by Darlene Ryan
Peter nodded and draped the tie around his neck.
“You kept that damn thing all this time?”
“Truth, I forgot I had it. Laura found it in a box in the basement.”
“Excuse me,” Jason said, “but I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be old, new, borrowed, blue, not old, ugly, borrowed and brown. And it only applies to the bride.”
“You mean you haven’t told them the story?” Peter asked, with an ask-me-why-I’m-grinning grin.
“What story?” I said.
“When your father married your mother,” he held up one finger, “the first time, he was … well, he couldn’t sleep the night before and he … let’s say he over-medicated.”
Jason shot a look at Dad, and a smirk started across Jason’s face.
“The two of us were waiting in this little room in the basement of the church before the ceremony. It just had this one small window, high up in the wall. And Marc was feeling—”
“—hungover?” Jason supplied.
“There’s no bathroom. There’s not even a garbage can or a paper bag in the room. So he grabs a chair, climbs up, flings up the window, shoves his head out and … you know. The only problem was, when he stuck his head out, his tie sort of flew out too.”
Jason’s eyes were closed and he was shaking with silent laughter. I could even feel it in myself.
“The minister’s wife came in, thank God. She took the tie and washed it in the kitchen sink. Of course there was no way to dry it. So she decided I should give him my tie, because I was only the best man and no one was going to be looking at me.
“And great guy that I was and still am, I did. I stood there, while he got married, with that cold, wet tie around my neck, sticking to my chest through my shirt.”
“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this?” Jason asked.
I looked over at Dad. His mouth stretched up in what passed for a smile, but his lips had almost disappeared. And he kept looking away from Peter. He doesn’t like this, I realized.
Peter raised both hands. “Wait. That’s not the end of the story.” He held up two fingers. “Marc and Susan, take two. Four and a half years later. Same church, same tie. Someone brings you down.” He pointed at Jason. “Marc lifts you up in the air and you do this precision, projectile puke right on the tie.”
“Hey, it’s a God-given talent,” Jason said with a shrug.
“So there I am, another wedding of your father’s, wearing a cold, wet necktie.” He turned, smiling, to Dad. “Marc, you will notice this time,” he pointed to his sweater, “no tie.” He pulled the loose tie off his neck. “But I am prepared.”
Dad took the tie and put it in his left pocket. “Thanks, Peter,” he said. “I think.” He looked around the parking lot. “Is Anne here yet?”
“You’re not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, remember?” Peter said.
“That’s an old superstition.”
I grabbed Dad’s arm before he could head inside. “Maybe Anne believes in it.”
I did. At least for that day … sort of. I didn’t want to challenge fate, the wedding gods or the great cosmic plan. I didn’t want Dad and Anne to get married, but I didn’t want the marriage any more doomed than it already was. “How about if I go see if Anne’s here. All right?”
Dad turned to look at me. He exhaled so softly I almost missed the sigh. He nodded. “Tell her I … tell her … I’m here.”
I picked my way across the gravel, wobbling as my high heels sank down between the little rocks. When I stepped inside the old house a young woman with spiky hair like Jason’s leaned around the doorway to the right. She was holding two small pots of yellow roses. Anne was upstairs getting dressed, she told me, first door at the top of the stairs. I held the banister with one hand, my skirt with the other and made my way carefully up the steps. Outside the door I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders and knocked.
“Come in.” Anne was standing in front of a long oval mirror. She turned, her eyes widening with surprise when she saw it was me. But in the moment before she turned, while she was still looking at her reflection, she’d looked almost as if she was scared, biting the side of her lip.
“You look beautiful, Isabelle,” she said.
There was a silence. “You … too,” I said, finally remembering my manners.
She did. Her hair had been cut even shorter, and soft bits curled around her face. Her dress was ivory with a tint of pink. It had long, fitted sleeves, a scoop neck and slim skirt.
“Dad just wanted you to know we’re here,” I said. “And … do you need anything?” I brushed invisible lint off my skirt. Oh Lord, that hand thing of Dad’s was catching.
“I don’t think so.” Anne hesitated. “Except I couldn’t do a couple of the buttons at the back of my dress.”
“I’ll do them. Turn around.” The buttons and the loops of fabric that hooked around them were so tiny my fingers felt like they belonged on a giant’s hands.
“My fingers are cold,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Cold hands, warm heart.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just something my grandmother used to say, ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’ She had a lot of sayings like that.”
The second button finally slid through its loop. The sun was streaming through the window, making a patchwork of light on the floor. Anne smiled. “She used to say, ‘Happy is the bride that the sun shines on, happy is the corpse that the rain rains on.’”
“I guess you’re happy then,” I said.
She looked straight at me. “Yes, I am. And I hope … I believe we all can be, once we get to know each other. It’ll just take some time.”
I didn’t say anything. Anne broke the silence. “Is your father okay?” she asked.
“He’s fine. His friend Peter was telling us this really funny story about Dad, when he and my mom got married. Dad was so nervous he threw up all over his tie.”
Maybe it seemed cruel to talk about my mother on that day, but I needed Anne to know that I wasn’t going to forget about Mom, not that day, not any day.
Anne crossed over to the bed and picked up a white box. “Could you take these downstairs?” she asked. “There’s a boutonnière for your—for Marc, and for Peter and Jason.” She hesitated. “And there are flowers for you.”
I took the box. “Flowers for me?” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to.”
I didn’t know what to say. That’s not something that usually happens to me. And I didn’t like the way it made me feel—uncomfortable and uncertain. I had to clear my throat twice before I could get a thank-you out.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” Anne said. “Thanks for doing those buttons.”
I stopped at the top of the stairs and lifted the lid of the flower box. Under the tissue paper was a little bouquet of peach and white roses. My favorites.
The steps shimmered through the tears I was suddenly having trouble holding back. I pressed one cold hand against my face and took some deep breaths. Then I started down.
Rafe and his parents had arrived, along with a bunch of people from the show. “Isabelle, you look lovely,” Rafe’s mom said, hugging me.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Rafe said. He squeezed my hand, hard. I wished I could have just kept holding on to him.
After that, everything was a blur of words and movement and a fake smile on my face that made my cheeks ache. For the ceremony, Jason and I stood behind Dad. Peter stood next to him.
The minister, a friend of Anne’s, stood in front of the fireplace in a long white robe with a blue sash embroidered in gold around her neck. It struck me that her smile was the only one that seemed real.
I concentrated on the sound of the minister’s warm, husky voice and tried not to listen to her actual words. But I heard the part about anyone objecting. “Let them speak now, or forever hold their peace,” she warned. It was as though she was remindin
g me, “You can’t change it now.”
Dad took Anne’s hand. The minister looked at Jason. He stepped forward, leaned over and kissed Anne’s cheek and laid his hand on top of theirs.
The minister looked at me. I took three steps and put my hand over Jason’s. He reached up with his thumb and gave it a squeeze.
“Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder,” the minister said.
With those words our old family was undone and Dad and Anne were married.
16
They were arguing. Not the screaming, throwing things kind of arguing. This was arguing with low, tight voices. I dropped my pack in the hall and stood in the doorway to the living room. Neither Dad nor Anne had heard me come in. They were standing in front of the fireplace.
I’d spent almost no time at home in the last month and a half. I didn’t plan it that way. It’s just how it worked out. And all my conversations with Dad—which meant the ones I couldn’t avoid—were made up of words with less than two syllables. “How are things?” “Fine.” “Do you need any money?” “No.”
Anne and I pretty much stayed out of each other’s way, except that we always ate breakfast together, me with my cereal and Anne with her dry toast and orange juice. It wasn’t my idea. That first morning I came down and she was already at the table. I could feel the awkwardness between us; it was as though there wasn’t enough space in the kitchen for both of us. But as the mornings passed I got used to it.
After the first morning there was always a bowl and spoon sitting on top of the microwave for me. We’d sit across from each other and she never tried to talk. I guess she knew that rule. But she always said “Have a good day” as she passed my chair to rinse her dishes in the sink.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Dad was saying.
Anne sighed and rested one hand on the bump of her belly. “I just think there’s room for both pictures,” she said.
“I’m not going to put Susan’s picture in the basement, Anne. I just want to move it somewhere else.”
“Marc, how long has Susan’s picture been on that mantel?”
Dad ran his hands back through his hair. Bad sign. “I don’t know. Since … I don’t know.”
“How do you think Jason and Isabelle will feel, all of a sudden finding that their mother’s picture has been stuck off in a corner somewhere?”
“Trust me,” Dad said. “Jason won’t care and Isabelle will understand. It’s not a big deal.”
Anne reached up and laid her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Please, Marc. At least wait until Isabelle gets home.”
“Isabelle is home,” I said.
They both swung around.
“If you’re going to talk about me like I’m not in the room, then make sure I’m not in the room,” I said. (Mom’s Rule #21.)
Anne almost smiled. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Our wedding pictures came back. I’d like to move the photograph of your mother over to the left a little and put a picture of your dad and me at the other end of the mantel. Is that all right with you?”
Sit Mom next to the alabaster elephant she brought back from Mexico, where she could look over at Dad and Anne holding hands? No way. “I’d rather put Mom’s picture in my room,” I said. “Then you can just put your picture up in the middle.”
“Great,” Dad said in a too-cheery glad-that’s-settled voice.
“Are you sure?” Anne asked.
I nodded.
“You don’t have to do that. There’s plenty of room for both pictures.”
“It’s okay. I want to.”
Anne looked at me without saying anything for a long, uncomfortable moment. “All right,” she said finally. She reached up for the picture and handed it to me. Then she folded both hands over the baby bump. “I have some things to do upstairs,” she said, and she left the room without looking at Dad or me.
17
I laid my head against Rafe’s chest where I could breathe in the scent of him—deodorant soap and Big Red gum—at the open neck of his jacket. Mixed with the cold night air it was clean and comforting. “Mmm, you smell good,” I said.
“You feel good,” he said, rubbing one hand down my side and up under one of my sweaters.
I kissed the hollow space at the base of his throat. “Yeah, I’ve noticed you seem to like the way I feel.”
Rafe made a frustrated growl in the back of his throat and pulled me tighter against him. “I don’t wanna go.”
“What time’s practice?”
“Six.”
I groaned. “I can’t even stand up at 6 a.m., let alone skate.” I nipped the curve of his ear with my teeth. “You could skip practice.”
Rafe sucked in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “Stop that,” he said. “You want St. Vincent’s to take the title this year?” He turned me in his arms so my back was against his chest and leaned his chin on the top of my head. “We could go for breakfast tomorrow after I’m done.”
“Can’t,” I said. “The old gals are having a bake sale at the center and I promised I’d help. They’re raising money to buy a van so they can go on some overnight trips.”
Rafe laughed. “Overnight in a van. Is it going to have tinted windows and a red velour interior?”
I reached back and gave the side of his head a smack. “Not that kind of overnighter, you sicko. They just want to go shopping and play bingo.”
“You don’t know that for sure. Even old people get horny sometimes.”
I shifted in his arms. “I can’t believe you said that. You’re the one who’s always grossed out thinking about your parents having sex.”
He made a face. “That’s totally different.”
“You want me to believe that some of those old people down at the Seniors Center are … Yeech!”
“Why not?”
I shook my head hard, trying to shake out the picture. “I don’t even want to think about it.” Great. Now how was I going to look Mrs. Mac in the eye the next time I saw her?
“You’re going to get cold out here,” Rafe said. “And I should go.” He leaned down and kissed me. His lips were warm and my knees went all floppy like a Raggedy Anne doll. I wasn’t cold at all. “I really gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He gave me one more quick kiss, took the stairs in two giant steps and loped across the lawn to his car.
I watched him drive away, but I didn’t go in. I leaned against the railing and looked up at the ink-black sky. It seemed to go up forever. I tried to pick out the Big Dipper. The stars were so bright. The light had made it all this way, but the warmth had been lost millions of miles ago.
An image of old Mr. Jamer, with his dry-clean–only hair, getting horizontal with Mrs. Patterson popped into my mind and I couldn’t help laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Dad said from behind me.
I started, then turned halfway around. “Just something Rafe said.”
Dad came out onto the steps. We watched the sky in silence for a few minutes. “I don’t see you much these days it seems,” he said, so quietly that for a moment I thought maybe I’d imagined the words.
I didn’t even look at him. Was he waiting for me to get all teary? Waiting for us to hug, wipe our eyes and then go inside for cookies and milk? My throat was suddenly tight.
I let my eyes drift sideways. Dad was motionless, looking out at the night sky. Everything between us was different.
“I’ve been busy,” I mumbled.
Then I turned and went inside.
18
Lisa and I were hanging over the second-floor stairwell by the end of the breezeway to the gym. It was a good place to watch people—or to hang out if you wanted people to watch you.
Lisa liked to be noticed. She leaned over the railing as far as she could and rocked back and forth so her butt was in the air. Every guy going past on the stairs looked—which was why she was doing it. “You want to check out Second Coming next weekend?” she asked, smiling down at a skinny g
uy with shaggy blue and blond hair.
“Aren’t you going to your dad’s?” I said.
“Nope. He has to go away on business, and Haviland and the small ones are going too.” Lisa hung over the railing until her chest was on her folded arms. “You think he’s cute?” she said.
“Your dad?”
She screwed up her face at me. “No, stupid. Him.” She pointed down the breezeway.
“Nick Dufferin?”
“Yeah. He’s in the drama club.” She sighed and gave me a moony smile. “I like the sensitive artist type.”
“What about Zach?” I asked, leaning beside her.
“Oh please.” Lisa rolled her eyes. “That’s over.” After a couple of minutes she said, “So, how’s life with the wicked stepmother?”
I glanced at her, then looked away. “She has all these weird cravings. Like right now it’s sour stuff. Either she’s eating one of those big pickles from Rye’s or she’s sucking on those purple sourballs you get from the gumball machine outside the Cineplex. I think my dad’s put twenty bucks’ worth of change in that thing.”
Lisa snorted with laughter. “Haviland’s thing was fried clams,” she said. “In the middle of the night.”
She tugged at the front of her black sweater. “Why couldn’t we have fathers like Ashley Cooper’s dad. When he turned forty he bought a convertible and had liposuction.” She turned to look at me, resting her chin against her shoulder. “Babies aren’t so bad though, once they get past the puking up on everything stage.”
“Oh great,” I muttered.
“No, really, the little critters can be fun. Like last week, I taught Sammy how to shoot a pea right across the table like a spitball. Dad was pissed but Haviland was in the kitchen laughing.” She picked at something on the arm of her sweater. “It’s not that bad, Iz, honest.”
“Sure,” I said. “Puke on my clothes and vegetable-spitting contests at the dinner table. In other words, a baby is just like Jason stoned.”
“Pretty much,” agreed Lisa with a grin.
Whoopee.
19