by Ree Drummond
Ann isn’t my mother-in-law’s name.
Once dinner was served, it was time for the official toasts: my childhood friend Becky, citing inside jokes that only the two of us, to this day, understand; Marlboro Man’s uncle, who’d written a funny poem for the occasion, and whose commanding voice silenced the entire party; my sister, whose sweet sentiments elicited an “Awwww” from everyone in attendance; my dad, who choked up and couldn’t continue…and left all the women sobbing at his display of fatherly emotion.
It left me with a lump in my throat. I knew my dad’s tears were coming from a much deeper place than a father merely wishing his first daughter well. The hustle and bustle of the previous week had, until that moment, pushed the turmoil between my parents comfortably under the surface. That my parents’ marriage was dangling by a delicate thread during a time when I was beginning my life with the greatest love of my life was a terrible joke. If I stopped and allowed myself to think about it for very long, I’d crumble.
I rescued my dad from the microphone, hurrying up to where he stood and giving him a supportive, upbeat hug just as one of Marlboro Man’s closest childhood friends, Tom, made his way to the toasting station.
Tom carried with him a glass full of wine, which clearly hadn’t been his first of the evening. He swaggered and swayed as he started to speak, and his eyes, while not quite at half mast, were certainly well on their way.
“In my mind,” Tom began, “this is what love is all about.”
Sounded good. A little slurred, but it was nice and simple.
“And…and…and in my mind,” Tom continued, “in my mind, I know this is all about…this is all love here.”
Oh dear. Oh no.
“And all I can say is that in my mind,” he went on, “it’s just so great to know that true love is possible right now in this time.”
Crickets. Tap-tap. Is this thing on?
“I’ve known this guy for a long, long time,” he resumed, pointing to Marlboro Man, who was sitting and listening respectfully. “And…in my mind, all I have to say is that’s a long…long time.”
Tom was dead serious. This was not a joke toast. This was not a ribbing toast. This was what was “in his mind.” He made that clear over and over.
“I just want to finish by saying…that in my mind, love is…love is…everything,” he continued.
People around the room began to snicker. At the large table where Marlboro Man and I sat with our friends, people began to crack up.
Everyone except Marlboro Man. Instead of snickering and laughing at his friend—whom he’d known since they were boys and who, he knew, had recently gone through a rough couple of years—Marlboro Man quietly motioned to everyone at our table with a tactful “Shhhh,” followed by a quietly whispered “Don’t laugh at him.”
Then Marlboro Man did what I should have known he’d do. He stood up, walked up to his friend, who was rapidly entering into embarrassing territory…and gave him a friendly handshake, patting him on the shoulder. And the dinner crowd, rather than bursting into the uproarious laughter that had been imminent moments before, clapped instead.
I watched the man I was about to marry, who’d always demonstrated a tenderness and compassion for people—whether in movies or in real life—who were subject to being teased or ridiculed. He’d never shown a spot of discomfort in front of my handicapped brother Mike, for all the times Mike had sat on his lap or begged him for rides to the mall. He’d never mocked or ridiculed another person as long as I’d known him. And while his good friend Tom wasn’t exactly developmentally disabled, he’d just gotten perilously close to being voted Class Clown by a room full of people at our rehearsal dinner. But Marlboro Man had swept in and ensured that didn’t happen. My heart swelled with emotion.
Later, when the party had thinned out and Betsy and I ran to the ladies’ room to primp, she remarked on Marlboro Man’s chivalry, sighing over his sweet display of kindness.
Then she moved closer to me, zeroing in and focusing on the general area of my chin.
“Oh…my…God,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “What’s wrong with your face?”
My stomach fell to the floor. I found a bottle of Jergens on the bathroom counter and began rubbing it in, determined to beat the flaking skin into submission.
MOST OF the guests left the rehearsal dinner at the country club; the remaining group—a varied collection of important figures in both of our lives—had skittered away to the downtown hotel where all of the out-of-town guests were staying. Marlboro Man and I, not ready to bid each other good night yet, had joined them in the small, dimly lit (lucky for me, given the deteriorating condition of my epidermis) hotel bar. We gathered at a collection of tiny tables butted up together and wound up talking and laughing into the night, toasting one another and spouting various late-night versions of “I’m so glad I know you” and “I love you, man!” In the midst of all the wedding planning and craziness, hanging out in a basement bar with uncles, college friends, and siblings was a relaxing, calming elixir. I wanted to bottle the feeling and store it up forever.
It was late, though; I saw Marlboro Man looking at the clock in the bar.
“I think I’ll head back to the ranch,” he whispered as his brother told another joke to the group. Marlboro Man had a long drive ahead, not to mention an entire lifetime with me. I couldn’t blame him for wanting a good night’s sleep.
“I’m tired, too,” I said, grabbing my purse from under the table. And I was; the long day had finally set in.
The two of us stood up and said our good-byes to all the people who loved us so much. Men stood up, some stumbling, and shook hands with Marlboro Man. Women blew kisses and mouthed Love you guys! to us as we walked out of the room and waved good-bye. But no one left the bar. Nobody loved us that much.
Marlboro Man and I walked together to our vehicles—symbolically parked side by side in the hotel lot under a cluster of redbud trees. Sleepiness had definitely set in; my head fell on his shoulder as we walked. His ample arms gripped my waist reassuringly. And the second we reached my silver Camry, the temperature began to rise.
“I can’t wait till tomorrow,” he said, backing me against the door of my car, his lips moving toward my neck. Every nerve receptor in my body simultaneously fired as his strong hands gripped the small of my back; my hands pulled him closer and closer.
We kissed and kissed some more in the hotel parking lot, flirting dangerously with taking it a step—or five—further. Out-of-control prairie fires were breaking out inside my body; even my knees felt hot. I couldn’t believe this man, this Adonis who held me so completely and passionately in his arms, was actually mine. That in a mere twenty-four hours, I’d have him all to myself. It’s too good to be true, I thought as my right leg wrapped around his left and my fingers squeezed his chiseled bicep. It was as if I’d been locked inside a chocolate shop that also sold delicious chardonnay and french fries…and played Gone With the Wind and Joan Crawford movies all day long—and had been told “Have fun.” He was going to be my own private playground for the rest of my life. I almost felt guilty, like I was taking something away from the world.
It was so dark outside, I forgot where I was. I had no sense of geography or time or space, not even when he took my face in his hands and touched his forehead to mine, closing his eyes, as if to savor the powerful moment.
“I love you,” he whispered as I died right there on the spot. It wasn’t convenient, my dying the night before my wedding. I didn’t know how my mom was going to explain it to the florist. But she’d have to; I was totally done for.
I’d had half a glass of wine all evening but felt completely inebriated. When I finally arrived home, I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I was intoxicated—drunk on a cowboy. A cowboy who, in less than twenty-four hours, would become my husband.
Chapter Twenty-one
SHE WORE A LILY WHITE VERA
I OPENED MY EYES. It was morning. I could hear the whirrin
g of a passing electric golf cart on the seventh fairway outside, and the smell of coffee wafted up from downstairs. Gevalia coffee, the mail-order beans my mom had used since she first heard of the brand on the beach in Hilton Head one summer in the early 1980s. “Ghuh-vahl-ya,” my mom’s voice would sing when her monthly order arrived on her doorstep. “I just love my Ghuh-vahl-ya.”
I just loved her Gevalia, too.
Mike’s booming voice was downstairs. He was on the phone, as usual.
“M-m-m-my sister is gettin’ married,” I heard him announce to the person on the other end of the line. “And I am gonna s-s-s-sing at duh reception.”
A long pause followed. I braced myself.
“Oh, p-p-p-prolly ‘Elvira,’” Mike said.
Perfect, I thought, pulling myself out of bed. Mike singing “Elvira” at my reception. As if my scaly chin wasn’t enough, I needed one more thought to terrorize me for the rest of my wedding day. Brushing my teeth, I left on my pajamas and stumbled downstairs. I needed some Gevalia in order to face the challenges ahead.
“Ooooh, pretty woman!” Mike ogled as I walked into the kitchen.
Mike clearly didn’t have one speck of taste. With all my pretty nightgowns and PJs packed away in my honeymoon suitcase, I’d been reduced to my trusty old gray satin sleepwear. Victoria’s Secret, circa 1986—back when model Jill Goodacre reigned supreme. Soft and worn and faded, they were as cozy and comfortable as they could be. They were decidedly not pretty, no matter what my brother Mike said.
“Good morning, Mike,” I mumbled, making a beeline for the coffeepot.
“Oooooh!” he teased again. “Someone is getting married tonight! Woooooooo…”
“Yep,” I said, taking that first glorious sip of java. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Mike put his hand over his mouth and snickered. Then he asked, “So…are you guys gonna do some…some kissin’?”
“I certainly hope so,” I said. This only served to make Mike laugh harder.
“Ooooooh!” he squealed. “Are you gonna have a baby?”
Oh, Lord.
I took another hit of Gevalia and answered, “Not today.” Mike cracked up again. He was clearly on a roll.
“What’s so funny this morning, Mike?” I asked.
“Your s-s-s-stomach is gonna get so fat,” he answered. Mike was quickly approaching manic stage—the result of a large, busy weekend and his routine being disrupted. Soon the inevitable crash would come. I just hoped I was on the plane to Australia when it happened. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Oh, whatever, Mike,” I answered, feigning indignation.
With that he stood up, my special, wonderful brother named Mike, and made his way across the kitchen to the place where I stood near the coffeepot. Seven inches shorter than me, Mike wrapped his short arms around my waist and clung to me in a sweet bear hug. Resting his balding head on my chest, he patted my back affectionately.
“You so lovely,” he said.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and rested my chin on his shiny noggin. I tried to respond, but my throat suddenly felt tight. I bit my lip and felt my nose sting.
“You my lovely, lovely sister,” Mike repeated, not budging from our embrace.
It was just what I needed that Saturday morning: an anchoring hug from my brother Mike. “I love you, Mikey,” I managed. And a bittersweet tear rolled slowly down my cheek.
THE WEDDING day moved forward with a long, invigorating bubble bath, another vigorous exfoliation of my increasingly scaly face, phone calls from friends, a slightly nervous stomach. The bridesmaids’ luncheon was at noon: asparagus sandwiches, chatting, laughing, and talk of the honeymoon, plans, excitement. And a lot of talk of the country, and how on earth I was going to handle living there.
Nervous stomach.
Once home from the luncheon, I tried in vain to take a nap. There was no way; the adrenaline had officially kicked in. I checked my honeymoon packing one last time; it was all there, just as it had been the previous ten times I’d checked. I lay on my bed and stared at the wallpaper, realizing it might be the last time.
Before I knew it, four o’clock had rolled around; it was time to shower. The wedding was in exactly three hours.
Violently nervous stomach: I might not survive.
I headed to the church at five-thirty, wearing jeans, flip-flops, and brick red lipstick. My mom, calm and cool as a mountain lake, carried my white dress—plain and romantic, with a bodice that laced up corset-style in the back and delicate sheer sleeves. I carted in my shoes…my earrings…my makeup…and my exfoliating scrub, in case my face decided to pull a last-minute sloughing. I wasn’t about to roll over and take a last-minute sloughing without a fight. Not on my wedding day.
I walked up the stairs of the church of my youth—the beautiful gray stone Episcopal church with the beautiful red door and the comforting smell of Sunday school and coffee and incense and wine. It had baptized me and confirmed me and taught me the Nicene Creed…and shown me the transcendent beauty of the bright morning sun shining through stained-glass windows. It had cradled me through a mischievous childhood and an angst-filled adolescence, and had been the site of many a teenage crush—on Donnie, the much older youth group friend of my brother’s, who was brooding and dangerous and probably didn’t even know my name; on Stevo, two years ahead of me, who consumed my seventh-grade year and broke my heart when he fell in love with my good friend Carrie. And later on Bruce, the widower and father of two young children, whom I briefly thought I could rescue…but who only saw me as a silly schoolgirl who knew nothing about real life, or loss, or grief.
And he was right.
They rang through my head as I ascended the stairs of my church—all of the important milestones and theologies and boys that had shaped my spiritual experience. And now, the most important one of all: my marriage to the one man on earth with whom I could ever imagine spending my life. It was definitely my favorite sacrament to date.
Eric, my German hairdresser, was waiting for me in the large dressing room upstairs. He’d cut my auburn hair since I was six and had seen it through tragic self-trimmings of my bangs, unfortunate summers of excessive Sun-In use, and horrible home perms gone terribly wrong. He’d never shrunk from haughtily chastising me through my follicular antics and had thrown in plenty of Teutonic life coaching along the way, on every subject from pimply high school boys to current events and politics. And he’d pretty much made me feel equal parts stupid and uncultured on more than one occasion with his superior knowledge of theater and art and opera.
But I loved him. He was important to me. So when I asked him to come to my wedding to transform my hair into an elegant and sexy and uncontrived but polished updo, Eric had answered, simply, “Yes.”
And the moment I sat down in the chair, he chastised me for washing my hair right before I arrived.
“Ees juss too smooz,” Eric scolded.
“I’m sorry,” I begged. “Please don’t ground me, Eric. I didn’t want my head to stink on my wedding night.”
And for the first time ever, I saw Eric crack a relaxed, mellow smile.
I loved it that Eric was there.
The clock ticked away toward seven; news circulated that the tuxedo-clad Marlboro Man had arrived. He’d spent the day with his groomsmen and guests, driving them to the big city and treating them all to black cowboy boots to match their tuxes. Black patent slip-ons—and monogrammed Dopp kits—weren’t exactly his style. Even Mike got his own pair of shit-kickers, which he proudly displayed to guests walking into the church.
My sister zipped me into my dress and laced up the delicate bodice; Eric attached my simple tulle veil as I slipped on my white satin Mary Jane pumps. I inhaled, trying my best to fill my lungs with air…but no matter what I did, they would only partially inflate. My size 6 dress—straddling the line between the perfect fit and one size too small—wasn’t helping my respiration.
“We need to head downstairs in five min
utes,” the altar guild worker announced at the door.
My chest began to tighten as my wedding party—and Mike, who’d abandoned his usher post to make his way up to the dressing room—squealed. I immediately thought of my parents. Were they enjoying themselves? Or were they just going through the motions? Was my dad downstairs greeting guests, thinking to himself, This is all a joke, as his own marriage was crumbling before his eyes? I looked at my mom as she walked out of the room to head downstairs. She was resplendent, glowing. Was her mind elsewhere? My stomach began to throb as I watched my three bridesmaids grasp their bouquets and help one another with their makeup. My overactive mind continued to race.
What if Mike pitches a fit at the reception? What if he causes a scene? Did I pack enough shoes for the honeymoon? What if I don’t like living in the country? Am I supposed to plant a garden? I don’t know how to saddle a horse. What if I feel out of place? I never learned how to square dance. Is it do-si-do or allemande left? Wait…is it square dancing? Or two-stepping? I don’t even know the dances. I don’t belong out there. What if I want to get a job? There IS no job. Does J know I’m getting married today? Does Collin? Does Kev? What if I pass out during the ceremony? I’ve seen it on America’s Funniest Home Videos dozens of times. Someone always passes out. What if the food’s cold when we get to the reception? Wait…it’s supposed to be cold. Wait…some of it is, some of it isn’t. What if I’m not what Marlboro Man’s looking for? What if my face flakes off as I’m saying “I do”? What if my dress gets caught inside my panty hose? I’m so shaky all of a sudden. My hands feel so wet and clammy….
I’d never had a panic attack before. But as I would soon find out, there’s a first time for everything.
Oh, Ree…don’t do this now.