I’ve never liked weddings anyway.
I was first introduced to the ritual at age ten, as a junior bridesmaid in a cousin’s wedding party. I remember the spaciousness of the reception ballroom, its cathedral ceilings and views of a garden that seemed to stretch to the ends of the earth. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever been, surrounded by such beautiful people, the women in long dresses, the men in tuxedos. My mother was so glamorous in her blue gown with the silver sash and her hair piled up onto her head—for the first time I noticed that she was beautiful.
I felt pretty, too. I got to wear heels and have my makeup done, despite my mom’s grumbling that it was inappropriate for a girl my age. I danced and danced, and my brother and I took turns with the disposable camera at our table, documenting the dinner roll pyramid, a tissue stamped with a perfect pink kiss, and a piece of cake smashed into a toilet bowl. As the night crept along, way past my bedtime, I became aware of the adults acting strange, their laughs too loud, their bodies bent at odd angles. I was under no one’s supervision—I was free. I opened a door in search of my next snapshot, and was startled to hear a fragment of my mom’s voice. There was her long back and silver sash. A man’s hand was pressed against it, and his mouth was mushed into her neck. He noticed me and looked up. His face was puffy, and he had a hook nose and bushy eyebrows. I stuck out my tongue and ran away.
The band was packing up their equipment when my mom finally found Leo and me. I wouldn’t meet her gaze. I told her that her makeup was smeared and that she looked disgusting. “Well, you’re not looking so hot yourself, kiddo,” she replied, laughing a little. The insult stung. It felt unforgivable. Since then, I’ve never fully shaken the impression that weddings are events that make people do ugly, illicit things.
The next real wedding I attended—not counting Kirsten’s, a casual afternoon barbeque in her parents’ backyard—was Leo and Lana’s. I was twenty-four, a bridesmaid once again, which at the time meant to me only that I was forced to wear a dress not of my choosing. For six months leading up to the event, I obsessed over its unflattering mermaid cut, and of course what Charlie would think. I hadn’t seen him since high school. Even as I stood by the altar and teared up watching my brother take the hand of his new wife, I was fully aware of Charlie sitting in the middle of the fifth row. He was like a planet exerting his gravity on me. We orbited each other through cocktail hour, as one by one my relatives demanded an accounting of my new post-college life. Not wanting to expose how lost I felt, floundering in a soulless job that I knew I was supposed to be grateful for and crammed into a crappy apartment I could barely afford, I downed glass after glass of pinot grigio. This gave me the courage to make things up. I sensed Charlie’s eyes on me, his ears attuned to my voice. When my great-aunt Rose asked what I was doing for work, I invented a gig as a chorus member in Hair. I heard Charlie chortle—he knew the actors stripped naked in that play, and also that I was tone-deaf. Within moments, he was by my side, delivering a fresh glass of wine into my hand.
The rest of the night was a blur. I was sharing a hotel room with my mom, but I didn’t make it back there until morning, when I arrived to find one bed untouched and the other containing my sleeping mother. I braced myself for the same fury she’d hurled at fourteen-year-old me after dragging me from Charlie’s bedroom. But her only commentary on my night was a quip: “At least you’re consistent.”
As she stood and stretched, I noticed how small and vulnerable my mom seemed in her pop-art pajamas, two Campbell’s soup cans printed suggestively across the chest. Later, I wished I’d asked her about her night; I hoped she’d snuck off with some new iteration of the man with the hook nose. But in the moment, I said nothing, silently accepting the bottle of aspirin she handed me like a peace offering. She tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “Let’s get you cleaned up for brunch.” I followed her into the bathroom and we brushed our teeth together, side by side. Had my mother known then that I’d spend the next six months in Charlie’s thralls, I don’t think she would’ve been so kind.
• • •
Gabe swings by my office after work and we head up to the hospital. He’s more affectionate than usual on the subway, gripping my waist rather than the pole. I ask him what’s up. “Just in a good mood,” he says, nuzzling his nose into my hair. “Billy said it’s looking promising for my book. He’s getting really positive reactions. We’ll know more later this week.”
“Great!” I lean into Gabe, happy that he’s happy.
I spot my mother by the hospital’s entrance, pacing like she’s on a smoke break, minus the cigarette. She hugs me hello, her muscles like taut ropes, then she pins me with an accusatory glare. “So, when exactly were you going to tell me that you two are engaged to be married?”
“What?” I say, at the same time Gabe that says, “Today—we were going to tell you today!” He sounds delighted, like it’s a funny coincidence. My mother confirms the source of the spoiler: Gabe’s parents.
“Apparently Joe and Barb were informed days ago.”
I try to explain—Lana’s accident, the inappropriateness—but I can’t cut through my mother’s hurt. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“What do you think of their plan, then?” She pauses dramatically, basking in our ignorance. “I mean, to have the wedding on their estate.” This is said ironically, although “estate” is probably my mom’s word, not the Dovers’; their yard would fit about fifteen people max. “And to cater it from their garden?”
“Believe me, Emily,” says Gabe, “we knew nothing about this.”
I add, “No way are we serving pickled beets and carrot juice at our wedding.”
My mom laughs, a sign that we’re back on the same side. “I didn’t think so. Well, the Dovers wanted to make it very clear that they’d happily host, or otherwise they could offer”—she makes air quotes—“an abundance of love and good energy.” She adds unnecessarily, “As in, I believe, not any money.”
I steal a glance at Gabe, who’s fidgeting his feet. For all their “all of us are one” vibe, Joe and Barb are cheap. Their real estate business is definitely more lucrative than my mom’s paralegal work.
“Anyway, I’m thrilled for you two. Gabe, my dear,”—my mom pinches his cheeks, making him look like a child—“welcome to the family! Wait until you tell Leo and Lana! We’ll bring up a cake. I’m sure you’ve always dreamed of having an engagement party in a hospital!”
“How is Lana?” I ask.
My mom’s reply is a manic whisper: “The epidural didn’t help. Leo’s going nuts because the residents are all new this month, so it’s a terrible time to have surgery. Who knew? Labor Day means stop wearing white, and don’t have surgery! But it can’t be postponed, so it’s scheduled for next week.”
On the elevator, I try to soothe myself by counting along as each ascending floor lights up. It’s disconcerting that there’s no 13th floor—that even a hospital would bow to superstition, acknowledging that science isn’t always enough to ward off the worst. I stand very still, careful not to lean against the germ-ridden walls.
The flowers and fruit baskets have multiplied in Lana’s room, somehow making it feel more rather than less depressing, like an over-protestation of cheer. Lana is dozing, whereas Leo looks like he hasn’t slept since last week. I still feel uneasy sharing our happy news when their situation is so grim, but I’m overruled by my mom’s insistence. She nudges Lana awake, and then steals our thunder: “Molly and Gabe got engaged!”
Leo’s exclamations are so loud that a nurse pops her head in to ask if everything’s okay. In her out-of-it voice, Lana says, “This calls for champagne.” I free a bottle from the gift baskets, and we all share a toast, even Lana, despite Leo’s chastising. “It complements the Oxy,” she says, smile loose.
As it turns out, a little bubbly goes a long way toward tempering my hospital phobia. I top off my cup, and start to feel at ease. That is, until a familiar voice pierces through the feeling: “What are we celebrating?”
“Fancy hospital,” Charlie says, “with a powder room and everything.”
Gabe stands to introduce himself, presumably to show his maturity and lack of ill will toward my ex. I imagine Charlie privately ridiculing him for his overly hearty handshake. Leo, in his haze of exhaustion, is slow on the uptake, but after a moment he approaches the doorway, and thankfully inserts himself between my current and former partners. “Hey man,” he says to Charlie. “I thought you were coming by tomorrow.”
“Change of plans. I wanted to bring Lana some special meds before hitting the road.” Ah, so then he has brought something: a baggie of joints, which he’s now showing off to the room.
Leo eyes it warily. “You can’t have that stuff in here.”
Charlie ignores him and tucks the baggie between two pineapple daisies in an Edible Arrangement. I giggle, despite myself, at the updated arrangement, at which point Charlie pretends to notice me for the first time. “Oh hey, Molly. I bet Lana will share if you ask nicely.” He pats Gabe on the back, and adds in a patronizing tone, “You too, buddy, if you’re into that sort of thing.” Wisely, Gabe doesn’t respond. Surely Charlie must realize he’s unwanted here, but he goes ahead and helps himself to a cup of champagne anyway. “So, what are we celebrating?” he asks again.
“Molly and me—we’re engaged,” Gabe says. His tone is hostile, which annoys me. I wish everyone would all just go away, including myself.
“Ah.” Charlie’s expression is inscrutable. “To the happy couple, then!” He drains his cup, then reaches for a refill. Only Lana drinks along with him. I reach for her hand.
The next half hour is stupid as we all sit around and pretend one of us isn’t high on Oxycontin and the rest of us aren’t way too sober, despite the champagne. I try not to notice how attractive Charlie looks, his shirt for once not rumpled, his pants well fitting, his footwear loafers that not only lack a coating of mud but also seem to have been buffed and shined. I keep willing him to get the hell out, but he stays stubbornly put. When he starts in on a lecture about the etymology of the word “fiancé,” I cut him off to say it’s getting late. Gabe and I stand to go, and I aim for a neutral voice while wishing Charlie safe travels home.
“Thanks, Moll,” he responds, and I feel Gabe bristle at the nickname. “By the way, I got that job upstate. So maybe I’ll be seeing more of you.”
On the elevator down, I’m counting floors again, from 15th to 14th to 12th, trying to dial down my head’s pounding from Charlie’s news. I’m bracing myself for Gabe’s reaction, too. But he seems distracted, swiping at his phone, and when he exclaims, it’s with joy: “There’s a bidding war on my book!”
“Oh, babe, my Scrabe.” I kiss him. My enthusiasm is compounded with a rush of relief that we’ve moved on from the scene in Lana’s room. “It must feel fantastic to feel so wanted.”
But then Gabe’s expression shifts, his face a flash of irony. “I guess you know a little something about that.” It’s his only reference to the previous hour, and a moment later he’s beaming again. He picks me up and presses me against the elevator wall, and I’m so thrilled to be kissing my happy fiancé, I don’t even care about the gross hospital germs.
Chapter 12
KIRSTEN HAS CAJOLED me into lunch hour yoga, and the middle of our sun salutations seems as good a time as any to tell her that I’m getting married. She silently squeals.
“That’s right, work out those facial muscles,” the instructor says.
Kirsten looks particularly strong in her Warrior Two, so I whisper-ask how she’s feeling about Sam’s pregnancy. “Good,” she whispers back, her face fierce. “I’m going to be the best auntie to that little one.” It must’ve taken her a lot of yogic breathing to get there.
“Sam’ll need a ton of help,” I say. Kirsten nods as we tip forward into Half Moon. “She might actually give up on the whole motherhood thing and then you can swoop in and take over.”
Kirsten stumbles from the balance, letting out a guffaw. “Shh!” scolds the woman beside us, and I sigh loudly, like I’m in mindful ecstasy.
During handstands, an upside-down Kirsten says, “I know I’m supposed to wait for you to ask, but can I please be a bridesmaid? I want to throw you a shower and a bachelorette party, and help plan everything—the cake, the favors, the guest book.”
Blood rushes to my head; woozy, I come down from the inversion. “I don’t know if I’m even going to have bridesmaids,” I say, shuddering at the word and its implied servitude. “Let’s talk about it sometime when I’m two drinks in, okay?”
Kirsten’s cheeks go blotchy, and I can tell she’s wounded. “I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know how to explain that talk of all these wedding rites freaks me out, that the very idea of a wedding, of making a big show of my good fortune and compelling everyone I know to participate in that show, feels both garish and risky to me. Or that weddings, in my experience, invite stupid behavior and poor decisions. Kirsten, who revels in all of life’s little celebrations, would never understand. As we settle into corpse pose, I pour all my effort into clearing my head.
Later I will look back on this hour with nostalgia. It’ll be the last time someone congratulates me on my engagement without in the same breath wanting to discuss Gabe’s book deal. When Kirsten and I return to the locker room, I have four missed calls: Gabe, Mom, Gabe, Mom.
• • •
I call my mother back first. Within two minutes she’s told me about three wedding venues in my hometown—a hotel ballroom, a seafood shack, and a raw event space. “I toured them on my lunch break,” she says breezily, even though she’s been back in Maine for less than twenty-four hours, and I happen to know she never takes a lunch break. It makes me wonder how much other wedding planning she did before I even got engaged. “I don’t want to stress you out,” she says, “but all the summer dates are booked already. A couple of places had a few open slots for spring.”
“Noted,” I say, regretting the call. I hurry her off the phone, and try Gabe next.
“My book sold!” he says straightaway.
“Oh babe!”
He barrels ahead with a flurry of information. I take in every second or third detail: the imprint, which Gabe says is respectable if modestly sized; and the advance payment, which is also apparently respectable if modestly sized, although it sounds like a lot to me. I wonder fleetingly how much a wedding will cost. “The publisher is rushing the book, since they think it’ll do well in the current literary climate,” Gabe says. “All the summer slots were full, so it’ll come out in the spring.”
“Wow,” I say, struck by the echo of my mom’s wedding venue talk.
“As of March 15th, The Charms of Dahlia will be a real, actual book!”
“Seriously, the Ides of March?”
“Ha, I guess so. I was thinking more like, what’s that expression about March? ‘In like a lamb and out like a lion.’”
I don’t correct him that he has it flipped, because who knows what it’ll be like, everyone we know reading Gabe’s novel? My happiness for Gabe is punctuated with panic as I picture a mash-up of metaphors: a lion tearing into a lamb, Brutus standing by wielding a knife.
“There’s so much good stuff going on,” Gabe says, his voice an echo of the little-boy version I’ve heard in old Dover family videos. He’s probably been dreaming about publishing a book since he was that young. “I mean, besides Lana. And my shift, which starts in an hour. And the book edits I’ll have less than two weeks to turn around. And your unhinged ex-boyfriend showing up at the hospital. Ok
ay, I’ve gotta run.”
I ignore the reference to Charlie, and fixate on the mention of book edits. It calms me to know that Russell and Dahlia’s relationship isn’t fixed, that there’s still time for changes.
That night, I pick up Gabe’s manuscript and skip ahead at random—past Dahlia’s pathetic attempts to solicit a TSA agent, past her manic meanderings after the botched Spain trip, past her anonymous (and very detailed) sexual encounters in which she imagines Russell’s face onto various men she meets in bars (yeah, right). It’s the start of a new semester, and the pair is reunited. Russell is at Dahlia’s place smoking pot with her and her roommate, Natasha. I brace myself for a description of Natasha as some voluptuous sexpot, followed by pages of ménage a trois. But it turns out Natasha is one of those fade-into-the-background types that Dahlia keeps around to make herself seem shinier, a type I’ve sometimes worried people pin on me.
Natasha was bogarting the pipe. “It’s cashed,” she said apologetically, and Dahlia sighed in annoyance. Natasha was like a piece of old furniture, neither exciting nor offensive, just inevitable. Russell settled back into his girlfriend’s lap, his head pleasantly abuzz. He pictured the semester laid out before him, the classes where he could again speak in English, where he could again prove himself confident and wise.
Ugh, I can just imagine Russell’s insufferable mansplaining.
“Dahlia, you should set up your schedule so we have Fridays off together.”
“Yes, it’s generally advisable for college students to avoid Friday classes,” Natasha said snarkily. “Right, Dahlia?”
“Shut up, Nat,” Dahlia spat.
Sometimes Natasha was the kind of furniture whose edges splintered against your skin. She was clearly jealous of Dahlia; most girls were. Dahlia’s thighs tensed under Russell’s head. He sat up, looked from face to face, and realized he was out of the loop. “Dahlia?” But she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Natasha, however, was staring right at him, smirking. She lit a cigarette and began blowing smoke circles—Russell had never before noticed how full her lips were.
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