There would be no mere twenty-minute service for us. By the time we’d finished all the arrangements, the ceremony was over an hour long.
Two weeks before the big day, Paul got another idea. “Hey, since we both sing, how about singing to each other during the wedding?”
“Um, in case you didn’t know, I’m a crybaby at weddings. Not so excited about bawling through my own.”
“You wouldn’t cry.”
“Yes, I would. I’d start singing, look into your eyes, get overwhelmed by your love, choke up, and wail my way through the rest of the song.”
Paul laughed. “You’re crazy — you’d be fine.”
“Nope. I know myself.”
“Then how about we record the song and play it during the wedding.”
I liked the idea. I smiled to think there would be one more unique aspect to our ceremony.
Unique aspect. At that moment, I had no idea just how unique my wedding was going to be. I thought the worst thing to happen would be me crying through a song.
I was wrong.
Oh, was I wrong.
****
The Wednesday before our wedding, I crawled into bed exhausted. I snuggled down under the light cotton spread and felt a strange twinge in my stomach. I turned on my side and tried to get comfortable. The twinge grew into a cramp. My head ached too, and I reached up and felt my forehead. It was warm.
I fell into a restless sleep only to jerk awake a few hours later. I checked my clock and saw it was two in the morning. My throat felt tight, and my stomach was doing gymnastics. I was surprised its gurgling hadn’t alarmed the entire family. I lay completely still willing the nausea away.
It didn’t go away. I tossed and stewed the rest of the night. When I got up the next morning, I shuffled my way to the bathroom. I was in there a long time and when I came out Mom was waiting for me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked and the alarm in her voice made my head feel worse.
I fell onto a chair, and she came to feel my warm forehead.
“Have mercy,” she cried. “You’re sick.”
“Thanks for the bulletin.”
“Not to worry, you have three days until the wedding. It’ll be all right.”
But I saw worry scrunch her face into wrinkles. She wasn’t convinced and neither was I.
We forged ahead with the preparations. Colleen and Melinda came and stayed at Aunt Doris’ house. They pitched in with whatever needed to be done and clucked with pity as they watched me walk around bent double, looking I’m sure more like I was preparing for my funeral instead of my wedding. I’d heard about the power of positive thought, so I repeated I am well — I feel great so many times I think the words tattooed themselves onto the living room walls.
Paul watched me, concern and worry evident in every feature on his face.
“I’ll be fine. I’m feeling better already,” I told him more than once. Lies, all lies.
The day before the wedding, our guitarist’s wife came to my house. “Strip down,” she told me, rolling up her sleeves.
“Excuse me?” I questioned.
“Strip down, honey, I’m giving you a massage.” She craned her head, looking around. “Where can we do this?”
Dropping my drawers for some stranger wasn’t in my pre-wedding plans, but I wasn’t given much choice.
“Chop, chop,” she said. She poked her head into my parents’ room, which opened from the living room. “In here. Let’s do this.”
I hadn’t moved. She took three long steps across the room, grabbed my hand, pulled me off the couch, and shoved me into the bedroom.
“I know what I’m doing. You’re sick, right? All I have to do is massage the pressure points and you’ll be good as new.” She threw a small bag onto the bed and started digging in it. She pulled out a tube of lotion and before she even opened it, I could smell almonds.
She did seem to know what she was doing, so I decided to give it a whirl. I couldn’t feel worse. I dropped my clothes, keeping on my underwear, and climbed onto the bed.
She wasn’t a very big person, but when she leaned into me with her massive boxing hands, I cried out.
“No pain, no gain,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Don’t be a weenie. You’ll thank me for this.”
She gripped and rubbed and slapped and I think even pinched. She got one thing right. I was distracted from my cramping stomach. My mind had flown to my aching limbs.
“A bit more and we’re done. Flip over and I’ll get the other side.”
I flipped.
She rubbed the fronts of my legs and then grabbed a foot, digging her thumbs into my sole.
I gasped. “That hurts!”
“No pain, no gain,” she repeated.
When she finished, I lay like a limp balloon. She tossed her lotion back into her bag and zipped it up. “There you go. You’ll be fine now. See you at the wedding.”
And she was gone.
I felt like something a tractor had pulled down the road. Every inch of my body wept. I heard Paul arrive. I managed to pull a blanket over myself before he peered into the bedroom.
“Brenda? You okay?”
“Peachy,” I mumbled. My hand gave a wimpy wave in his direction then fell to the bed with a thud.
Despite the masseuse’s best efforts, I still felt like crap. Every hour, I expected to feel better, and every hour I was disappointed. My anxiety grew.
“You can’t be sick forever,” my mother, in her vast wisdom, told me.
On Saturday, our wedding day, my stomach had notched down from cramping to extreme nausea. This was progress. Maybe I’d make it through the ceremony after all.
Our church didn’t have a luxurious bridal suite. It had a basement. Mom fastened me into my wedding dress. Melinda fussed with my hair and veil and Colleen stood there grinning at all of us. Finally, I shooed the two of them upstairs to man the guest book. I slipped on my shoes, and collapsed onto the nearest folding chair.
“You okay?” one of my feeling-completely-well sisters asked.
“Except for a huge stomach ache, I’m wonderful.”
My second-to-youngest sister approached me with a bag of makeup. “I’m gonna put a bit more blush on you. I think it’ll wipe the zombie look off your face.”
I rolled my eyes, but didn’t want to waste energy arguing. I jutted my face forward, and she painted on me a bit. She stood back and surveyed her artwork. “Yeah, you do look better. And you’re welcome.”
“I know what to do.” Mom snapped her fingers and looked at me. “Peel off your nylons.”
“What?”
“The pressure from the waistband is probably making your stomach hurt. Peel them off. I’ll give you my knee-hi’s.”
She’d gone bonkers. Evidently, it devastated Mom to have her daughter sick on her wedding day, so she was grasping at whatever she could.
I sighed. The waistband was digging into my tummy. I stood and pulled my pantyhose off. “Here.” I held them out.
Mom reached under her long skirt and bared her own legs. “Here back,” she said, handing me her knee-hi’s.
I sank onto the chair and put them on. “Hey, that did help.”
“So you’re all better?” The look of hope in Mom’s eyes made me realize how much I loved her.
“All better,” I lied.
I gauged how long I could make it standing up during the ceremony. What were Paul and I thinking to drag the service out to over an hour? We must’ve been nuts.
Thank the Lord I hadn’t agreed to sing live — our recording could now blast out with no effort from me.
Bowing to superstition, Paul hadn’t seen me all day. He was waiting until I came down the aisle for his first glance. However, he kept sending messengers down to the basement to check on me, and I kept sending them back up saying I was fine, although I was pretty sure he wasn’t fooled.
I climbed the steps to make my entrance. Dad waited for me in the vestibule with a panicked look on hi
s face. I gave him my best smile, and his shoulders lowered an inch. Before being ushered in, Mom bustled around us, fussing and straightening and primping. She kept looking into my eyes as if searching for lost treasure. I nodded each time, doing my best to reassure her all was well.
But all was not well. I mentally calculated the seconds until I could sit down again.
The bridal march began, and Dad and I stepped into the sanctuary. Everyone rose. My gaze flew to Paul. I saw the look of pure love and anticipation on his face, and my stomachache retreated. I’d been so preoccupied with the flu I’d lost sight of what was really happening. I was marrying my best friend, a man who cherished me.
Paul’s smile encompassed me and I wanted to run down the aisle to him, but I dutifully walked the step, close, step, close pattern I’d practiced.
Dad gave me away with the words, Her mother and I, and I joined Paul at the altar. The pastors, yes, we had two — Paul’s father and my minister — began.
And so did the ache in my stomach. By the time we kneeled for prayer, I was fighting back dry heaves.
“Leave,” Paul whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“I’m not leaving in the middle of my wedding,” I snapped. My happy mood evaporated, leaving only the pain in my stomach.
The dry heaves continued, and sweat broke out all over my body. I didn’t know how long I could stay, but what would it look like if I ran out of my own wedding? Paul gripped my hand like there was no tomorrow.
The next dry heave shook my body, and I knew the heaving wasn’t going to be dry anymore. I was going to throw-up right there and then. I stood quickly and headed to the nearest exit. My pastor could see I was going to be sick. He was visiting and didn’t know the church’s layout, so he must have thought I was headed the wrong way. He grabbed at me and tried to shove me to the left. I desperately fought against him, feeling the vomit come up.
Hand over my mouth, I pushed against him one final time to get to the exit. The back of my dress pulled against my waist. He’d stepped on my train. I couldn’t wait. I pulled harder, heard a resounding rip, and knew my dress was torn. I broke free and ran out the door to the back staircase. It was coming!
I leaned way over, hoping to miss my dress, and the vomit erupted. I stood on the steps, drenched in feverish sweat, and the tears started. Two church women were at the ready, running toward me with paper towels.
From the sanctuary, I heard the flautist start to play. Paul rushed to join me.
“Brenda, are you all right?” He put his arm around me and led me down the rest of the stairs.
A minute later, the best man ushered my mother up and over the platform and out into the dark cove where we all stood.
Mother hurried to my side. “Let’s get her seated.”
A church lady rolled an office chair across the patch of tile and I fell onto it.
“I threw up at my own wedding.” The enormity hit me and my tears came faster.
Paul was on his knees next to me. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, no one cares.”
“I care!” A horrifying thought grabbed me and I clutched Paul’s arm. “Do they think I changed my mind? Do they think I ran out on you?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything.”
There is always a window of time right after vomiting when a person feels better. I was in that window. I looked down at the front of my dress. I’d missed. It was clean.
“I’m ready. Let’s do this.” I stood up and felt a small surge of energy.
Paul went out first, and I heard him say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Brenda has been sick this past week. She wanted to make sure you knew she wasn’t running out on me…”
Laughter. I exhaled and my muscles relaxed.
“She’s feeling better now, so we’ll continue.”
The best man re-ushered my mother out to her spot. Paul came back to escort me. He offered his arm and I slipped my hand through it. He sidled up to me, and kissed my cheek.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispered.
I looked at him in surprise. “For puking in the middle of our wedding?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “For holding your head high and walking back out there.”
The warmth of his love comforted me like a good snuggle in Grandma’s spare bed. I shook my head in wonder. “You’re amazing.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed, and we both burst into laughter.
We walked out onto the platform and the crowd sprang to their feet in a long, raucous applause. I grinned and knew I’d never again have such a remarkable ovation. Paul led me to the altar rail and seated me there for the rest of the ceremony. With the vomit intermission, our wedding had lasted well over an hour. I wept with relief when the minister had us stand and face the audience.
“Friends, let me be the first to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Maxfield.”
The organ belted out the recessional, and again there was an eruption of applause. I leaned heavily on Paul’s arm, and we marched down the aisle.
Well wishers quickly surrounded us. Someone found a tall kitchen stool and scooted it under me. We were flooded with advice, banter, and the promise that someday we’d laugh about the whole thing.
I doubted it.
One comment stuck out. It was made by one of my dad’s police buddies. He took my arm in a firm grip and said, “I’ve been to lots of weddings — hundreds in fact. But I’ve never been to one where the love and friendship between the bride and groom was so strong. You two are going to make it.”
I beamed and nodded in agreement.
You two are going to make it.
And he was right. They were magical words then, and now thirty-five years later, they still vibrate with magic.
Read more by Brenda Maxfield:
The Lance Temptation (Book One of the Edgemont Series) Sophomore Emili Jones has had it with being a boring, straight-A student. Itching for excitement, she sees plenty of it in classmate Farah Menin's life of frequent dates and edgy adventure. Hoping the popularity will rub off, Emili latches onto Farah and manipulates herself into best friend status. The connection helps her land the hot new guy, Lance Jankins, but there's a catch. Now a pawn in Farah's dating games, Emili is on a crash course to betrayal. Will she realize it in time to save herself? www.brendamaxfield.com
Along Came Jordan (Book Two of The Edgemont Series) When it comes to love, sophomore Emili Jones is famous for brainless decisions. At her new school, she falls for Jordan Lawman but stuffs down her feelings, believing they can only lead to pain. When Laine Meadow, the reigning social queen, sets her sights on Jordan and senses competition in Emili, war is declared.
On top of Laine’s jealous torment, Emili struggles to help her little sister who suffers from selective mutism and will speak only to Emili. Her mother’s suspicious behavior and her father’s job loss add to the turmoil. Can Emili save them all while learning to love again? www.brendamaxfield.com
Farah’s Deadline (Book Three of The Edgemont Series) Sassy, strong-willed, and pregnant, Farah Menins plans to be married at sixteen after her dad dumps her in a “special home” to be rid of her. Trapped in a place full of rules, Farah refuses to admit defeat — not when marriage would give her an out.
Farah’s roommate Lizbet hides her own painful secrets, and together, they forge an unlikely friendship when Farah sneaks off to confront her baby’s father. A dead baby, a mystery brother, and a house fire threaten to derail Farah’s plans. The confusion is compounded when Lizbet’s brother shows interest in her. With time running out, will Farah be able to salvage any of her dream? www.brendamaxfield.com
Table of Contents
Someday You’ll Laugh
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Read more by Brenda Maxfield:
Brenda Maxfield, Someday You'll Laugh
Someday You'll Laugh Page 8