“Let’s just focus,” Catherine said, not wanting to bring any more attention to the language in question by repeating it. “I need a dress—we all need dresses—pronto.”
“So does Drew, but she didn’t have to come. Why’d she get a pass?” Tara demanded.
“Get knocked up and live outside the tri-state area and maybe you can get a pass too,” Catherine said darkly.
Georgia looked up from her phone. “There are a couple more places up ahead.”
“Are you using some kind of wedding app?” Tara snickered.
Georgia ignored her.
“That is so lame. Are you serious?”
“Then what’s your plan? To hit J.C. Penney?” Georgia chortled.
“Why not? They have wedding dresses.”
“Yoo-hoo! Bride here!” Catherine waved her arms enthusiastically. “I think that this decision is up to me.”
“And?” they both answered in unison over the sound of Cara skipping around them in circles singing, “Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo,” over and over.
“And first I want to thank you, Tara, for getting our flower girl a cupcake—next time we can just get her some speed.”
“What’s speed?” Cara asked, stopping short.
“It’s—”
“Don’t, Tara. You’ve done enough,” Catherine commanded, although she was the one who’d stepped in it this time, thinking that a child in the throes of a sugar rush was rendered deaf. “It’s nothing, sweetie, do you have to use the bathroom? Need a drink?” Want a pony? Anything to make the speed go away before Cara saw Fynn or her mom again.
“You know, speaking of dresses,” Tara offered, “now that Drew’s all preggo, shouldn’t we be trying on bridesmaid dresses with those fake pregnancy bellies so we can be sure she won’t look ridiculous?”
Catherine glanced at Georgia and saw the slightest glimmer of consideration in her eyes and wondered if everyone else in the world right now was crazy or if it was just them.
-41-
“Where did you girls go today?” William asked.
“We went everywhere.” Cara rolled her eyes. “I’ve never seen so many dresses before. And I tried on the veils but then the lady made me stop and there were vermin so we had to leave….” She spoke like a trip-hammer.
Catherine grabbed a plate and started dishing up assembly-style, snaking in front of her mother who was carrying Cara’s plate through the line in front of the stove—some people hadn’t had cupcakes mid-day and were starving now.
“Vermin? Where did you go? To the wild, wild west?” her mother chuckled.
“We went to New York Shitty.”
“Excuse me?” Elizabeth Hemmings almost dropped Cara’s plate.
“Where are the veggies?” Catherine asked, trying to deflect attention. She didn’t know if it was an honest five-year-old slipup or if somewhere along the way she’d started channeling her grandfather who called it The Big Shitty. Either way it wasn’t something she wanted to get into—all she wanted to get into at this moment was the hotdog on her plate.
“I didn’t make any,” her mother said plainly.
“No peas? Or carrots? Or the mixed bag?” Catherine asked in shock.
“With hotdogs?” Cara twitched her nose distastefully.
“There are sliced tomatoes on the table,” Elizabeth said. “Have them or not.”
“Have them or not?” she exclaimed.
“Move along Catherine; you’re holding up the line.”
“Is this boxed mac and cheese?” she asked, holding the serving spoon poised over the full pot, bewildered.
“Yes. Cara said that’s her favorite.”
“I’ve always said that I love blue-box mac and cheese and you never—are you really my mother?” She turned, searching for the telltale signs where the Elizabeth Hemmings mask ended and the imposter began.
“Stop being ridiculous and dish up. We would all like to eat this year.”
“I know I would,” her father seconded, bringing up the rear of the line.
Catherine wondered what alternate universe she had landed in. Elizabeth Hemmings made homemade mac and cheese and always served cooked vegetables with a meal—whether roasted chicken or hotdogs.
She sat down at the table next to Cara, turning and whispering, “This is not the same mother I grew up with. I think she’s an alien.”
Cara giggled.
“So, what’s your poison? Are you a mustard-and-ketchup gal? Or an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink kid?” Catherine asked, liberally applying condiments to her own dog.
“I like mustard. But not that mustard,” Cara noted, pointing at the Gulden’s Spicy Brown poised in Catherine’s hand and wearing an eew look on her face.
“I have some yellow mustard in the pantry, Catherine,” her mother directed.
The woman buys mustard she has never served in this house in her life, but she couldn’t serve me pickles last night when I have always eaten them on my—
“So, did you girls find dresses?” Elizabeth asked, sitting down at the table and unfolding her paper napkin to place it properly in her lap. Cara quickly followed suit, and Catherine, who was a tucker—under the edge of the plate just like her father—watched in awe. This little girl was going to be all jacked up by the time they left Chesterton.
“We found lots of dresses,” Cara pointed out.
“Did you buy any of these dresses?” Elizabeth asked with a smirk.
Cara shook her head forcefully.
“Actually, I was wondering if maybe you could help me find a flower girl dress for Cara,” Catherine said carefully, wanting to take the focus off her own dress issues. “The dresses were all just too busy and ornate and mature. I was thinking something long and simple; maybe with a ribbon that wraps around at a princess waist.”
“I think we can figure something out,” Elizabeth said, watching Cara busily stringing macaroni on the tines of her fork. “Maybe we could go pick out some fabric and make something.”
“That sounds perfect.” Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother had experience in this realm—two flower girl dresses back in the day and countless princess costumes for Halloween.
“What color is the bridal party going to be wearing?”
“That isn’t quite settled yet.”
“You have that beautiful purple accent on the invitations…. That would be a lovely rich winter color for the bridesmaids.”
“You know… you’re right, Mom,” she said dreamily, suddenly picturing it so easily.
“Have you given any thought to having Lacey in your wedding party?”
Oh my God, she’s diabolical! All the goodwill suddenly made sense. Elizabeth Hemmings was dangling a handmade flower girl dress in front of her and being so helpful and kind and nonjudgmental… and I fell right into her trap.
“I already have my wedding party,” Catherine pointed out as gently as possible considering she did still need a dress for Cara from this woman.
“It’s only Georgia and Tara; you certainly have room for another.”
“And Drew,” she said a bit more forcefully, aggravated that her mother would disregard her favorite sister-in-law-to-be.
“And me!” Cara sang, holding her hotdog, still waiting for the mustard that Catherine was currently wringing in her hands.
“Fynn only has a best man and two ushers,” Catherine said practically.
“Then Connor can be an usher too; to balance it out.”
“Mother,” she warned.
“I’m just saying… you were in Lacey’s wedding party.”
“As an afterthought—a stand-in.”
“Well, you certainly didn’t make her feel welcome in the family. I’m not surprised that she didn’t actually pick you.”
Catherine stopped herself before she said, you didn’t like her either! As if that little fact would excuse her. Of course it wouldn’t, because Elizabeth Hemmings had always been cordial and polite no matter how she felt. And all that “not liking”
stuff was water under the bridge now anyway.
“Picking her would be a nice gesture,” her mother said simply, acting as if the ball was in her court to do with it what she wanted—as if Elizabeth Hemmings truly wouldn’t have a problem either way (which was certainly not the case).
She gave her mother a look of teenage proportions—the one that says you’re-completely-unfair-just-like-life-and-the-whole-universe-are-unfair. Yesterday came rushing to the surface. She’d seen Cara traipsing through the living room on the new wood floor and rushed in to pull her out and save her from her mother’s wrath, only to get in trouble herself for wearing shoes in there—a grown woman who had wiped her feet at the welcome mat! Sort of. Her mother said Cara wasn’t hurting anything by playing in there. Catherine was eighteen before she was allowed to even step foot in the living room but for holidays…. And then there was dinner last night—the tacos—
“The tacos again?” Elizabeth Hemmings challenged.
Catherine shook her head. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud.
“Really, Catherine, I told you I didn’t forget the pickles on purpose. Though I don’t know why you need them on tacos anyway,” her mother pointed out.
Just like her to use judgment to divert blame, she thought snarkily.
“You’re the only one who uses them,” Elizabeth Hemmings added with a shrug.
“Exactly!” Catherine announced in triumph, pointing her finger at her mother. She had her right where she wanted her—her mother didn’t care about the pickles… or her.
“You know how I feel about pointing.” Elizabeth Hemmings never shook a straight forefinger at anyone—it was at least as bad, if not worse, than the middle finger. In fact, in the Hemmings household the finger was the pointer finger. That had been nailed into her children’s heads well enough that when David G. introduced Catherine to the real finger in second grade, she was stupefied… and she gave that finger to everyone all day long. That very well was the defining moment of her life—the solitary confinement hallway punishment, the note home… it was all the beginning of her downfall.
Catherine dropped the offensive hand gesture at her side—her mother’s accusatory stare-down could make a criminal drop a loaded weapon.
“Now, what is your problem?” Elizabeth asked, finally willing to converse now that she was no longer being held at the tip of a pointer finger.
“Tacos, no pickles… served in the dining room? A summer meal in the winter? No lima beans or mixed veggies with hotdogs? Really, Mom, you’re slipping.”
“We have company.”
“It’s just me. You never do this for—”
“And Cara. I thought it would be fun for her… especially considering—” But Elizabeth stopped right there. No need to explain any further to her selfish daughter just why she might try to make Cara feel comfortable and welcome and part of something.
Sunday, January 30th
-42-
“Yo, Cat, can your mom watch Cara today?”
“Um….” Catherine fought to read the smeared numbers on the alarm clock above her head, her eyes trying to drift closed again.
“WAKE UP!” Tara screamed through the phone.
“Huh?”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Tara?” she choked out. “Where are you?”
“On the road, bitch. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Fifteen what?” Hours, she hoped.
“Minutes. Be dressed and ready. I’m not even stopping, so wear shoes you can run in. We’re on a mission. Peace out.”
Catherine propped herself up on an elbow and blinked at the phone in disbelief. The room was grainy with early morning light. Her room. In Chesterton, Pennsylvania. Her mind was reeling, gears not catching, her body stiff and sore from two nights too many sleeping on the floor. There were plenty of spare rooms and beds to go around, but Catherine had obliged Cara’s request for a “sleepover”.
She noted that her old Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag was empty, laid out perfectly straight on the floor. Cara had obviously been careful to “make it” after she got up—probably Gramma Lizzy’s teaching.
That was what Cara had taken to calling Catherine’s mom. Gramma, like her mommy used to call her own grandmother when she was little, and Lizzy because that was what she called her best friend Elizabeth back in Iowa. For her part, Elizabeth Hemmings hadn’t even batted an eye, accepting the nickname with willful abandon. And Catherine’s dad had suddenly become Pop-pop. Cara had thrown all her desire for the grandparents she’d never had straight onto them and they had heartily obliged.
But there was also the look Catherine had seen pass quickly over her mother’s face when she thought no one was looking. Deep sorrow that overtook her enchantment. Cara was just shy of Josephine’s age when everything had broken into a thousand tiny pieces and couldn’t be put back together again. And her brown hair and smile were so vividly reminiscent of Josey’s memory that it was almost heartbreaking. But Cara was a little girl in her own right, one who needed them all, for she too would come to know great sorrow.
Catherine got up and wandered down the hall toward the stairs, following the smells of coffee and French toast wafting up from the kitchen, making her whimper with delight.
“… And when I live with Fynn I get to have a dog too. Magnus will be my dog.” Cara’s little voice trilled happily through the house.
“Having a dog is a wonderful thing,” Elizabeth Hemmings agreed.
Says the woman who never allowed our dog in her house, Catherine chuckled to herself, trying to sidestep the creaky stairs.
“And my mommy says that I am going to have a big family… with cousins even,” she said happily. “I’ve never had any of those before.”
“That’s so exciting,” Elizabeth agreed, though Catherine could hear the slightest waver in her voice.
“And my friend Cat is going to be just like my mom. She is going to teach me stuff and take care of me. And Mom says I don’t have to worry one bit about anything because I am going to have so many people who love me that I won’t miss her at all,” Cara said plainly.
Catherine felt tears welling in her eyes and stopped where she was on the stairs, willing them away.
“Do you want cream in your coffee, Catherine?” her mother called out, proving her hearing was still shipshape.
She swiped at her eyes and descended the last of the stairs, sniffing discreetly before walking through the doorway into the kitchen. “Good morning.” She tried to sound as chipper as the lump in her throat would allow. “God, my contacts are really bothering me today,” she said, trying to explain away the redness and watering.
“One lump or two?” her mother asked, holding a spoonful of sugar in midair.
“One.”
“So what are you doing up so early?”
“Tara called and told me to get up and be ready to go somewhere.” She shrugged her shoulders and took the mug of coffee her mother handed her, walking around the table to sit next to Cara.
“Where?”
“She didn’t say. But considering it’s Tara, maybe it would be better if Cara didn’t come,” she said knowingly, a roundabout way to ask for a favor.
“I’m sure we can think of something to do here, huh, Cara?” Elizabeth prodded.
Cara nodded her head exuberantly, thrilled with the idea.
-43-
“I told you to be ready,” Tara snapped the moment Catherine opened the door to slip in the passenger side.
“I am ready.”
“I’ve been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes.”
“It was five minutes.”
“Still, this is time-sensitive and—” Tara sniffed at the air. “Why do you smell like maple syrup and cinnamon and… is that nutmeg? You had French toast, didn’t you?”
“Are you some kind of bloodhound?”
“I know my breakfast foods.”
Catherine ignored her. “So, where are we going?”
“But I thought this was time sensitive.”
“I can’t shop with you smelling like breakfast. It’s too distracting. Besides, if you deserve a home-cooked breakfast, then I certainly do too.” With that she was out of the car and halfway up the walk, and within moments she was swallowed inside the house.
Catherine took in the dashboard in front of her, played with some of the knobs, when it suddenly hit her—Tara didn’t even have a car. So whose was this? And it smells…. But before she could think any further about it she saw Tara coming down the walk with a fistful of French toast, a coffee, and a little Tupperware container.
Once she was seated, Catherine asked, “How did Elizabeth take to you running in and snatching breakfast?”
“She was sweet as can be. Gave me syrup to go,” Tara said, holding up the Tupperware.
“Sweet?”
“Yup. I don’t know what you’re always complaining about when it comes to your mom.”
What the hell is happening here? She used to ream me up and down for trying to eat and run, or eat on the run, or mix any two verbs together at one time. First Cara and now my friends? Everyone else catches a break but me?
Trying her best to disregarding her friend’s hasty and French-toasted-tainted view of Elizabeth Hemmings, Catherine asked, “How did you get here so fast, anyway?”
“You know that new guy I was going to meet up with last night? He lives near here. We saw a band in Philly and I crashed with him,” she said with a wink.
“Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Because he could have killed you in your sleep.”
“Killed me with orgasms maybe. But I’m not sure I would mind going that way.”
“You are unbelievable,” Catherine groaned.
“Just lucky I guess.”
“So where’d you get the car?”
“Nice, right? It’s brand new.”
2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) Page 23