This prompts a discussion of when.
“As soon as it’s convenient,” the groom says. “Maybe in a year, like May.”
I’m thinking more like February, but whatever. A year seems too long to wait. Oh God, I thought I was one of those casual girls who doesn’t care, who waits for everything. Now the diva bride thing is happening.
“Maybe we could get married even earlier, like over a long weekend. Presidents’ weekend,” I suggest.
“Sure.”
We smile at each other, and a warm sensation creeps into my heart. He prepared for this moment, thought about it for a while. A friend said that an engagement isn’t real unless there’s a ring. I have a ring.
I’m not sure if I eat. Maybe I take a few bites of rice, then look at my ring. Again, where are the nerves? I love this calm and feel that the ring plays a big part. Sam enjoys his second margarita, and I’m about to bust out of my chair. Must. Call. Mom. She’s going to have a cow. I cannot wait to shock everyone. This is engagement narcissism, and what fun it is.
The minute I arrive home, I call my mother and give her the news. This woman is used to calls of woe, me crying into the phone about all kinds of awful traumas. I want to tell her about this good fortune immediately. Usually, she is overflowing with things to say.
This time, she’s keeps saying the same three words. “Oh my God. . . .”
“And then he gave me the ring. . . .”
“Oh my God. . . .” Mom is never this inarticulate.
“So, I need to get regular manicures now and not the crappy ones I do myself.”
“Oh my God. . . .”
She does regain consciousness enough to ask me when we want to have the wedding.
“Maybe February or May,” I say.
“What about September this year?” she says. “We old folks need it fast. I’m going to have a heart attack. Oh my God. . . .”
The rest of the conversation is full of more “Oh my God”s and little bursts of praise for Sam. This boy will be her son-in-law. She’ll have him full-time, her very own academic to play with. I can’t even begin to think about the future lovefest between Sam and Don. They will be related.
As soon as I get off the phone, I call my brother. Instead of “Oh my God,” he keeps saying, “Wow.” I can hear Carlos yelling in the background. Our family keeps getting bigger and bigger.
“Should I tell Dad?” I ask. I really don’t want to, but I guess it would be rude not to say anything to my father, to let all his relatives find out over Facebook before he does. Though a malicious part of me wants to do it that way.
“You need to call him.”
Yeah, so how would that go? The sooner I call him, the sooner I can change my Facebook status to “Engaged.” Engagement narcissism is second only to Facebook narcissism. The likes will boost me into the happiness stratosphere even though I’m already happy because I am engaged, in case that’s not clear. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged.
I completely forget that Sam is in the room.
With the phone in my hand, I go into the bathroom. Sam is in the rest of the studio calling his father and brother, telling them the news. I can already hear Sam describing the ring to his father and explaining why he didn’t want to save money by choosing jewelry from the family’s safe-deposit box in Miami. It makes me laugh.
I dial my father’s number, hoping my stepmother doesn’t answer because then I’ll have to speak to her.
“Hello?” Thank goodness, it’s just my father.
“Hi, Dad. It’s me.”
I already know I have a good two minutes to get my message through before he wants to get off the phone. I’m sure he’ll be polite, just not gushing. I’m paying him a courtesy before I shout my news from the rooftops.
“I’m engaged to that guy I e-mailed you about.”
“Oh . . . well, congratulations.” He sounds surprised, and not upset in any way. I like to think he might be happy for me and the fact that despite everything, I found a decent person. “So, tell me about him.”
“He’s teaching French at Barnard. He lived in Israel for eight years.”
“So, I guess he must be on Israel’s side.”
“Well, he has more knowledge of the Middle East than most of us who’ve never been there. He loves Israel, but he thinks each side has the enemy it deserves.”
My father chuckles. I can hear him judging my fiancé, though perhaps it’s envy. My dad never got to fight in a war or go anywhere truly dangerous. The worst nail-biting moments he’s had came from mountain climbing (though he’s had some life-and-death moments). I doubt he’s ever had to stay in a shelter or live in fear of a suicide bomb going off in a restaurant. My father, at heart, is an adventurer, but one who’s been homebound for most of the past thirty years.
“Congratulations,” he says.
“Yep, I’m actually getting married, probably early next year.” No talk of the ceremony or his participation.
The few minutes are up and we discuss the upcoming Smith reunion, where I will bring Sam to meet him. It might be a good idea for them to meet before we get married. Plus, I can’t resist the Smith starchy foods, and they are nice people. I don’t worry a bit about introducing him to my mother’s side of the family either. The Sullivans will love Sam because he’ll eat great piles of their food. He will love them for yelling at him to eat more.
Finally, it’s done. My dad knows. Mom and Patrick know. And now I go to Facebook and change my status to “Engaged,” close my eyes, and wait for the flood of “likes” and congratulations. I am going to marry Sam Bloom.
• • •
A ring on your finger makes a difference. I always thought it wouldn’t, but it does. Dare I admit that I like that feeling of ownership? It’s so unfeminist of me. Out of defiance, I tried out different rings on that finger: a hematite ring, an amethyst ring, then a fake wedding band for when I wanted to be left alone. This new engagement ring feels right. I used to be bothered by these traditions, but now I’m swimming in them, willingly.
Going to work engaged feels fantastic. On the subway, I keep peering down at my ring. I have one now. With new energy, I get my engaged breakfast and engaged coffee, take out my building pass with my left hand, flashing my ring as much as possible.
The newly engaged usually enter the Harlequin office to squeals and demands to see the ring, hear the proposal story and wedding details. Very little gets done by the affianced lady, because who can stop looking at her ring? Not me, and I am no different. Though I stay in my office—since I don’t want to be too obvious and showy—I quickly whip out my hand and give details to anyone who asks.
My friend Sarah, the editor for our nonfiction line, examines the ring and says, “It’s a good setting. That way the diamond can breathe.” If it weren’t for Sarah, I wouldn’t have a clue what I wanted in a ring. She gave me some websites to scour at a point when I overheard Sam talking to Warren about “waterslides” and should he get one “waterslide” or “three waterslides.” I figured out that waterslide meant “diamond.”
The ongoing pleasure of the engagement is indescribable. It’s like a bubble bath, cake, and champagne rolled into one—all day long. Sam and I are a little nicer to each other, not that we weren’t before. We smile more, hold hands more, and I’m sure we’re nauseating the general population.
For months now, he’s had plans to go to Israel to visit a sleep clinic. I know, why would he need a sleep clinic? Between you and me, I’m not sure either, though he does have a problem with snoring and waking up in the middle of the night. At least he’s proactive about getting help, almost comically so. I just witness and support him as much as I can. Health care is cheaper over in Israel (if you ignore those thousands of dollars for a plane ticket), and Sam has convinced himself he has serious sleep issues. I’ve learned to just nod my head over his latest health fixation.
After a couple of weeks of engagement bliss, Sam leaves and I’m alone for ten days. It seems strange to have the place to myself again for such an extended period. I keep thinking how wonderful it will be—watching movies all day, reading until three A.M., eating as much crap as I want. My solitude is back, though not enough for me to miss being single. I just have some time to adjust to this new phase, sort of like when Carrie and the girls go on a trip together—returning to the source before they all get into more permanent relationships. I’m returning to me.
For the first forty-eight hours, I’m deliriously happy in this decadent living. When I go to play computer solitaire, I don’t start crying. The television watching is epic, with various takeout delivery people stopping by with my meals. Sam and I communicate the way we used to, via Skype.
By the third day, I hate the silence. Where is my Sam making me laugh, stomping over to the fridge to eat all the leftovers? Sure, my apartment is cleaner. The bed gets made and stays made. I barely have dishes in the sink, and the bathroom doesn’t carry that “boy” film of hair and who-knows-what. But I miss Sam, his voice, his playfulness, the company, and even his snoring.
And there’s another thing. If I think about it too much, my legs start to shake, and I get that sick feeling. But I have to do something about it. Finally, it’s time for me go across the street to Duane Reade and buy my very first pregnancy test.
I choose my favorite cutoffs, an oversize bleached-out pair that are so big that I feel skinny; my favorite tight shirt; and flip flops. I throw my hair up in a bun. No makeup. This is my comfort wardrobe for when I feel and look like hell, which is fine since I’m on vacation and having a mini panic attack. Even though it might be bad for the baby, I pop an Ativan, because the idea that I need to take a pregnancy test makes me unable to breathe properly. I can barely move. Five days late.
We’ve already established that “if it happens, it happens.” But so fast? I guess it’s a good thing, but I’m petrified. Might as well find out if I am pregnant or not, so I walk over to the Duane Reade, legs shaking, and find a test, along with some Altoids, a candy bar, and some Doritos. It’s absurd that I’d be so nervous. If I got pregnant, I’d have the baby. Now that I have an actual significant other, it wouldn’t be reckless. We have the money, the support network.
To be honest, I’m not one of those girls who’s dreamed about being pregnant. That’s not a crime, I know, but I feel guilty for it. Isn’t that supposed to be ingrained in me? When I’m around children, I love playing with them. The idea of raising Sam’s child makes me happy, but does that kid have to come from me?
All of a sudden, I’m dealing with it. I could be pregnant, earlier than we planned. We might have this little red-haired kid with a big nose running around eating and breaking things. I love the idea, but it’s terrifying. After drinking thousands of gallons of water, I go and deal with taking the test.
In the past three days, I’ve accepted that we might add to our family. So much has changed, and rather quickly.
“So, I’m really late,” I say to Sam.
“Oh . . . ,” he answers. “You may be carrying my child.”
He sounds happy, so I start to feel a bit more upbeat. The idea of children starts to excite me, though not enough to overpower my anxiety. We’ll just say the balance between the two is leveling off.
“And it didn’t even take that long. Wow.” He sounds shocked.
“I don’t know yet. It could be a false alarm,” I say.
When we hang up, I do feel some pressure. If I’m not pregnant, he’ll feel let down. If I am, I’ll be scared out of my mind, but less so with him there. I guess I need to face reality, take the test.
I follow the directions and wait it out. And another test, watching closely as they both turn negative.
I feel that mixture of disappointment and relief. I wanted to be pregnant, sort of, especially since I could live out the fantasy of calling myself “knocked up,” creating the suspicion of a shotgun wedding. How fun would that be? So I’m not pregnant. When I tell Sam, he’s supportive. We already discussed the possibility that we might not be able to have children given my advanced age. We decided that we should try and see what options are open. More than anything, I don’t want to go through years of IVF and fertility clinics, the heartbreak that goes with them. Having a child isn’t my main objective in life (though I’d adopt in a second).
My panic stops, the adrenaline ebbs, and I regain my appetite enough to devour the bag of Doritos. I am calm again, returning to the woman I was before all of this happened. But the whole experience makes me think about the baby issue. Sam returns in a few days, and I take the time to think about the months to come.
I have a wedding to plan. The baby can wait a bit longer. In addition to my author Marie sending me not one but three wedding-planning books, I consult that beacon in any bridal storm: I join the Knot. And this is when the real fun begins.
Because I’ve never cracked open a bridal anything, I need a whole lot of help. Fast.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wedding Planning and Taking the High Road
In a romance novel, there is no long engagement period after our rugged hero Jake Hunter proposes to Cassie McBride. He gives her a ring, then the author fast-forwards to their blissful wedding. The cause of the bride’s puffy glow is anyone’s guess—too many falafels? Or a belly full of baby?
Their families go ape with happiness, fussing over who’s going to make what wedding dish (there’s a lot of potluck in romance). Aunt Cora provides the Something Old—like a hanky blown into by a bride in 1874—and the bratty sister coughs up Something Blue, her favorite skanky garter she wears to the Rocking G-Spot Saloon every night. Cassie and Jake have these amazing nuptials—the whole town attends—and look forward to the honeymoon (wink wink), though every day is a honeymoon, if you know what I mean.
For me and Sam, the engagement begins with his trip to Israel and a pregnancy scare. With every twinge of fear about my life changing, I look at my ring and remember:
I love Sam. Sam loves me.
I also remember that my family doesn’t resemble those in most romance novels. My mother is a larger-than-life powerhouse. She’s the one who has to be intimately involved in my wedding. In my corner, I also have many “Aunt Cora”s, all of whom provide spunk, fun, and wisdom. I love my uncles and cousins, too. No surprises there.
My father is another story.
Often, romance heroines are orphans with little extended family. But if Cassie McBride did have a father, he would be one of the following:
1. Dead
2. Drunk and dysfunctional
3. Adorable and loving from the beginning, married to the same woman for fifty years
4. A cold jerk from the beginning
5. A cold jerk from the beginning and dying
Poor Jake Hunter is in the same situation. Usually, Jake has a hard time dealing with his father because they are so similar. Jake Hunter Sr. has worked the ranch for decades and wants his son to take over. Jake has his own dreams, but often they get sidelined due to tragedy and he has to raise his five brothers and sister on his own. Maybe Aunt Cora helps, but she’s getting old. Well, not old enough to stop baking those fluffy blueberry muffins.
My dad doesn’t fit into any category. He was a loving father until I reached adulthood and could feasibly live on my own. At that point, he and my stepmother had been married for more than a decade, so why the sudden chill? I hadn’t lived at home since before prep school, and before that, I was the girl who stayed in her room or lingered at friends’ houses for as long as possible. I didn’t want to be a burden on them, so I worked through my chores, tried to be good, and used my allowance on things I needed, things parents would normally buy for adolescent female offspring. I must have made too many mistakes as an adult, ignored my father and stepmother, or gone into the wrong professi
on. After many years, I realize that his pathology has little to do with me. No one can truly diagnose why I fell out of favor with my father, and so I move on from it. At heart, I will always love my father, but it’s best for us to go our separate ways.
Getting married stirs up that primal family stuff you’d rather keep buried. Now I have to deal with old crap, which means digging into my daddy issues, once again. For the past few years, it’s been a relief to be estranged rather than to lose myself in trying to please my father and stepmother when I visit. The father I knew is long gone.
But I can’t help but think, You have to take the high road. That way, you can say you did everything you could.
As I work out my guest list, Sam says this a few times before it sinks in. I know he’s right. I have to invite my father to my wedding. He has to meet Sam, too, and I know the perfect time: the Smith reunion in August. There are layers upon piles of reasons why I should dis my father altogether. It would be thoroughly satisfying to withhold my invite. I picture my wedding, all his siblings in attendance, and his realizing he’s been left out.
Okay, this makes me sad.
The one last glimmer of father-daughter hope we had was at my cousin’s wedding, maybe seven years ago. She’s a little younger than I am and had finally found her Mr. Right. I blubbered all the way through the ceremony. This girl, who’d been quiet, wildly intelligent, and sweet—multifaceted, really—she could get married, too. In her early thirties, my cousin did her work, went to church, loved her friends and family. One day, she met her husband and her whole life changed.
If I weren’t so happy for her, witnessing her palpable joy, I would have scowled my way through the affair and been envious. Instead, I noshed and hung out with her brother, and Patrick, of course. At one point, with some prodding from his wife—who does the right thing occasionally—my dad came over and asked me to dance. He was one of those fun dancers, too, loved making an ass of himself . . . or was sappier than sap, the way a real dad should be.
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