THE BIG DAY
JUST CASEY
I HATE THE SOUND OF a beeping alarm clock. I set mine to play the radio instead. When I wake up on my wedding day, the day I will become Casey Wiener, I hear Tim McGraw’s voice singing It’s Your Love. I think I might be sick. What if I have the flu? Will the wedding be postponed? Can you do that? I throw the covers from my body and sprint to the bathroom that adjoins to the bedroom. I flip open the toilet lid and kneel on the ground just in time. I am sick. I’m really sick. I almost laugh out loud at the revelation. I can’t get married when I am sick!
Tim McGraw starts singing to me again. This time I am too far away to turn him off on the alarm clock. I am hanging over the toilet as his voice takes me back to the day I said “yes, I’ll marry you” to Jordan. It was the night of the Tim McGraw concert. The one where I surprised Jordan with front row tickets on our anniversary. Although he seemed less than pleased with me for buying the tickets behind his back – because, as he reminded me, he is the C.F.O. of our relationship- he acted completely different once we arrived at the concert.
We didn’t talk on the car ride to the concert. Not a word. But when we handed over our tickets and followed the usher to our front row seats, suddenly Jordan grabbed my hand. He held it off and on throughout the night and for a while I thought it might have really worked. I thought buying the tickets would restore some of the magic in our relationship. Maybe it was working. Maybe.
At the end of the night, just as Tim McGraw walked off stage and the crowd erupted in applause, Jordan got down on his knee and handed me a ring. I couldn’t hear him over the crowd, but I knew what he was asking. I nodded my head and he placed the ring on my finger and stood to kiss me. I convinced myself in that moment that the concert tickets had worked. I hadn’t planned on him asking me to marry him, but I’d hoped we would be happier. This felt happier. This felt good. The bottom of my gut churned, but I chalked it up to excitement. I was engaged!
“She said yes!” Jordan shouted above the crowd, although only two nearby ushers heard, following up with a polite congratulations to us. And in that moment, I felt like somebody’s something, despite my burning gut.
I spent most of that year- this past year – planning the wedding. I spent the year being engaged – which meant somehow feeling like I’d finally made it. But made it to where, I had no idea. I felt like I fit in. I was now part of an elite cult in society. I was accepted. I was admired. People wanted to see my sparkling diamond ring. They wanted to hear the story of how Jordan proposed. They wanted to know where we were having the wedding- indoors or outdoors? When? Big or small? Who was our caterer? Our photographer? Questions swarmed around me like honey bees to the hive. I didn’t have time to think about how I felt. Instead, I let myself get caught up in the wave of attention. If this many people were giddy about my engagement, how could it be wrong?
Trish’s guest bedroom shares the same bathroom with mine. It’s one of those narrow bathrooms that have a door on each side, a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Or in our case a Jill-and-Jill bathroom. The sound of Tim McGraw’s voice only seems to keep growing louder. I brace myself, hands curled around each side of the toilet. Another round is coming, yet I feel a hint of a smile spread across my face. I bend forward, pressing my head into the toilet again. The bathroom door, the one that leads to Trish’s room, opens and I hear her bare feet pad toward me.
She stands behind me and takes my wavy blond hair in her hands, holding it away from my face. “Are you-“ She stops as I finish.
I raise my head from the toilet and Trish hands me a towel to wipe my face. Once I am clean, she lets my hair loose again and sits on the cold tile next to me. She is wearing an oversized t-shirt, I’m sure it’s Eddie’s. It’s white with black letters and says, “LAST CLEAN T-SHIRT”. She wraps her arm around me, it’s warm and I rest my head on her shoulder. After a minute or so, Trish stands and says she’ll be right back. She comes back and tosses me something. I catch it in my hands. At first I think it’s a Tampon and I’m confused. But it’s not a Tampon. It’s a pregnancy test. I don’t ask why she has it. I stare at it instead. I’m not pregnant. I’m sick. I’m sick on my wedding day and I need to postpone.
“Trust me. Take it.” She turns to leave the room and tells me to come and sit on her bed after I pee on the stick. We will wait together.
I pee on the stick and leave it to sit on the bathroom sink. Trish and I sit on the edge of her bed, dangling our feet over the edge like children. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be pregnant.
I’m just sick. I have the flu. I know it.
We sit in silence while we wait. It seems like an eternity. I don’t know if I can go through with my wedding and now I’m taking a pregnancy test? What kind of cruel joke is this? I feel my forehead crinkle. I tilt my head back and take in the strong scent of apple cinnamon potpourri. I feel my stomach churn again and I will myself not to get sick again.
Eventually the timer from Trish’s watch sounds and we stand from the bed at the same time. She grabs my hand. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.” I don’t know why she’s being so nice to me. We’ve never been that close, but ever since last night things have changed. Ever since I said how I really felt out loud, ever since I stopped hiding behind the curtain of perfect, Trish and I feel like we’re really sisters. And we are. It’s nice. Despite all of the pre-wedding jitters, I’m glad to get to know my sister, even if it is only for a few days. Then, we’ll go back to our real lives. Our opposite lives.
“Do you want me to look at it with you?” Trish hums.
I shake my head. I need to do this on my own.
“I’ll be here.” Trish plops back down on the bed and I walk away, slowly taking steps toward the bathroom.
I walk through the doorway and peer at the test. I can’t see the result. I squint my eyes. I can’t be pregnant. I take a step closer and allow my eyes to close as I reach for the pregnancy test. I feel the hard narrow plastic in my hand and pull it toward me. My eyes open and I blink. I see two pink lines. One is dark, the other is lighter, but still there. There are two lines. Two lines means I’m pregnant. I’m not pregnant. This can’t be happening.
I stare at the test for another minute, convincing myself that I am reading it wrong. But it’s simple, really. One line equals not pregnant. Two lines equals pregnant. I see two lines.
“Trish?” my voice doesn’t sound like my own. I feel my knees bend and I fall to the toilet, I can’t stand.
I hold out the test to show her when she steps onto the tile.
Trish’s eyes widen. “You’re pregnant.” There. It’s been said out loud. It’s real even though I don’t want it to be. I’m powerless to stop it. “You should…” her voice trailed. Clearing her throat, she continues, “You should make an appointment to have a blood test, to confirm. Sometimes-“
I hold my hand up to stop her. I don’t want to hear anymore. My fate is sealed. Trish promises not to tell. For now, it is our secret. I am going to be somebody to two people. Jordan’s and our baby’s.
HER NAME IS WORSE than what mine is about to turn in to. She kept her maiden name of Dahl. And she introduces herself by her first name, middle initial and last name to everyone she meets. I’ve come to the conclusion that she loves the shock factor. Barb E. Dahl. Yes, that’s her real name. I suppose Barb E. Wiener would have been just as…troubling. But she’d chosen to stay with the name her parents gave her at birth. It was just as well. She’d had enough plastic surgery to nearly turn her into a human Barbie doll anyway. And she wasn’t shy to share the news of her latest procedure, either. Her hair was bleached blond and she told me once that she wore extensions. Her eyebrows arched nice and tall, making her always look surprised. Her forehead didn’t have a single wrinkle. Her lips were overly plump and beet red. Of course Barb E. Dahl had had a boob job, while the rest of her body remained skinny and always tan, even during the winter months. I’d never seen her without makeup and wondered if maybe she’d had that permanently tattooed onto her face, too. Anything was possible.
Our wedding is outdoors. And now it’s an hour away. Sixty-minutes until I walk down the aisle and say I do. It feels like time is moving at the speed of light. I’m trying not to feel the immensity of it all. Instead I focus on tiny details. Like stepping into my dress, one leg at a time. I stare at the microscopic white sequins that cover the chest area. My dress is simple. It’s white. It’s long and fitting. It has small spaghetti straps. The top is covered in glittery sequins. Below my chest, the dress is smooth, silk. My dress doesn’t have a train and I’m not wearing a veil. If it were up to me, I’d be wearing a short red dress. I know, it’s not a normal wedding dress- short, and red. But I saw the dress in a store during the past year and it caught my eye. Of course it wasn’t in the wedding dress section, I just thought it would be neat to do something different. Why look like all of the other brides? I admit, wanting the red dress was out of character for me. I lived my life in search of practicality, stability and sensibility. A red dress didn’t exactly scream those things. I don’t know what it was. All I can say is that the moment I saw the red dress hanging in the store, I wanted it. I was shopping alone that day and I stopped to try on the dress. Of course it fit perfectly, making it that much harder to hang it back up and walk away. Jordan wouldn’t go for a red dress. He was all about tradition. I never said a word about the dress to him. Instead, he came with me to try on real dresses and he’d picked this one. And so I was wearing it now. For him.
Studying the tiny sequins on my chest wasn’t helping. Where was Trish? She said she would be right back! I needed someone to distract me. My mom had been in the room to add a bit of baby’s breath to my hair. She told me I looked beautiful, although I hadn’t slipped on the dress at that time. She told me again how proud she and my dad were of me. And then she told me I couldn’t have found a better man. Couldn’t I have? Was Jordan the best guy for me? How would my mom actually know that? Instead of hugging me, she kissed my forehead, leaving a stain of pink lip stick on my skin. The whole time she’d been talking to me and telling me what she thought of my soon to be marriage, she never once stopped to ask me how I felt. Never once. Not in the past year and not today. Trish was the only one who knew the truth.
I walked to the full length mirror to study my reflection. My lashes were layered with black mascara. My blond hair was curled and pulled half back into a small twist with a few baby’s breath added in. My lips were red with Revlon lip stick. My eye liner was perfectly in place, no smudges. But my eyes. Oh, my eyes. They lacked sparkle and there wasn’t a product that could fix that.
“You look beautiful darling.” I stop looking at my sad eyes and use the mirror to look behind me at Barb, Jordan’s mom. She is wearing a long fitted blue gown, a small matching clutch at her side. Her makeup is flawless, as usual and for a moment I think about asking her how to fix my eyes. But I know better and she wouldn’t appreciate my asking, especially not now, just before I am about to marry her only child.
I smile in the mirror, still holding my eyes on Barb as she approaches and places her perfectly manicured hands on my shoulders. “Are you nervous?”
I know she isn’t really asking, she’s just filling the space with words and smiles because that is what parents are expected to do on this day. “A little.” I say quietly when what I really want to say is, I’m not sure Jordan’s the one. I want to postpone the wedding. But I’m pregnant. I’m terrified. What if he’s not the one I’m supposed to be with? What if we’re not soul mates? What if I’m not the best one for him? What if he’s not the best one for me?
“I was nervous when I married Jim. Every bride goes through this.” She tries to reassure me as she presses lightly down on my shoulders. I know she means well, but it’s not helping. I’m not sure anything or anyone can at this point. “If you weren’t nervous, then I’d be worried.” She tries again to comfort me, but it doesn’t work.
“Thanks Barb.” I force a smile. We’re still looking at each other through the mirror.
She lifts her hands from my shoulders, feeling she has done her duty. She turns to leave but stops to clear her throat. I see her face turn to look at the back of my head and then again at my reflection in the mirror that stands in front of us. “Jordan’s a lucky man. And we’re thrilled to have you in our family. We couldn’t have wished for a better daughter-in-law.” She dabs her cheek with a handkerchief, although her expression never changes. She always looks surprised.
I can’t will myself to say it all back to her; the niceties. I can’t tell her that I feel like the luckiest girl in the world, because I don’t. I feel like I’m going to vomit. I feel like I might be making a huge mistake and I don’t think this can be chalked up to normal pre-wedding jitters. Where is Trish? She should be back by now. I glance at the clock. Twenty-five minutes until I walk down the aisle. Twenty-five minutes to change my mind. Or is that even an option anymore?
TRISH COMES RUNNING in, breathless, all of five minutes before I have to walk out the door and onto the lawn. She’s pulling up the straps on her dress. Her hair is disheveled, her lipstick a bit smeared. Eddie is waiting just outside of the door for her. He arrived this morning and now I know where Trish was all this time. Eddie and Trish had been together ten years and they were still making out like a couple in phase one of a relationship. The phase where you can’t take your hands off each other, ever and you can’t stop smiling. You’re high on love. They’re high on love after a decade. I know instantly that Jordan and I will never be like that. We’re not like that now.
She runs toward me and hugs me. “We – I lost track of time. Sorry! How are you?” She squeezes me tight and then uses her arms to push away from me and study my face. “Oh my gosh, you’re not okay. Are you okay? What can I do?” Her words are rushed together, panicked.
I shake my head without words. I can’t cry. I don’t want to mess up my makeup; they’ll be no time to fix it now. I glance at the clock. Four minutes until I have to walk onto the lawn.
We hired a live band to play and I hear the sounds of music echoing from outside of the door where I stand. I clench my gut. It feels like I’ve been kicked, hard. I want to double over, but I can’t. My dress is too tight, too restricting. Why did I get this dress? My shoes are killing my feet. I hate wearing high-heels and my toes are being pinched. My face feels hot. I feel tiny beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead and on my nape. Trish calls for Eddie to join us in the room and the two of them begin fanning me with their hands. The wave of air feels nice, but not nice enough to allow me to escape what I am about to face. Someone cracks the door, letting a flood of daylight in and shouts, “three minutes!” I think it’s Barb, but I can’t be sure. My head is spinning. I’m seeing black dots. I need a glass of water. I need to sit down. But I can’t sit in this dress. Words of praise echo in my head. Words from Jordan’s parents, my parents, my co-workers. Everyone says they’re so happy for us. Everyone says we make a great couple. You two are so cute together. You’re one of the couples who will make it for the long haul. You’ll make such cute babies! It’s so nice to see two young people find love. Why can’t any of them see what I do? Am I losing my mind? Am I delusional?
Eddie brings me a glass of water and I lean into Trish’s arms. She is supporting most of my weight. Somehow my shoes are off. It feels good to allow my feet to breath, even if it’s only for a minute. The black dots I’ve been seeing begin to fade and I am thankful. I don’t want to pass out. I can do this. I’ll be okay. I’m a big girl. I’m just nervous, that’s all. Everyone’s nervous on their wedding day, that’s what Barb said. But then I look at Trish as she strokes her hand through my damp hair. She wasn’t nervous on her wedding day. No one ever tells her they’re proud of her or that she and Eddie are such a great couple. People don’t understand them because they do things differently, but maybe they’re onto something. Maybe they’re the ones who are actually doing it right. Maybe the world has it backwards. Maybe the more praise you receive, the more trouble you’re about to get yourself in. Why am I letting other people tell me what my relationship is or isn’t, anyway? They don’t live my day to day life. They don’t see the way Jordan talks to me in his- our – apartment. They don’t know that he loves his work more than he loves me. They only see what they want to see. They only see smiles plastered on our faces when we’re out in public. They see our happy parents. They don’t look any deeper because they don’t care to. They have their own relationship issues. They have their own lives. They want to believe in happy endings. But a wedding is not an ending; it’s a huge new beginning. It isn’t boy meets girl, couple marries, has a baby and they live happily-ever-after. That isn’t real. That’s a fairy tale. A movie. Our lives only end when we die. Couples don’t get married and ride off into the sunset of bliss and easy lives. Couples get married and keep living their lives. Just because it’s on paper, just because you make a relationship legal, doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and cherries. A piece of paper can’t do that. Only the people in the relationship can.
“One minute!” The door cracks open again. I hear the muffled voices of the guests and the band goes silent. They’re all waiting for me. They all want to see me. I’m supposed to leave the false safety of this little room and march down the aisle like a good girl and fulfill my promise to marry Jordan Wiener. I’m supposed to become Mrs. Casey Wiener. Right. Now.
I tell myself I don’t have a choice. This isn’t a choice. Stop feeling and just do it. Pull yourself together Casey! Eddie gives me another sip of water while Trish pushes me upright. We lock eyes and speak a language only sisters know. We’ve never been close, but we are now. The last twenty-four hours have changed everything. She is the only one who knows my secret. I don’t want to get married today. I don’t want to marry Jordan.
“It’s time!” The voice gives the final call and I feel like I am going to hurl. Trish hands over my shoes but my hands are shaking so bad that they fall to the ground. Our eyes are still speaking to each other in sister language.
I don’t want to do this. I let my eyes tell her. What do I do? I don’t know how to stop it? Help me. Tell me what to do. I’m terrified.
She pulls me in to hug me once more and whispers in my ear. “Don’t wear your shoes if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. It’s your life. Your decision. I’ll support you no matter what, Yesa.”
I turn to walk out the door. Eddie holds it open for me. The sunlight is bright and I squint as I step my bare feet onto the soft grass. It is my life and my decision. I hear my stomach make a low gurgle. I approach the aisle. White chairs are filled with guests on either side. Their bodies are all turned to look at me. Their stares are burning a hole into my chest. I want to scream at them to look away but instead I plaster a smile on my make-up filled face and I allow my feet to take the first step on to the white runner that lines the pathway to my future, to Jordan. I allow myself to glance forward. I see Jordan with a matching smile across his face. He’s always found it easy to put on a show. It’s behind the scenes when his smile becomes distant and lost. Does he wonder if this is all a mistake? Does he wonder if this – we – might be wrong? Does he question if we’ll last? Or is he so consumed by the image we’re portraying to the world, that it’s enough to make him believe we’re actually in love? How have we not talked about this before now? Our eyes meet and he winks at me. I quickly look away. This is not a show. We are not in a play. This is real life. Our lives. If only I had a crystal ball to show me what life would be like if I marry Jordan and if I don’t. I have no doubt, both are incredibly different lives. But which one will make me happier? Which one is right? Do I choose comfortably uncomfortable, stable, steady Jordan? Or do I choose the unknown? Do I even have a choice at this point? My feet are on the aisle. No one can see that I am without shoes because my dress covers my feet. My chest is beating so hard I swear I’m going to have a heart attack. That would at least postpone the wedding, I think. I draw in a deep breath and try not to look to my sides at the crowd of people staring at me, judging me, making assumptions about me. My dad’s arm laces its way through mine and we take our first step together toward my future. “I’m proud of you.” He whispers. My stomach churns. I glance up at Jordan, waiting at the end of the aisle. I look at the Priest. And then to each side at the guests who have come to applaud us for saying two simple words. My future is in the making and I know exactly what I need to do.