Leigh
“Mark is a good man, one of the best.” My mother’s voice oozes approval and relief. I smile, also relieved to have pleased her. Passed the test that neither of us thought I was ever going to get to sit. A man wants to marry me, a good man. I will be a wife. I’ve made it. “You are so lucky,” she adds, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. I take a deep breath; the room has no oxygen. Never before has my mother called me lucky. I’ve longed for her to but the pronouncement, now it has come, seems bitter.
For as long as I can remember my mother has firmly asserted that we are unlucky. She and I. She said it often when I was growing up. Repeatedly. Small inconveniences would weigh on her disproportionately, but at the same time she seemed to expect and certainly accept the bothers, upsets and troubles, never challenging them or offering solutions, because she considered us unlucky. It was just the way it was. Not something to be contested, or even resented, something I ought to accept. My unluckiness. Goods arriving through the post, faulty or damaged, never got returned, she didn’t trust the retailer to send a refund so she would make do with whatever she’d received. When she discovered dampness or insufferably noisy neighbors in a rental, she didn’t question landlords but instead shrugged and just complained of endless chest infections that she said were expected—and indeed they were under those conditions. I did not get into the outstanding comprehensive school in my catchment area but had to get on a bus to travel to a much bigger, rougher one several miles away; however, she didn’t appeal the decision, the way some mothers successfully did, instead she just accepted it.
Then when, aged nineteen, I got mumps which led to the rare complication of viral meningitis, which in turn was identified as the reason for me having the rarer still case of early menopause at just twenty-four, my mother simply said it was unlucky that I had been born at a time before regular MMR vaccinations were the norm for schoolchildren. Just unlucky. She didn’t say the early menopause and my subsequent infertility was devastating, soul destroying, catastrophic.
Just unlucky.
I have been waiting my entire life to hear her call me lucky—it is contrary of me, then, to resent the implication once the words have been delivered. She doesn’t think I deserve him. Not quite. My own mother. She thinks good luck, not good management, brought me to this point. She is secretly wondering, will my luck hold?
“It’s a shame about the weather,” she adds. This morning when I woke up, it was drizzly and not the bright summer day of my imaginings. I’m trying to ignore the fact. “Do you think that marquee will be waterproof?”
“Yes,” I reply firmly.
“If it rains heavily no one will be able to hear you say your vows. That’s not something you’d have had to worry about if you’d married in a church.”
I reach for my phone. Check the weather. “It’s supposed to dry up in the next hour or so.”
We’re getting married in Mark’s garden. Our garden! We decided not to marry in a church because the last time the boys were in a church was at their mother’s funeral and Mark and I did not want to prompt any difficult memories. Mark has no problem with the fact we are skipping a church service. He is not religious—if ever he believed in a God, he stopped after watching his wife die of cancer when she was just thirty-two. I consider myself vaguely spiritual, although not wild about dogmatic patriarchal doctrines. I suppose I had probably always thought I would marry in a church—if ever I was to marry at all—not for me so much as for my mother.
My mother is a regular churchgoer but she stopped trying to drag me there when I was nine; she was embarrassed in front of the other churchgoers by my open lack of enthusiasm for the prayers, recited by rote, that seemed to fall on deaf ears. That was around the time my father left us. My mother’s response to his departure was to up the ante with God. No longer satisfied with weekly visits, she went to mass daily; it wasn’t clear who she was praying for—my father or herself. Despite not attending personally, my mother’s beliefs—and her guilt and fear—have permeated my entire life. I have a very acutely developed conscience and actively choose to do the right thing whenever I can, even if it is inconvenient, boring or genuinely hard. It was difficult to know what the right thing to do was in the case of deciding where to marry, considering my mother’s desire for a church wedding but playing that off against the boys’ trauma. I briefly wondered whether I could simply find a church that was completely dissimilar to the cool, gray-stoned, nineteenth-century one Frances’s funeral had taken place in. Mark pointed out that modern churches don’t make for great photos anyhow. I backed the boys. My mother is delighted she’s going to be a grandmother but irritated that I didn’t marry in a church because she thinks the whole thing seems a bit improper. Not sanctified. I put a lot of energy into not letting her view get inside my head.
“Today, darling, try not to resent how much attention the boys will get.” I mentally roll my eyes at her but outwardly work hard to keep every muscle in my face still. For as long as I can remember I’ve aimed not to let her know what I’m really thinking. Focus. I’m getting married. I will have a new family. I don’t need to care what she thinks or says anymore.
“Why would I resent it?”
“Well, no one would blame you, darling, if you did,” she says hurriedly. Identifying her mistake, a moment after she’s made it. Situation normal. “It’s just that traditionally brides expect to be center stage and command all the interest.”
I’ve insisted that the boys are very much center stage throughout. I was the one who suggested that they invite their friends, that they should stand with us as we say our vows. That they wear navy blue linen suits that echo their dad’s. If I tell her all of this, it will sound as though I’m overexplaining. Somehow my sincerity will sound contrived. I simply add, “It’s really important that they are a big part of the celebration, that they know we are all in this together. I’m more than happy to share the oohs and aahs with the boys.”
Luckily at that point, before things could get heated, Fiona calls up the stairs that the car is waiting to take us to the wedding. If we don’t get a move on, we’ll be late. “You don’t want Mark thinking you’ve changed your mind,” Fiona yells.
Our wedding is a happy, chaotic, boozy, child-friendly affair. It flashes by as everyone warned me it would; a series of Technicolor images, clinking glasses, broad, sincere smiles. I expected to be the one who oohed and aahed the loudest over the boys but in fact when I saw the three of them standing at the top of the aisle waiting for me, I was swept away by a far greater emotion than considering how cute they looked. I cried. Big, gulpy, happy tears rolled down my face, ruining my makeup but making Mark’s day. When I reached the top of the aisle, I could hardly stutter out my vows, I was that overawed. That damned happy!
Our guests look elegant, healthy, excited, every last one of them. I invited my friends, a couple of work colleagues, one or two of my mum’s friends and their families. Naturally, Fiona is my bridesmaid. Mark invited more than twice the number of people I did, not at all kowtowed by the traditions that dictate second weddings ought to be smaller, quieter. He invited his entire extended family and all his friends. I try not to think of how many of the guests at my wedding were Frances’s friends. To be fair, it is impossible to tell because everyone is thrilled for us, for him. I’m showered in compliments and congratulations. If people secretly think Mark marrying within a year of his wife’s death is a little too soon, they have the good manners not to say it aloud.
After the ceremony, when we are milling around in happy clusters and I’m straining to keep my weight in the balls of my feet so my heels don’t sink into the grass, I stand with Fiona, peaceful, content. I allow my gaze to drift across the scene of celebration and make an effort to lock it in my mind. All day I’ve consciously tried to hold on to the precious moments: Mark’s expression as he first saw me drift toward him, the boys’ laughter breaking through the chatter at regular intervals—my ear is attuned to that sound now, I can identify their laughter in among other kids’—the beautiful flower arrangements that are everywhere and fill the air with a heady, intoxicating scent, the fizz of champagne on my tongue, although I don’t really need alcohol, I’m already drunk on joy. Seb’s hot little hand has been firmly wedged in mine for a lot of the day but he slips my grasp and joyfully dashes off to join Oli and some other children who are clustering around the cupcake table.
I am awash with kind comments from my friends, casual as they feel free to dive in among this, the most intimate relationship, and make a judgment call. You did well there! Well-meaning colleagues chime in too, He’s one of the good ones! He is liked, popular. Exceptionally so. Since I started dating him, I have been somewhat overwhelmed by the constant wave of praise he garners. Before him I largely dated men that people rarely approved of, let alone admired.
He is admirable. I can’t argue. Why would I even think of doing so? I have started joking that while people like me—they might even think I’m especially lovely, in fact—when they meet him, they like him more and they realize I’m actually the dull half of the couple! I make this joke with a smile in my voice, to show it doesn’t bother me. Because what kind of woman would I be if I was bothered that people like my husband inordinate amounts? I am not overlooked. If anything, people notice me more now that I am his, and that I have the boys. He is used to being center stage. A wife dying so young begs attention, as does being a really excellent single dad. Mark smiles a lot; he likes being liked. I mean, who doesn’t? He doesn’t have to work at it. Even when he stops smiling, say to have a conversation with the Year 1 teacher about the kid who bit Oli, he’s still adorable. I’m so lucky he chose me.
“It’s great that the weather hasn’t spoiled a thing!” says Fiona.
“I know, right.” I shake my head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
She knows me too well. “Okay, this is crazy, but you know how my mother gets under my skin?”
“What’s she said now?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing new. It’s just that when I saw the weather this morning I did have a moment when I couldn’t help but wonder, if there was a God was there a chance he was a bit miffed with me, feeling the brunt of my snub?”
“Because you didn’t marry in a church?” I can hear the amusement in Fiona’s voice. It helps. Her laughing at me exposes my silly superstition for what it is. Fear.
I allow myself to smile. “I guess he’s not that annoyed anyway. He hasn’t sent a plague and pestilence, just gray skies and a bit of early-morning drizzle.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty low-grade for a slighted Almighty. Maybe it’s Frances showing her displeasure,” Fiona teases, poking me playfully in the ribs. “She’s up in heaven, looking down at you and she’s pretty pissed off that you’ve moved in on her hubby and kids and her home quite so swiftly.” Fiona, who does not have a religious belief in her head, laughs as she says this. She squeezes my shoulder affectionately, to show me she’s teasing and means no harm at all.
I shiver. It is chilly and my floaty, flimsy dress was designed and picked for a brighter day.
“Look, you’re shivering! She just walked over your grave.” Fiona howls at her own joke. I love Fiona, but we’re not very alike. I’m all careful and good. Or at least I try to be. She’s wild and fun and often makes bad choices. It’s part of the reason I love her. It’s unreasonable of me to feel uncomfortable. A moment ago, Fiona’s irreverence was comforting. It’s not her fault she always takes things too far and she’s just stepped over to tactless, tasteless. Fiona only ever sees the joke, the joy. She clocks the anxiety in my face and softens. “Seriously, Leigh, chill. The poor weather is a bit of a shame, but we live in England, crap weather is an odds-on favorite, not a surprise or a punishment.” I nod, bury my nose in my flowers. I want the clean, rich smell of the roses to overwhelm me. “You do know that if there was such a thing as an afterlife—which there isn’t—” Fiona rolls her eyes, dismissively “—but if there was, and if Frances were looking down, surely she’d be really pleased that her sons have found a new mum to love them.”
“I’m not trying to replace her.” This is something I’ve said a hundred times in the months since I met and fell in love with Mark.
“I know you aren’t, but you will, because the boys will love you and they will forget her. They are only young. It’s for the best.”
“How are you so sure?” I mean about the boys retaining memories of their mother—or otherwise—but Fiona misunderstands me.
“That there is no afterlife? Well, it’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? It makes no sense. I mean, what happens when you and Mark die if Frances is already up there holding a seat for him? Are you going to have a cozy little threesome? I don’t think a ménage à trois is your style.”
She is right, of course; none of the stories about the afterlife make sense. Nor does it make sense that God would punish me for deciding to marry in a garden to save the boys’ feelings. If he is a vengeful God, he has murderers, terrorists and pedophiles to pursue. And from what I can gather—watching the news, reading online—those people often go unpunished.
“Hey, Leigh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. Look, this is the best day of your life. You have the family you have always wanted, the family you thought you’d never have.”
She’s right. There is nothing to worry about. Everything is going to be okay from now on. I have a family. It’s a miracle. I stop even flirting with the idea of there being a God. Or lucky people and unlucky people trapped by fate and predestiny. I decide to make my own way from now on.
Mark is talking to a group of friends. He’s laughing along with whatever it is they are saying, but I sense that while chatting with them, he’s also hunting me out. Checking I’m okay, that I’m not alone, that my mother hasn’t upset me, that the wedding logistics haven’t overwhelmed me. Things I’ve admitted to worrying about on the run-up to the wedding. We catch one another’s gaze; he smiles at me. It’s a warm, honest, open smile that completes me. I smile back, he blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it. We both laugh. Then we each look about us again. Eyes scanning like a beam from a lighthouse. We simultaneously spot the boys, sitting under the cupcake table, faces smeared with cream and delight. We are all having a perfect day. We’re going to make our way as a family and it’s going to be lovely.