing very well.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I began but he cut me off.

  “Yes, you did.”

  He stood, retrieving his coat from a nearby coatrack. As he shrugged into it, the look of hurt on his face made my stomach ache. I loved my father. I wouldn’t inflict pain upon him for anything, and yet, I had. I’d hurt him very much.

  “You did mean it and, sadly, I’m not even surprised. I mistakenly hoped you could find it in your heart to be happy for me,” he said. “I have mourned the loss of your mother every day since she passed and I will mourn her every day for the rest of my life, but I have found someone who makes me happy and I want to spend my life with her. That doesn’t take away what I had with your mother.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I argued. How could he not see that by replacing my mother he was absolutely diminishing what they’d had? “Sheri’s going to take your name, isn’t she? And she’s going to move into our house, right? So, everything that was once Mom’s—the title of Mrs. Glen Martin and the house where she loved and raised her family—you’re just giving to another woman. The next thing I know you’ll tell me I have to call her Mom.”

  A guilty expression flitted across his face.

  “No,” I snapped. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m not saying you have to call her that, it’s just Sheri’s never had a family of her own and she me
ntioned in passing how much she was looking forward to having daughters. It would be nice if you could think about how good it would be to have a mother figure in your life again.”

  “I am not her daughter, and I never will be,” I said. My chest was heaving with outrage. “How can you even pretend that all of that isn’t erasing Mom?”

  Dad stared down at me with his head to the side and the right eyebrow arched, a double whammy of parental disappointment. He wrapped his scarf about his neck and pulled on his gloves.

  “Listen, I don’t know if Sheri will take my name. We haven’t talked about it,” he said. “As for the house, I am planning to sell it so we can start our life together somewhere new.”

  I sucked in a breath. My childhood home. Gone? Sold? To strangers? I thought I might throw up. Instead, I polished off one of the mimosas.

  “Sheri and I are getting married in three months,” he said. “We’re planning a nice June wedding and we very much want you to be a part of it.”

  “As a flower girl?” I scoffed. “Whose crazy idea was that?”

  “It was Sheri’s,” he said. His mouth tightened. “She’s never been married before and she’s a little excited. It’s actually quite lovely to see.”

  “A thirty-year-old flower girl,” I repeated. I was like a dog with a bone. I just couldn’t let it go.

  “All right, I get it. Come as anything you want, then,” he said. “You can give me away, be my best man, be a bridesmaid, or officiate the damn thing. I don’t care. I just want you there. It would mean everything to Sheri and me to have your blessing.”

  I stared at him. The mild-mannered Harvard math professor who had taught me to throw a curveball, ride a bike and knee a boy in the junk if he got too fresh had never looked so determined. He meant it. He was going to marry Sheri Armstrong and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “I don’t think I can be a part of . . . this.” I couldn’t even make myself say the word “wedding.”