“Shall we begin?” the florist asked, breaking Rocky from her train of thought. “I have a few things set up for you to look at.”
Rocky and Drew’s parents followed the florist to the back of the showroom. Her name was Iris and Rocky couldn’t help but wonder if that was a fake name, if all of the women who worked there pretended they were named after flowers. She didn’t look like an Iris. Rocky knew an Iris in college, and she was a homely girl from Kansas who had been homeschooled. This Iris did not look homely. She wore a tight black dress with impossibly high stilettos. How did she work on her feet all day with such impractical shoes? Rocky looked down at her own shoes, her beloved motorcycle boots, and thought of how her mother would chastise her for wearing something so decidedly unbridal to yet another wedding appointment.
“So, how did you meet the groom?” Iris asked, practically singing the words.
“It was hate at first sight,” Rocky replied, on autopilot.
“Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before,” Iris said, laughing. She motioned for them to keep following her.
Rocky couldn’t bring herself to tell more of the story. This was where Joan would usually interrupt Rocky to sing Drew’s praises, and Rocky would then take over, telling the part where she fell in love with him.
Rocky ached for her mother. She wished she hadn’t let her mother out of the florist appointment so easily. She wished that when Joan had told her she had a migraine, and to go ahead without her, that she had driven to her mother’s house in Connecticut and called her bluff. (Joan didn’t get migraines.) But instead, Rocky had let it fester. And now Rocky had no idea where they stood.
Rocky almost bumped right into the florist as she stopped walking and pointed to the first floral arrangement. “We just did these lovely calla lilies at a wedding last weekend. Everyone loved them.”
“Calla lilies represent death,” Drew’s mother said, putting her glasses on to inspect the floral arrangement more closely. She leaned in and squinted her eyes. “I don’t think they’re appropriate for a wedding.”
Rocky felt a sneeze coming on. She could feel the pollen entering her nostrils, her throat. She rubbed her nose.
“No, they represent purity!” Iris argued playfully. “That’s why so many brides carry them down the aisle!”
“We were just at a funeral,” Karen said, leaning in a little bit more, fingering the petals of the flowers, “and every bouquet was filled with calla lilies.”
“Ah, yes,” the florist said, trying to keep the smile glued to her face, “we do use lilies in some funeral arrangements. You see, they are symbols of rebirth, tied to the resurrection of Christ. So we do use them for weddings and funerals.”
Drew’s mother turned to look at her husband and raised one eyebrow. He looked back at her and shrugged.
“What else do you have?” Rocky asked. As Iris spun on her heel to walk to the next arrangement, Rocky finally sneezed.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Karen asked, turning to face Rocky.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Rocky said, brushing off her concern. “Let’s see the other options.”
“You don’t seem fine,” Drew’s mother said quietly, as they passed over a footbridge to reach the next table setting.
“I’m fine,” Rocky said, and smiled brightly to prove her point. But Karen wasn’t convinced. She drew her in for a hug—one of her famous, full-body, I’ve got you kind of hugs—and Rocky immediately knew. Drew had told his mother about Rocky’s fight with Joan.
But she wasn’t going to discuss what had happened with her mother with Karen. If two FaceTime calls to her grandmother and one string of emails with her great-uncle couldn’t help her figure out what to do, Karen certainly did not have the answers.
“The hydrangea really lend fullness to this one, don’t you think?” Iris said, pointing to another arrangement, but Rocky could barely hear a word. She felt it happening—the anger threatening to bubble over. How could Drew tell his mother about the fight when Rocky was still processing it herself? Of course he had. I tell my mother everything, he’d said more times than she could count. She hadn’t even had her appointment with her therapist yet. She wasn’t ready to talk. He should have known that.
Rocky tried to take a deep, cleansing inhale—in, two, three, four, but the pollen in the showroom quickly took residence in her nose and she began to sneeze uncontrollably.
A chorus of “Bless you!” and “Are you all right?” rang out as Rocky doubled over, unable to stop sneezing. Three times, four times, five. Rocky could not stop. With each sneeze, she felt her head throb.
Drew’s mother materialized with a handful of tissues and a small bottle of water. “I think we should get some fresh air for a moment,” she said to Iris, and directed Rocky to the front door.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, once they were out on the sidewalk. Rocky finished the bottle of water in one gulp and looked at Karen. What was she asking her? About the sneezing or her mother? Rocky truly didn’t know. Was she analyzing her, making her the subject of a therapy session? Rocky was always secretly scared that Karen was analyzing her.
“I’m fine,” Rocky said plainly. “Thank you for the water. Are you all right?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Karen replied quickly. “I don’t have allergies.”
Rocky wasn’t sure if Karen had gotten her meaning. Did she really think Rocky was asking her about allergies? Or did she know what Rocky was really asking about, how Karen felt about Drew’s birth mother?
Rocky held the silence for a beat. It was her own therapist’s favorite trick—decline to speak so that the other party fills the air—and Rocky wondered if it would work on another therapist.
Each woman looked at the other, smiling, waiting for the other to fill the silence. It was like a very friendly game of chicken, one where you only used the crease of your forehead to win.
“I’m a little sad,” Karen finally said, taking Rocky’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “But I’ll be fine. How about you?”
“Same.”
“Weddings bring up a lot of things in a lot of different ways,” she said. “But they are also beautiful, and ought to be celebrated.”
“I agree,” Rocky said.
“Why don’t we reschedule this appointment for a time when your mother can make it?”
That would be great, Rocky tried to say. It’s what she wanted to say, but she found her throat closing up and her eyes beginning to water. Whether it was the pollen or the sentiment, she couldn’t be sure.
Fifty
The mother of the bride, as a bride herself
Long Island, 1982
Joanie looked in at Mel in her hospital bed. She seemed so tiny, lying there. Her skin looked gray and her hair was matted, out of place. The mohawk that always stood proudly at attention, gone.
She was stable this morning, that’s what Jem had told her, but the machines whizzed and blared out, making Joanie question whether or not Mel would really be okay.
Joanie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hospital window. Her hair still curled into bouncy waves from last night’s Alice costume, she looked ridiculous. When she had gone home in the middle of the night to shower and change into fresh clothing, Matthew was waiting for her in her dorm room. She’d had to explain why she’d run out of the party with a man he’d never met before, why she had been missing from midnight until four in the morning, and who, exactly, Mel was. By the time they’d been done talking, visiting hours at the hospital had begun, so she dressed and headed back to see if Mel had awoken yet. Matthew did not come with her.
Her mother’s words rang out in her head: In many ways, I’m afraid, you’re just a girl. And she was right, wasn’t she? Joanie had been dancing at a sorority party when a friend was out there who needed her. Joanie knew that Mel’s sobriety was a delicate balance. If she�
��d used half as much time on her outfit for the Senior Tea, maybe she could have helped Mel instead. Could have been checking on her, supporting her. Taking her to meetings, holding her accountable.
She wasn’t there for her friend. Just like she hadn’t been there for her sister. She hadn’t even known that her sister needed help. Her sister hadn’t told her about her addiction, but Mel had shared everything. And Joanie wouldn’t take her friendship for granted again.
“Hey,” Mikki said, walking down the hospital corridor with three cups of coffee. It had been a long night, and an even longer day, waiting for Mel to wake up.
“Thanks,” Jem said.
“We should get her some things from home,” Mikki said. “So that she’s comfortable when she wakes up.”
“That’s a great idea,” Jem said. “I can go. Let me just finish my coffee. I’m exhausted from being here all night. I’ll hit her place, and then I can grab a pizza on the way back.”
“Pizza would be great,” Mikki said, rubbing her temples.
“I’ll go,” Joanie said, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice. But she wanted to go. She needed to move. To do something. She couldn’t just stand there, keeping vigil over Mel’s sleeping body.
“Get two pies,” Jem said. “Jesse is on his way back.”
Jem grabbed the keys out of Mel’s knapsack and Joanie made her way down to Alphabet City.
Joanie gasped when she saw movement inside Mel’s apartment. She knew the area was dangerous, but she hadn’t counted on someone breaking into her friend’s apartment as she lay in a hospital bed.
“I’ve got mace!” Joanie yelled, holding out her pocketbook as proof. She didn’t have mace, but she hoped that her voice had enough conviction to fool whoever was in the apartment.
“I’m unarmed,” the person said, turning around slowly to face Joanie. It was Jesse. She sighed in relief, and put her hands on her knees as she took a deep breath.
“You scared me.”
“Hi,” he said.
“Jem said you were on your way back to the hospital.” They’d been together the previous night, keeping vigil over Mel’s hospital room, and now, she somehow felt closer to him. Bonded to him. Like they shared a language that only a few other people knew.
“I was,” he said, turning the television off. When he stood up, Joanie saw that he wasn’t wearing his usual uniform of leather jeans. He was in sweatpants and an old T-shirt. No gel in his hair. It made him look younger, more vulnerable. “I just needed a break, you know?”
“I know,” Joanie said. At one point the night before, Jesse had broken down into tears and Joanie sat down with him while he cried on her shoulder. When a nurse stopped by to ask Joanie if her boyfriend needed some water, she hadn’t corrected her.
“It’s strange being here without her.”
Joanie looked around the apartment. She’d never been there before with Mel, much less without her, and being in Mel’s personal space made her feel closer to her, another layer of her revealed. “I won’t bother you, I’m sure you need space. I’m just here to pick up a few things to make your sister more comfortable at the hospital.”
“That’s nice of you. You’re really nice, you know that?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“You’re nicer than your sister.”
Joanie froze. “You knew my sister?”
“Yeah, she was into that whole art scene with Mel,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I used to see her all the time.”
“And she wasn’t nice?”
“She was nice,” Jesse said, his eyes trained on Joanie. “You’re nicer.”
“Did you know that my sister died of an overdose?”
“Yes.”
“I was the last to know.” The things she didn’t say hung in the air: Both of our sisters overdosed, but mine died. You were close with your sister, and I thought that I was, too, but I didn’t even know that mine was doing drugs. You are the only person in the world who understands how I feel.
Jesse regarded her. “I think we need alcohol to continue this conversation.”
He walked into the kitchen and came back with two beers.
“I don’t drink.”
“Well, now seems like as good of a time as any to start.”
Joanie couldn’t help but agree. She’d been trying so hard to be the good girl—no drinking, no smoking, no sex—but those things didn’t make you good, any more than doing them made you bad. She could see that now. When she thought about all of the experiences she’d missed out on, simply because she was trying to be some version of herself that wouldn’t hurt her parents, she couldn’t help but laugh. Being a good person was about being there for your friends. Showing up for people, being accountable. She wasn’t any of those things. And now she didn’t want to think about it. She just wanted to be numb.
She took a tentative sip from the bottle. It was cold, ice cold, and the bubbles tickled the top of her lip. She quickly wiped her mouth on her shirt sleeve. She took another sip, this time bigger, and really tasted the beer. It reminded her of bread, somehow, mixed with something bitter. She took another quick sip, and then before she knew it, she’d finished the bottle. The aftertaste of citrus lingered on her tongue. Jesse handed her another as he disappeared into Mel’s bedroom to get the clothes she came for.
As Joanie sipped her beer, she noticed Mel’s Walkman sitting on the coffee table. She grabbed it—it seemed like the perfect thing for someone who was stuck in a hospital bed—and then browsed her cassette tape collection. She selected a few that she liked, Duran Duran, David Bowie, Culture Club, and then a few that she’d seen in her sister’s room—The Runaways, The Clash, and Blondie.
Jesse came out of the bedroom with a duffel bag.
“Oh, great,” he said, reaching for the Walkman and the tapes. “Great thinking.”
Joanie looked up and saw tears forming at the sides of his eyes. “She’s going to be okay. She’s being well taken care of.”
“I know that,” he said, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I know.”
“You’re lucky that you have another chance with your sister. She’s going to be all right.”
All of the things they weren’t saying lingered in the air. “I’m so sorry about your sister,” Jesse said.
“Oh, it’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“I know, but let’s not think about it right now. Let’s just focus on Mel. Getting Mel better.”
“I forgot her sketch pad. That will make her feel better,” Jesse said, snapping his fingers as he remembered. “Can you grab it? I’ll get her pencils.”
Joanie picked up Mel’s sketch pad from the side table, as Jesse grabbed a set of pencils off the desk. She flipped through and couldn’t believe how amazing Mel’s work was. Mel was always talking about Michele, about how talented she was, but Mel had a ton of potential, too. They were mostly portraits, done in pencil. There was one of Michele, and Joanie ran her hands across it. Tears welled up in her eyes, so she turned to the next page. Each portrait was more beautiful, more detailed, than the next.
Joanie stopped at a drawing of Jesse. “It’s you,” she said, turning the sketch pad over so that he could see. “This is really beautiful.”
Jesse sipped his beer as he walked back towards her. “You are.”
Joanie could feel her face turn red. “Thank you,” she said, and then immediately wondered if she should have said something different in response. But it didn’t matter. An instant later, Jesse’s hands were on her face, turning her towards him.
“I’ve wanted to do this from the first moment we met,” he said. He kissed her gently and took the beer bottle out of her hand, setting it down on the table next to the couch.
“We shouldn’t,” Joanie murmured.
“I’m
sorry. I thought...”
“You don’t have to be sorry.” She thought but didn’t say: I wanted to kiss you from the first moment we met, too. When I’m with my fiancé, I think of you. When I put on perfume, I think of you. I can’t stop thinking of you.
She kissed him back.
His kisses were frenzied, electric. He kissed her like he wasn’t sure he’d ever have the chance to again. He kissed like he thought the world might end tomorrow. And Joanie wanted more.
Jesse put his arm around Joanie’s back, lowering her onto the nearby couch. The weight of his body felt nice, nowhere near as heavy or muscular as Matthew, but Joanie tried not to think of him. There was no reason to think of him at all.
One by one, he unfastened the buttons of her Oxford shirt. Then, he pushed down the delicate spaghetti straps of her camisole and kissed her all over her collarbone. His kisses went lower. And lower still.
“We should get back to the hospital,” Joanie said, as he reached around to undo the catch on her bra.
“Don’t you want this?” Jesse whispered in her ear. His breath went down her spine, right to her toes. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
And she did. She wanted him to kiss her all over her body, kiss all of the places she’d applied her perfume. She didn’t want to think about Mel. She didn’t want to think about her sister. She didn’t want to think about Matthew. She wanted to feel. And she wanted to feel with him.
She let him take her bra off. Then, without thinking, she helped him take his own shirt off as they kissed. But to call it kissing was an understatement. She’d never been kissed like this. She never felt like this. The urgency, the want. She pulled him closer to her, and closer still. She couldn’t get close enough.
His hands went all over her body. “You’re so wet,” he murmured in her ear, and Joanie could feel her face flame red again. Matthew had never spoken to her like that before. No guy had. “I want you.”
The Grace Kelly Dress Page 19