by Karin Cook
Elizabeth crunched her nose at his breath every time he brought his face in close. For a moment, she caught my eye and rolled hers way back inside of her head. Neither of us were listening. We had already made our decision. I crossed my eyes inward toward my nose. She peeled her lids up and folded them back against themselves in the way we were always told not to. We alternated giggling under the guise of coughing fits and finally exploded in a fit of laughter. Uncle Rand stood up from the bed, suddenly out of place in the face of our hysteria. He picked up his wineglass and walked down the hall.
“He drinks too much,” Elizabeth said.
I waited for her to say more and when she didn’t, I grew private. It was difficult for me to separate the part that was his from the part that was mine. There had only been that one time, but every time he looked at me, I felt the buzz of a secret.
We were quiet for a long time, the sound of the water in the bathroom sink and his toothbrush filling the silence. After he had finally turned to bed, Elizabeth whispered, “You should tell Mama.”
I pretended to be asleep and didn’t answer her. That night, Elizabeth stayed with me, the two of us curling silently against the sounds of Uncle Rand in his room.
The next morning, Mama kept us out of school. She woke us each with a glass of juice and the promise of a day at the mall so that we could get something to wear for the wedding. Going to the mall with a parent was not normally done with pleasure, but on this day, knowing that our peers were stuffed behind desks, the freedom seemed worth celebrating. We abandoned mall protocol easily, allowing Mama to consult with us in public and agreeing to be seen in the discount stores. Every forty minutes, Elizabeth called out the subject she was supposed to be doing in school.
Mama settled on a cream-colored suit with a high collar that she found on sale at Filene’s. She suggested that we get sundresses, but Elizabeth already had her hopes set on a prom gown from Macy’s. It was that time of year, the high school juniors and seniors were ordering corsages and reserving limos through TransAlt. Lainey was already booked to do hair and makeup for fifteen girls. The prom seemed more like a wedding than what Mama and Nick were planning.
Elizabeth wanted us to look like real bridesmaids and felt that the prom department held the most promise. There were floor-length gowns in taffeta and lace with gloves and matching pocketbooks. Even Mama got swept up in our enthusiasm, bringing dresses to our fitting room. She selected two made from a magenta taffeta with the faint outline of roses etched in a shiny thread. I chose the sleeveless one with a ruffle over the shoulder. With my short dark hair, it made my neck look long and almost elegant. Mama stepped back and exclaimed that I looked just like Audrey Hepburn. Elizabeth’s choice was fuller, like Princess Diana’s dress, with puffed sleeves and a bow in the back. She wrapped her hair on top of her head and spun herself around. Both dresses were a bit too large and would have to be taken in by Mrs. Teuffel before we could wear them.
Elizabeth was determined to have the right accessories. She found earrings made of false pearls that were fastened to wire and splayed across our ears, like baby’s breath. We tried on identical white pumps that would have to be dyed to match the dresses. The pumps pinched my toes tightly together and made my step shaky.
“I hate those kind of shoes,” Mama said, “they feel like walking on pencils.”
But Elizabeth wanted a pair anyway. She liked the way the skinny spike pushed her up, out of her step, lengthening her legs and straightening her back.
Mama didn’t reject any of our choices. She paid for it all with a credit card, which was not her usual way; the saleswoman had to show her where to sign her name.
We were unaccustomed to this kind of splurge. “Are you sure?” I asked with each purchase.
“I want you to have it if you want it,” Mama said.
I hung the dresses on the hooks at each side of the car. The backseat was cluttered with shopping bags. I imagined that we were packed for a trip. It was the way I felt each time we’d moved. That I had everything I’d ever need right there with me. That we were safe within the enclosure of the car. And that if we had to, we could just keep going.
The weeks leading up to the wedding went quickly, the entire yard turning from the pale pastels of spring to a rich, lush green by the time school was out at the end of June. The morning of the wedding, the TransAlt guys spilled over into the yard. They spoke loudly, shouting to one another the way they normally did over engines or out windows. A few men arrived with cases of empty beer cans which Jamie Sanders strung together to hang from the back of the limo. Three others made up the band and busied themselves running amp lines and extension chords. In the kitchen, Uncle Rand and Lainey worked side by side, chopping vegetables for crudités and arranging them on platters.
Nick had chosen Jamie to stand by him as his best man. Uncle Rand had been asked first, of course, but declined, claiming that his catering responsibilities would take up too much time. He offered to be an usher instead. I could tell that Jamie was taking his job as best man quite seriously. It was probably the most important thing he had ever been asked to do. He spray-painted a giant sign, hung it from the garage, and organized the bachelor’s party down by Breyer’s Pond the previous weekend.
Elizabeth became the attendant, hiding Mama away on the second floor, fussing over her nails and foundation makeup. She was adamant that no one should see Mama on the day of her wedding. She planned to do all the makeup herself. My room was named the official bridal headquarters because of the outside access. I had to clean up, moving my stuffed animals and stacks of magazines out of the way. My corkboard was filled with advertisements for Impulse body spray—the one where a stranger suddenly gives you flowers—and fortunes that I’d collected from when we’d gone out for Chinese food. Mama was dressed in her bathrobe, seated with her back to the door. Her head was wrapped high in a towel, as if she had hair.
“Don’t come over here,” Elizabeth shouted at me when I entered. Q-Tips and cotton balls littered the floor. Lainey’s makeup was strewn all over the room. Elizabeth had eyeshadow applicators between her clenched teeth and stored behind her ears. I could tell that she had been at it for a while. She had taken my mirror off the wall. The whole room smelled like the inside of a purse.
“Maybe we should have Lainey come take a look,” Mama said, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m not ready yet,” Elizabeth said.
“Can I see?” I asked.
Mama straightened. “Tilden will be a good judge.”
She was desperate, I knew. I had never worn a stitch of makeup. Elizabeth gently spun Mama around in the chair. She looked as if she had been beaten up. Deep purple shadow arched high into her brows. A yellow-green hue marked the crease. Elizabeth had reversed the dark to light rule for eyeshadow, had wanted to include too many colors. I was just about to speak when I felt Lainey over my shoulder.
“Good instincts, Elizabeth,” she cooed as she brushed by me. “Very dramatic. Let’s see if we can’t lighten it up a bit. What you have created would be just fine for evening wear, but for daytime I think we should come down a notch. What do you think?”
Lainey worked away at Mama’s eyes, removing most of Elizabeth’s efforts without saying so. Even Elizabeth looked relieved. When it came time for Mama to dress, no one seemed quite sure what to do. Lainey excused herself, explaining that she, too, needed to change. I bent to the floor, sweeping up Q-Tips. Elizabeth gathered the stray cotton balls together with her toe. I could hear Mama moving into her suit—her labored breathing, the frustration of the lining caught high around her. She needed help with the buttons in back. She was not wearing a bra. I must have stopped buttoning when I saw the gap in her dress.
“Do you think I need something?” she asked, taking me into her confidence in a way that made me feel grown up.
“Probably,” I said.
She sent me down to her room to get a bra from her dresser. I scavenged through the top drawer. Co
nfronted with underwire and padded, strapless and lace, I wasn’t sure which style to bring her. I scooped them all into my arms, marched back to the bridal headquarters, and dropped them in Mama’s lap. She picked quickly through the collection, dividing the bras into piles of functional and pretty. She chose a padded bra for herself out of the functional pile and held the lacier, more fragile incarnations from the pretty pile out to me. “You can have these if you want them,” she whispered.
When Elizabeth wasn’t looking, I slipped the bras into my dresser.
Lainey returned wearing a pale linen dress with her hair teased so thin and blond, it looked like the yellow light of a halo. She had Ivy and Samantha Shaptaw in tow. Ivy had shoved rolls of film in every pocket of her beige pants suit. She clicked away from the moment she got to the door. Capturing, she called it. She wanted to capture everything.
“Wait,” Mama demanded, frantically feeling the top of her head, “just wait one moment.”
We all cleared out so that Mama could put her wig in place. No one said a word in the hall. We were uncomfortable, shifting weight from one foot to another, bumping shoulders and biting nails, in our attempts to pass the time. When Mama opened the door, the sound of our voices filled the room and Ivy resumed taking pictures.
“Let me just do candids for now,” she said. “Just keep on as you were. I want to capture your natural interactions.”
Mama seemed able to forget the camera as she stood by the window, the light illuminating her gown and frosted eyelids; her profile and posture signified elegance and calm as she watched after Nick in the yard. As she bent to fasten the clasp on her sandals, new color rushed to her cheeks.
Lainey gathered us around Mama. She had a presentation to make and hoped Mama would like it, that she wouldn’t be upset with her for taking any liberties. She brought out a large box. Mama opened it carefully, pushing the tissue paper off to the side. She lifted out a bridal headpiece made of pearls and rhinestones. Gathered at the top was a veil and underneath a loop of Mama’s old hair, tucked up on itself, in a style straight off the cover of that month’s Brides magazine.
“You’ve gotten more mileage out of that ponytail than I ever did when it was on me,” Mama said. She settled the bridal crown on her head and gave me a quick side glance. I knew that she hated it, she’d always found jeweled items too garish, but she softened when she saw how excited Elizabeth was to have this one emblem of tradition. Suddenly, I realized that this day had never been for Mama. The dress, the ceremony, Grandma’s pearls—all of it was for us, her daughters.
Ivy and Samantha filed downstairs so that we could get dressed. It took Elizabeth longer; she had borrowed a slip and crinoline from Lainey in her attempt to look like a princess. I watched out the window while Lainey dusted my cheeks with blusher and attached some baby’s breath to the back of my head with a bobby pin. I sucked my stomach in and held it as Lainey spun me toward the mirror. The taffeta was cool against my skin. I barely recognized myself; I seemed taller and bustier. Like a girl.
Downstairs, the guests were clumped together on the lawn, the neighbors standing in the same order as their homes on a grid. Keith Rogers made sweeping gestures with his arm, indicating his work and hoping for referrals. It had been his idea to cut the grass shorter down the center of the yard to make for a natural aisle. Off to the side, I saw Samantha talking to Jamie Sanders. They were standing inches from each other and she was flicking something off of his collar. Their interactions were easy. Ivy was snapping pictures. It was possible to imagine them as a couple at the prom. And beyond that even someday at their own wedding. It caused me to see, for the first time, the potential for betrayal.
Mrs. Teuffel was involved in heavy discourse with Larry, the lead singer of the TransAlt band. She was holding a recording of the wedding march that Elizabeth had practiced on her piano and then taped. She held the cassette high in the air and offered instructions as to when to hit PLAY. Somehow with Mrs. Teuffel, you always knew exactly what she was saying without having to hear her. She gestured toward the microphone, indicating the exact positioning of the tape recorder.
The deacon had arrived and was standing at the altar, pivoting in place and clearing his throat. He wore a tie instead of a collar. It took a moment for the guests to realize that he was calling them to order. Elizabeth and I stood at the top of the outdoor staircase, waiting for the music to begin. We had rehearsed the choreography the day before, attempting to find ways for us to be represented equally beside Mama. Larry pressed PLAY, beginning Elizabeth’s tentative piano march, and we walked side by side down the steps, into the yard.
In the excitement, Mrs. Teuffel got bossy and encouraged us to proceed down the aisle, going against our original plan by placing Jamie next to Elizabeth and leaving me to march next to Uncle Rand. I looked to Elizabeth for help in challenging this new format, but she seemed to take well to the order. She stepped off to the beat of the march, dragging Jamie alongside her. Uncle Rand extended his elbow and I rested my fingers on the crook of his arm. He must have sensed my resistance to touch him. He held his bent arm out to the side in a neutral zone between his body and mine. Nick was waiting for us at the altar, smiling brightly. When they reached him, Jamie and Uncle Rand switched places, moving around each other in what looked like a dance until Uncle Rand stepped away from the altar.
The march intensified and Mrs. Teuffel signaled for Mama to make her way down the steps. She held the railing in one hand, stepping carefully, a bouquet of lilies and ivy dangling in the other. By the time she reached the grass aisle, tissues were circulating. At the altar, Elizabeth and I fanned out next to Mama, who had taken Nick’s hand before being instructed to do so.
The deacon leaned forward to be seen between them and spoke loudly about existing in the present moment and living each day to the fullest. Mama and Nick exchanged the vows they had written for each other.
“You have brought me the kind of joy and love that will change my life forever,” Nick said to Mama and then looked at us and added, “all of you.”
Mama spoke quietly, her words faint and interrupted by emotion. “I have never met such a loving and compassionate man,” she said. “I know that now my family is whole.”
When the deacon pronounced them husband and wife, they kissed passionately, which made me look away, embarrassed. In a surprise move, the band bypassed the wedding cassette and belted out one of Nick’s favorite songs. Ivy Shaptaw clicked away on her camera as we moved down the aisle. The lead singer wailed: You took the words right out of my mouth. It must have been while you were kissing me. I swear it’s true I was just about to say I love you.
Uncle Rand and Lainey set up a festive backyard reception complete with helium balloons in TransAlt’s colors. There were maroon and green tablecloths too, with the food displayed buffet style on picnic tables opposite the band. Predictably, Nick’s mother sent floral centerpieces. Maybe having manners isn’t really enough. Mostly, it was the men who got up to say a few words, some holding the mike in two hands as if they’d waited forever to have their voices amplified.
When the band resumed for its final set, Samantha and Jamie switched off singing the chorus to “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” while Mama and Nick slow-danced. Elizabeth danced wildly up near the band with Keith Rogers. Uncle Rand stood off to the side, tapping his foot. When Lainey noticed him, she danced over to where he was, moving her shoulders and hips to the music in a small circle around him. They looked at each other slyly, with side glances.
Ivy brought over a piece of cake and sat down beside me. Together we watched Mama on the dance floor. She looked frail, her neck thin, her step cautious. Before I could stop myself, I was crying, my face pressed against Ivy’s shoulder in an awkward hug, with her camera jutting between us.
“I know,” Ivy said, running her hand over my head, “I know.”
PART V
INDEPENDENCE
A few days after the wedding, Mama began to cough—first as if she
had a tickle in her throat, then with a terrible gasping that made her back curl up like a choking cat. It seemed to get worse at night. From my bed, I could hear her hacking echo throughout the house. Talking tired her and within a week she could no longer hold a conversation without exploding into a coughing fit. Elizabeth and I tested her anyway, vying for her words, making her eke out one syllable answers to our questions about the insignificant details of our daily lives. How much water exactly did she put in the oatmeal? What precisely were her objections to pierced ears? Could we go to the big camp-out on Dove Island?
This last question, from Elizabeth, wasn’t really fair. Under normal circumstances, Mama would never have consented to our attending such an event. But, unbelievably she said we could go.
“Take it easy,” Nick warned us, “she’s still a bit under the weather, you know.”
I hated when he told us to leave Mama alone, as if he knew her better. No matter how teasing or gentle his voice, his suggestions about how to act with Mama always made me feel small.
By the Fourth of July, Mama had to check back into the hospital to have some fluid drained from her lungs. Pleurisy, Nick called it this time. When he told me the news, he said she’d be home within a day. I turned my back to him and walked outside. It was Nick’s way to announce bad news coupled with something positive as if it were really good news. I wished he would just say it outright. Mostly, I was tired of Mama being sick.
I found Jamie in the usual spot, behind the TransAlt office in a dirt patch he’d set up to do repairs. He was bent over between the hood and the engine. It looked as if he were about to be swallowed up, his oil-stained Levi’s hanging outside the mouth of the car. His shirt was stretched upward revealing the taut skin at his waist. I had to say hello twice before he heard me.