by AC Netzel
Ben chuckles. “Rose, you’re a wise woman.”
“Oh, she has her moments,” I chime in.
She looks at me. “Not every boy you dated deserved a seat at Sunday dinner.” She looks over at Ben. “This one did.”
“I’m only marrying Julia for your cooking,” he jokes.
“Can you please tell her that your wedding day will still be perfect without me?”
“Will it?” he asks.
“Of course it will. Everyone is sending me video and pictures as it happens. It’ll be like I’m there. Tell her,” she insists, her brow knitted.
He looks down at me as I look up at him. “It’s going to be perfect.”
I smile tightly and nod. “I know. I just wish…”
“Stop it.” She holds her hand up, interrupting me. “It’s going to be perfect,” she reiterates. My mother’s confidence in ‘everything will be all right’ has never waned.
“Okay, perfect,” I repeat, knowing near perfect is the best it’ll ever be.
“And I’ll be absolutely fine watching it all from here,” she lies, telling me all the things she thinks I need to hear.
I nod and smile. My returning smile is my lie.
After a half hour of telling my mother every minute detail about the wedding and honeymoon plans, she tries to hide a yawn, fighting to stay awake.
“Hey Mom, Ben and I are going to head out. We both have to work tomorrow and you look tired.”
She nods. “I’m so glad I got to see the both of you before the big day,” she says through another yawn.
“We are too.” He bends down and kisses her forehead. “You’re sure about this, Rose?”
“Yes. Marry my daughter. Start your new life. I’ll be watching.”
“Okay,” he says softly. He twists his head toward me, catching me wiping away a tear. “Are you sure about this?” he asks me.
“Of course I am,” I snap. I don’t know where my abruptness came from.
He lifts a brow at my sudden change in attitude, but says nothing, redirecting his attention to my mother. “Take care of yourself, Rose. We’ll miss you.”
She smiles wistfully and says nothing, the mask she’s hiding behind slowly evaporating.
Ben walks to the doorway, giving me some space to say goodbye.
“So,” I say, taking her hand in mine.
“I love you, baby girl,” she whispers, squeezing my hand.
“I love you too,” I choke out through my tears.
“I’m getting what I prayed for,” she says softly. “You found the one person in the world who loves you the way you should be loved. Be happy.”
“I am.” I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand.
“Many things happen on your wedding day, just let them unfold as they may and enjoy. And don’t be afraid to blink. If you miss something, it wasn’t for your eyes to see.”
“You’ve always been my biggest cheerleader.”
“You’ve given me a lot of reasons to cheer.” She smiles, blinking back her tears, and squeezes my hand again. “Next time I see you, you’ll be Mrs. Martin.”
“I guess I will.”
“Sounds nice,” she whispers.
I smile and nod. “Yeah. It does.”
“Until next time,” she says quietly. I grab a tissue from the box on her nightstand and wipe the tear rolling down her cheek.
“Don’t be sad, Mom,” I say through my tears.
“I’m not sad, baby. I’m so very happy for you. That’s all.”
I close my eyes and swear I can hear her heart breaking into a thousand pieces.
“There’s a bag near the windowsill. It’s for you. A little something from me.”
I walk to the window and grab a small paper bag. “Should I open it now?”
“No. Wait.”
“I’ll call you every day. Check on you and fill you in on details,” I tell her as I slip the small bag in my handbag.
“I’d like that.”
“Okay.” I clear my throat and walk back to the bed. “Thank you,” I sigh, unable to find the right words, “for everything.” I press a small kiss on her forehead.
She smiles, her first genuine smile since we got here. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter 11
We leave the hospital room. I take one last glance at her closed door and sigh. The next time I see her, I’ll be married. Married without her witnessing it. Married without the comfort of my mother smiling back at me in the church pews. Married.
The clicks of my heels against the white tile floor amplify as the sound ricochets off the narrow hallway walls. The high pitched giggles of two nurses deep in conversation down the corridor sound like nails running down a chalkboard. I stop and leer at them.
“Is there something I can help you with?” One nurse asks, still smiling with her coworker.
Yeah, shut the fuck up and fix my mother by Saturday.
Ben turns to me, frowning.
“No. Have a good night,” I say, continuing to move forward toward the steel elevator doors.
Click, click. Click, click. The echoes are louder and louder. I’m two seconds away from taking my shoes off and flinging them in the yellow bucket of filthy water near the custodial closet.
We reach the elevator and Ben presses the call button. I stand, arms crossed in front of my chest, tapping my foot.
“Are you all right?”
I fake a smile and nod. “I’m fine.”
He tilts his head slightly and studies me.
“Ben, I’m fine. Really,” I assure him. “I mean, it sucks. But like she said, our wedding will still be perfect.”
The elevator pings, the doors slide open, and we walk in. Fortunately, there’s only one other person inside, leaning against the back wall, staring at his cell phone. Ben and I stand in front while it descends to the first-floor lobby. This freaking elevator is moving so slow. Too slow. It’s three damn floors. I close my eyes to calm my shattered nerves when I hear it.
Nose whistles.
That irritating noise is grinding on my last nerve.
I have three options: I can stick my fingers up this guy’s tooting nostrils and end my misery. I can turn around and tell him to stop fucking breathing. Or I can ignore it.
Ben grabs my hand and holds it, snapping me out of my visions of a first–degree sinus cavity assault and whisks me back to the civilized world. I ignore the whistles and smile gratefully at Ben.
Once we’re out of the elevator, and away from the nose flutist, we exit the hospital and head toward the parking garage. The sky is dark, the wind picking up almost lifting my skirt up to my waist, giving the snout soloist walking a few steps behind us a show. We get in Ben’s SUV and head back to New York.
The car ride to Manhattan is silent. I usually take over the radio, but I’m not feeling it. I don’t feel much of anything. Ben reaches his hand over the console between us and takes mine in his, squeezing it gently.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I smile, masking my disappointment and sadness. “Yeah. She’ll be fine, and that’s all that matters. My brothers have her covered with a tablet to watch the big day. Our wedding will be televised for the entire third floor of Community Medical to see. Whether they like it or not.”
“Televised, huh?”
“Yeah, like Lady Diana to Charles,” I tell him.
“Let’s hope our marriage has a better ending.”
“I’d prefer no ending at all.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get.” He squeezes my hand again.
I’ve exhausted all the conversation I care to have. I can’t pretend I have any words left to speak. Staring out the window, I watch the scrub pines in the woods bend, obeying the winds directions. I close my eyes and try to shut down my thoughts.
Chapter 12
“Julia?”
“Huh?” I snap myself out of my near catatonic stare out the passenger side window.
“We’re home,�
� he says quietly, placing his hand on my knee.
Frowning, I blink a few times and focus on my surrounding. We’re in the parking garage in Manhattan. When did we get here? I don’t remember going through the Lincoln Tunnel. I know—I’m pretty certain at least—that I didn’t fall asleep.
“Okay.”
~o0o~
Ben unlocks his apartment door and we enter. I toss my handbag on the chair next to the coat closet and head straight to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, I search for something to soothe me.
I’m going into full-blown emotional eating mode. I don’t give a flying fuck if I have to suck in my stomach the entire wedding day because of it. I have needs. Right now those needs are neatly lined up in a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies.
I grab my cookies o’comfort, head over to the living room, and pick up my laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. Like it or not, I have seating arrangements to finish. Had I know that my procrastination would peak at the moment I received the worst news possible, I may have stepped up my game and gotten things done sooner.
My extended family is a royal pain in the ass. This one can’t sit next to that one. Make sure Jerk A isn’t seated at the same table with Jerk B. God forbid they put their family politics aside and let me have my day, stress-free. No, that would be asking too much.
I plop down, stretch my legs across the couch, and place the computer on my lap. I have opened these wedding files so many times, I don’t have to look to click on the correct folder.
This is payback for ignoring Ben’s suggestion that we hire a wedding planner to take care of these little things. I didn’t see the point in spending so much money when we’re already spending too much. I wasn’t born into a large bank account. I’ve always scraped by and counted every penny. Once, Allie and I lived on street vendor hot dogs and Ramen noodles for a week until we had enough to pay the rent.
Wasn’t so bad.
Although Ben’s never flaunted the fact that he comes from a higher tax bracket, much higher, he’s never had to struggle. He was born into wealth, inherited more when his grandparents passed away, and learned how to make it grow through his financial savvy in stocks and bonds.
Toggling between the guest list, instructions from our mothers, and a diagram of the room set up, I begin the dreaded task. I’m so not feeling this, but I have no choice. I’m running out of time. Once I finish this, I still have to print out the seating cards. This crappy night is never going to end.
My cell buzzes. I pick it up and read a text from Stuart.
*Pink Peonies.*
I text him back.
*What about pink peonies?*
*How would you feel about adding peonies to your bouquet?*
I love the way he asks like my opinion matters.
*Aren’t they huge?”* I text back.
*They’ll make a statement.*
I exhale a frustrated huff. Daisies. All I want are fucking daisies.
*We agreed to keep it small.*
*Trust me, you’ll love it.*
He’s already made up his mind. How about trusting me? You know, the goddamn bride.
As I’m about to text him back, I receive a text from my sister.
*Don’t panic.*
The number one way to get me panicking? Send me a text that starts ‘Don’t panic.’
*OMG. What happened? Mom ok?*
*She’s fine. Emma accidentally spilled chocolate milk on her flower girl dress.*
I close my eyes and shake my head, which is now pounding. I want to scream. What the hell else is going to go wrong?
*Can you get the stain out?* I text back.
*Most of it. Going to the dry cleaner in the morning. Just wanted to give you a heads up in case we need a plan B.*
Why do I need a heads up?
*Helloooo???* I get a text from Stuart.
Impatient pain in my ass.
*Peonies are fine.* I text back.
*What are you talking about?*
*The peonies.*
*The flower?*
*Yeah. Use them.*
*On the stain? WTF?*
I look down at my phone and realize I’m texting the wrong person and switch back to Stuart.
*Do whatever you want. Surprise me.*
I’m so overwhelmed, I don’t care anymore.
*Really? WooHoo!*
I think I just gave Stuart a boner.
*Yeah. Goodnight.* I switch back to my sister. *Let me know what the dry cleaner says. If you have to— just buy her any dress to wear. I don’t care. Whatever.*
*Okay. No worries. Talk to you tomorrow.*
I toss my cell on the cushion near my feet and return to the task at hand.
I made multicolored highlights to code some guests indicating who they are and why we’ve invited them. I don’t know half these people. They’re random names of random people spending a very specific event, the happiest day of my life, with me.
Not exactly what I envisioned but I’m learning to get used to not getting things I want.
Like my mother there.
But these are the cards I was dealt and I have to live with it. On the outside, I’m business as usual. That’s the way it has to be.
On the inside, I’m emotionally bankrupt, completely drained.
Ben sits at the end of the couch, placing my tossed phone on the coffee table, lifting up my feet, and resting them on his lap.
“Going over a manuscript?” he asks.
“Wedding stuff. Seating arrangements.”
“Need help?”
“I’m good,” I answer without looking up.
The room is silent as Ben swipes through emails on his cell phone and I bury my nose in lists. I wish he’d turn on the TV or something. The quiet is irritating as hell.
I reread Ben’s mother’s list of very exact instructions. Bev sure likes details. She even managed to sneak in a dessert suggestion with her invite list: ice cream in the shape of roses.
I wondered why she was so specific. Maybe she thought it looked classy, or she was fond of roses in general. Then I googled it. It seems John and Jacqueline Kennedy served ice cream—in the shape of roses— at their wedding.
The woman is obsessed.
“Why can’t Maggie McGuire sit at the same table as Bethany Davis? I thought all ‘The Club’ people would be seated together,” I ask.
“Because Bethany Davis fucked Mr. McGuire.”
“An affair?”
“One of many.”
I look down at the list. “Is that why Maggie McGuire can’t sit at the same table as Susan Wright?”
“Susan Wright had an affair.”
“Mr. McGuire can’t keep it in his pants.”
“It wasn’t with Mrs. McGuire’s husband.”
“Then why can’t they sit next to each other?”
“She had an affair with one of the McGuire children.”
“She had an affair with her friend’s son?”
“Daughter.”
“Holy shit. ‘The Club’ is a legit soap opera.”
“The stories I could tell.”
“If I didn’t have so much to do right now, you’d be dishing out all the Hamptons dirt.”
“Okay. Some day I’ll fill you in.”
Finally, something interesting to come out of that snobby place.
Overwhelmed and still annoyed at my text exchanges, I glance down at my files, notes, and diagrams. I’m sick of lists. Tired of all of it. I should seat all the assholes with personal issues together because… Fuck them.
And screw the final numbers for the caterer. And screw the giant bouquet I caved on. Screw the picture taking, the limo, the photo booth my sisters talked me into, screw the ‘signature cocktail’. It’s just another way for the hall to milk us out of more money.
Do this. Do that. Don’t seat her with him. Wedding deadlines, work deadlines. My head is pounding.
We should elope and escape all of this stupid crap.
; I don’t know what I’m doing. Which work friends of my father sit together? The last time I saw half these people I was ten years old at a company picnic. My mother was supposed to help me with this until…
“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my laptop shut.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Sorry. I accidentally bumped into it,” I lie, lifting the top up again and staring down at the waiting Excel sheet.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. He’s referring to my mother and I don’t want to go there.
“There’s nothing to talk about. Really. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
He looks at me skeptically.
“I’m all right, Ben.” I flash a fake smile. He nods and resumes reading emails. I catch him peeking over at me, so I keep my smile up. Finally satisfied, he goes back to his reading.
I’m cross referencing the yellow highlighted guests to the orange highlighted guests. I’ve read the same name three times over. Nothing is registering. My mother’s words haunt me. Over and over, I hear her voice.
“Next time I see you, you’ll be Mrs. Martin.”
This is so unfair.
“It’s going to be perfect.”
It won’t.
“My absence is a gust of wind. Be a pine tree, Julia. Bend.”
I glance at my index finger and flex it a few times to remind myself that I’m capable of bending.
“I don’t have to be there. You should know by now that I’m always with you.”
I slam my eyes shut. She needs to quiet down. I have to turn my brain off. I have to bend. Right now, I’m on the verge of bending right off the ledge.
With a deep sigh, I resume my table assignment chore. My heart sinks as I examine the long list of attendees and spot my mother’s name right above my father’s.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Blinking back my tears is useless. I can’t pretend it’s okay anymore. It’s not okay. It sucks. The thought of her absence overwhelms me and tears roll down my cheeks. I press my chin to my chest, hoping enough of my hair will fall in front of my face and prevent Ben from witnessing me silently unhinge.
Stillness fills the air, amplifying my sniffles, and grabbing Ben’s attention. His hand curls around my foot, giving me a gentle squeeze. I know he’s watching me.
Keeping my head down, I shake it a little more to make certain my hair is still hiding my face and hopefully my broken heart.