Borrow-A-Bridesmaid

by Anne Wagener

  One such gremlin is approaching me. She has a bright pink bow perched atop her mostly bald head, and she’s blinking at me with wide blue eyes.

  “Say hi, Emma,” the mother says. The girl bursts into a toothless smile. Caught off guard, I smile back. She’s beautiful, and for a second we stand there, acknowledging each other. It’s refreshing to look into such an innocent, trusting face. I wiggle my index finger at her, and she flops her hand happily at me, giving a little coo before her mother scoops her up and heads into aisle one to grab a tube of—not kidding—Hiney Hydration Crème.

  Okay. Maybe the gremlins aren’t so bad. I’ll think about it in another decade, when I can afford to hydrate my own hiney.

  Back to über-sleuth mode. When I breathe in enough oxygenic courage to step into aisle three: cribs and bedding, I see it. IT. The clue I’ve been looking for. And once I see it, really see it, I wish I hadn’t.

  Charlie is standing next to a crib covered in brown felt with little green monkeys dancing across it. The sign above his head reads, “Go Bananas! Deluxe Crib, $199.99.” This is no shower gift. I know because he’s peering into the crib as if he sees a child there, as if he’s creeping into her room in the middle of the night to make sure she’s breathing. His hand rests on the rail, his index finger making tiny circles around the face of one of the “Go Bananas!” monkeys.

  It hits me like Maddie tucking right, then punching left. HIT! Holly’s pregnant. HIT! Charlie’s going to be a father.

  Of course. The lightning-quick engagement, the rushed ceremony. Susan and I were both in denial.

  He’s biting his lip, and his face has gone pale. Oh God, Charlie. I want to run up and hug him, to cry on his shoulder, to peer into the crib with him, but I decide to let him have this moment. By reaching out for that crib rail, he might be taking the first step toward the physiological realm of fatherhood, and who am I to tread on that? This is going to be his realm now—rubber bottle tops, Tinker Toys, books filled with patches of felt and crinkle paper.

  I picture Charlie cradling a tiny infant. Turning on indie music in the middle of the night while he’s walking from one side of the nursery to the other. He’ll be a great father, of course he will.

  I step out of aisle three and lean against the nearest display rack, my breath coming quickly and tears springing to my eyes. Charlie feels much farther away now than he did when he was in California, pitching his screenplay. I feel as though he is Mary Poppins floating away from me, away from the land of screenwriting and musing in coffee shops and existential conversations. Blown away by the East Wind of parenthood.

  The tears come faster, shock and surprise mixing together, the negative ions of one moving toward the nucleus of the other, bonding to form salt water in my tear ducts. Other shoppers walk past, unfazed. I’m just another hormonal woman in a baby store. But I don’t fit. I’m not a mother, not a lover, not a sister. I’m lost.

  After a few minutes of quietly whimpering and leaning against a display rack of Snuggle Baby six-pack receiving cloths, I brush away the tears and take a deep breath. This might be my last chance, ever, to be alone with Charlie.

  Back in aisle three, he’s standing next to a different crib, holding a plastic-encased product description. Memory foam mattress, et cetera. His left hand—I didn’t notice before—holds a sock monkey with a checkered bow tie.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” I ask.

  He turns, expecting a salesperson—he’s prepared a fake smile, ready for small talk. When he sees me, his face falls. He drops the description card and shoves his hand in his pocket. “Too early to know.”

  A single tear sneaks down my face and curls up next to my nostril. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Holly doesn’t want anyone to know. At least not until after we’re married. I guess I don’t need to reinforce that this is complicated.”

  “But do you love her?”

  He presses his lips together. “I love our baby. Do you know it’s about the size of a bean right now?”

  A Charlie bean. The baby will have his dimples, I bet. “This is crazy.”

  He nods. “I’m only getting an inkling of how crazy.” He gives me a long look. “Like I said before, Holly and I had broken up when I met you. I had no idea until after—that’s why I had to rush back to L.A.”

  I wave away his explanation. I don’t want to think about how close I came to having Charlie possibly be a part of my life and not Holly’s. I want to hug him so bad. My insides ache and ache. The empty space between us feels like a force field.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He nods.

  “I heard you and Holly arguing last night. I’m sorry, I was getting changed on the second floor, and— I mean, are you okay?”

  “You heard that?” His cheeks flush. He looks like he’s considering not telling me anything, and then his grip on the sock monkey releases ever so slightly. “Holly’s mom wants me to be her campaign communications manager, and I said no. Lena’s not happy with me right now. Actually, that’s a massive understatement. I’m not exactly the person she had in mind for a son-in-law. I think if I weren’t going to be the father of her grandchild, she’d probably have me scalped.”

  Even though this entire situation is anything but funny, I burst out laughing. I forgot he had that effect on me. “That’s intense,” I say when I’ve caught my breath.

  “Yeah.” Charlie’s adjusting the sock monkey’s little bow tie, straightening it, and something in me gives way.

  “Charlie . . .” I take a step into the force field. “What if—what if you didn’t have to marry her? What if you could still be involved in your kid’s life without . . . shackling your heart?” A tear escapes from my other eye.

  His eyes look watery, too. “Piper, please. Don’t.” He looks down at the pink-and-blue-checkered tile floor. When he meets my eyes again, he says, “Don’t make this harder than it already is. I made a commitment for my kid, and I’m going to stick by it no matter what. It’s something I need to do.”

  “I just want you to be happy,” I whisper.

  His cheeks flush again. “Thing is, it’s not about me anymore. It’s about—” He flails around, finally gesturing emphatically at the crib display. In the process, he inadvertently sends the sock monkey soaring. It lands in the RockStar 3000 automated rocking crib, which, sensing an occupant, begins slowly moving back and forth.

  He starts to laugh, a crazed laugh. I’m laughing, too, because this is my life. If there is a God, he or she is as adept at master plans as Sock Monkey, who presides over our delirious hilarity with button eyes.

  The laughter appears to have weakened the force field, because he broaches it.

  Our eyes meet. I pretend I can unknow everything that’s happened in the past month. I pretend we’re not in Bebe de Luxe, that we’re in a time and space vacuum where everything is perfect and we’re together again. He moves closer to me, and I wrap my arms around his midsection. Hold him, smell him. He smells like cigarette smoke and manly soap. He folds around me. We rock back and forth like we’re slow dancing to the elevator music playing over the speakers.

  This is the inverse of our portrait gallery moment. The closing bracket of our time together.

  Slowly, time and space return, filling in around us. A splotch of fluorescent light here, a sock monkey there.

  “You’re going to be a great dad, you know,” I say, forcing myself to break contact.

  He smiles. “I’m glad you think so. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

  “One thing at a time. What, for instance, do you find to be the primary advantages and disadvantages of the Go Bananas crib?”

  He frowns, walking back over to the crib and picking up its plastic detail sheet. “Custom comfort, for one. Memory foam. I want her to be as comfortable as possible while she’s shitting her pants.”

 
“She? I thought you didn’t know—”

  He smiles. “Just a feeling.”

  “So what about the RockStar 3000?”

  He shakes his head firmly. “I’ll do the rocking, thanks. You know, my mom did a lot that damaged me permanently, but there’s one tradition I want to keep. She used to always sing me ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Every time I hear that song now, I get this warm feeling like there’s sunshine in my gut. Like I’m safe, and everything’s going to be okay.”

  For a final beat, we stand there and smile at each other.

  “You better get going,” I say finally.

  “You’re right.” He retrieves the sock monkey. The RockStar 3000 is instantly still. “I have a chore list the length of the Old Testament. I meant to ask you, what are you doing here, anyway?”

  I hesitate. “You know, picking up a baby shower gift for a friend.”

  “Ah. I highly recommend the Hiney Hydration Crème.”

  “Noted.”

  “Guess I’ll see you at the rehearsal? I wish we could spend some more time together, but . . .”

  “I understand.”

  He takes a step back but doesn’t turn away yet.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you . . . need a friend . . . call me, okay?”

  He holds up the sock monkey and makes it nod at me, its bow tie bopping along. And then he’s gone.

  My phone buzzes: a text from Susan. Any word? Can we meet tonight?

  Oh, I’ve got word. A four-letter one. B-A-B-Y.

  Twenty-Eight

  Even inanimate objects seem to be coupling up: Lin’s and Steve’s Audis are parked next to each other in the apartment lot. As I traipse up the steps, I stop to admire the sunset, which is trying its best to distract stressed Beltway drivers. Orange clouds point gnarled fingers toward the west, while surges of yellow and pink create soft waves of color. I wish an orange cloud finger would point me in the right direction. Charlie, a father. Lin introducing Steve to his parents. It’s such a strange place to be, such a liminal (there’s that word again—the new buzzword of my twenties) place. A favorite Shakespeare quote comes to mind: “Envy no man’s happiness . . . glad of other men’s good . . .”

  But that’s the thing: Charlie’s not happy.

  Carrying these thoughts like stacks of stones on my shoulders, I open the door to find Lin making a chocolate soufflé in the kitchen. Beside him, Steve waves his arms in gentle demonstrative motions, as if snake-charming the flour to rise. Bon Iver plays on the stereo. A few candles flicker on the counter. It’s so soothing in here, I consider slipping onto the couch and enjoying the ambiance. But I need input.

  Lin and Steve turn to me with giddy smiles.

  “Chocolate,” Lin says, as if this explains everything in life that ever needed explaining. “Come, try.”

  I hang my purse on the coat rack—newly installed on the wall by Steve, who couldn’t believe we threw our coats just anywhere—and let my feet carry me toward the smell of chocolate. Using two oven mitts, Lin takes a fresh-from-the-oven ramekin and sets it on the high-top counter that separates the living room from the kitchen. Steve garnishes the soufflé’s puff top with a pinch of powdered sugar and a dessert fork.

  I take a moment to admire it. Until last week, we were ramekin-less. Steve threw open the cupboard to look for one and gasped. Lin seemed to think a ramekin was Russian currency (“Sure, I’ll hand you one right after you give me a borsa full of rubles!”). “Target. Pronto,” Steve admonished, and the two of them dashed out of the apartment, giggling.

  And now here’s a tiny white ramekin, filled with warm soufflé. It’s a bit lopsided but otherwise looks restaurant-quality.

  I dig into the chocolate flesh, savoring each bite. During those few seconds, there’s no trouble in the world. I exist alone on a planet of chocolate, spinning through a sugar-dusted Milky Way.

  When I return from this intergalactic journey, I open my eyes to two expectant faces. “It’s perfect, boys.”

  Steve plants a kiss on Lin’s cheek.

  Lin frowns. “Then why are you making your I-know-something-big-but-I’m-trying-to-hide-it face?”

  “What?”

  “Hard to explain. You kind of twist your lips to one side and lift your eyebrows. Like you’re making room inside your face for your secret—”

  “But it’s rising like a soufflé, and we can smell it from here,” Steve concludes.

  I sigh. “Well, speaking of things in the oven—”

  “You’re pregnant!” Lin squeals. “Is it Kalil’s?”

  I wave my hand. “Oh, shush. No, listen, it’s Charlie’s. He’s pregnant. I mean, Holly’s pregnant. How— What do I do?”

  “Oh, honey.” Lin unmitts and comes to me, arms outstretched. I lay my head on his shoulder and he strokes my hair.

  We migrate to the living room. I sit on the camp chair, collapsing inward on myself like an inverted soufflé, and Lin and Steve sit across from me on the couch. They lie sideways with their legs outstretched, like a two-headed love-beast.

  “So,” Lin says. “Hence the whole stampeding-toward-the-altar business.”

  I nod. “Hence a lot of things. It all kind of makes sense. Except Holly’s past infidelity, but even that’s probably a moot point now.”

  “Ehrmegerd. Susan is going to flip a shit pancake,” Lin says, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  “I know. I want to tell her, but in person. And I want to make sure she doesn’t go crazy and throttle Charlie. He’s in pretty deep already. Getting ready to be a father and all.”

  “Invite her over,” Steve suggests. “Temper the news with the food of the gods.”

  So this time, I’m the one sending an SOS. Susan appears at the apartment within twenty minutes, which seems vaguely miraculous given that she lives in downtown Alexandria. Brandon comes along, too. Today his T-shirt reads, “I Mustache You a Question.” Susan’s wearing a spaghetti-strap paisley maxi-dress, her hair in its typical curly knot.

  “Have a soufflé,” I say when they walk in, but she swats away the suggestion.

  “Don’t sugarcoat it. Just tell me.”

  I guide her and Brandon to the couch. Lin and Steve busy themselves in the kitchen. When I give her the news, her face crumples, and I see her go through a couple of different emotions before a tear slides down one cheek. Brandon catches it with his thumb.

  “Oh, Charlie,” she says, leaning her head on Brandon’s shoulder. She just keeps repeating, “Oh, Charlie.”

  We sit in silence, Bon Iver singing a lament in the background. Steve sets two soufflés and two glasses of cold milk in front of Susan and Brandon.

  After it seems safe to talk again, I say, “I tried to ask him whether he’d considered supporting the baby without marrying her, but his mind is made up. He’s trying to do the honorable thing.”

  Susan nods. “He always does.” She puts both of her hands over her face for a long moment, then pulls them away. “I’m going to go home now.”

  Brandon glances into the kitchen. “Do you have a soufflé for the road?”

  After Steve has sent them away with the last of the dessert in a paper bag, the three of us stand at the counter. I look down at my hands. “I don’t know what to do now. I mean, am I still on the job? Do I go to the rehearsal? Do I spontaneously combust?”

  Lin takes my hand. “Here’s what you’re going to do, sweetie pie. You’re going to go to the rehearsal and the wedding and be the best bridesmaid you can be. Be there for him and for Susan.”

  I ponder this for a moment and nod stoically. “Gentlemen, we’re going to need another round of soufflés.”

  Twenty-Nine

  When Alex and I arrive for the rehearsal the following Friday, the church bells are tolling the hour in low, ominous tones. Not like I nee
ded a reminder that we’re counting down to the demise of Charlie’s bachelordom.

  On the way over, I told Alex every last detail about the current status of the mission. Her crowning comment as we get out of the Miata is “Huh.”

  “Huh what?”

  “Huh as in there’s a missing piece.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I just think there’s more to the story.” She’s wearing a cryptic smile. “Takes a diva to know— Oh! Who is that?” She stops, her face in an un-Alex-like expression: disarmed.

  Charlie’s best friend and best man, Sam, emerges from the church’s front doors wearing a red blazer, hands shoved in his pockets. I wonder briefly how much he knows about his best friend’s insta-marriage.

  “I was just starting to think the whole thing was off,” he says, coming down the steps to meet us. He shrugs. “Oh well. One can hope.” He depockets his right hand to high-five me. “Hey, girlicious. Fancy seeing you here.”

  He’s tamed his spiky hair into a slicked-back do. The wind blows; his hair doesn’t move. This feels ominous, too, as if his spikes have withdrawn for fear of Lena’s wrath. His trademark aviators are perched on the bridge of his nose, but this time the sun warrants them: The day is clear and bright. A pathetic fallacy—a brewing storm, maybe—would feel more fitting. But nature is oblivious. As if to underscore this point, a lark begins singing in the tree overhead.

  When Sam sees Alex, he pushes the sunglasses down his nose and raises both eyebrows. “Damn. You going to introduce?”

  As usual, Alex looks runway-caliber. She’s wearing a high-waisted pink dress cinched with a thin leather belt, her onyx hair drifting halfway down her back in beachy waves.

  “Sam, meet my girlfriend Alex. Alex, this is Charlie’s best man, Sam.”

  “Best, brightest, sexiest—I welcome all superlatives,” Sam says, taking Alex’s manicured hand and kissing her knuckles. A blush spreads and recedes across her cheekbones as she offers a halfheartedly sarcastic “Enchanted.”