Miss Verity, more champagne or sparkling cider?” The ever-pleasant bridal shop hostess makes another round through my friends with her silver tray and tempting hors d’oeuvres.
I stop staring at her visible happy lines and respond. “You mean Mrs. Curtis to be.” I reach for a cider, completely ignoring my desire to grab the bottle of champagne and run for the door. I have had these five months to get used to the idea of my friend’s pending nuptials—and I still desire a numbing agent to keep my mixed emotions at bay.
“You aren’t falling for the whole change your name bit, are you?” Angelica inquires while eating pimento loaf on a cracker topped with a bit of judgment, it seems. I know she is playing devil’s advocate. Her horns are showing through the silk-and-lace veil she has chosen to model for us.
We all hold our breath. Well, I hold my breath and give Angelica a look that could melt the spot of misplaced cheese resting on her nose. Has she not noticed that Sadie is on the verge of an emotional breakdown these days? One does not ask a maniacal maiden to second-guess any of her decisions.
Caitlin, always the first to crack during a moment of uncomfortable silence, seeks a distraction. “This would be heaven.” She reaches for a tiara and places it on Sadie’s perfectly shaped cone of hair.
Like anyone living on adrenaline and anxiety, Sadie is quick to respond to new stimuli. Especially when it sparkles. With a blink of her pink frosted lids, Sadie’s expression goes from annoyed to overjoyed. She radiates from within as she offers the mirror her silhouette.
I half expect animated blue birds to appear and encircle her head.
“Oh my, that is beautiful,” I say.
“Breathtaking,” Angelica adds.
Sadie gives a slight shoulder shimmy to see if the sculpture will remain in position.
It stays. I am certain we have nicely maneuvered the minefield of Sadie’s panic buttons…until Sadie’s face falls. Crumples, really. And she starts crying as she runs for the dressing rooms.
Our hostess hands the tray of goodies to Angelica—just as Angelica is about to grab the last shrimp puff—and rushes after the bawling bride. I do believe it is the three-thousand-dollar tiara that has made the hostess break the record for the one hundred in heels and not empathy.
Angelica keeps eating, Caitlin explains the situation to a security guard responding to the alarm set off by Sadie’s expensive getaway carats, and I go after my friend. Recently, it seems many of our heart-to-hearts or spill-our-guts conversations take place in public restrooms, dressing rooms, or the lobbies of our preferred restaurants.
Val, our attentive attendant, feigns concern for Sadie’s hair. She gently brushes loose strands back into the fold of Sadie’s shiny, black updo before casually removing the tiara. I think I see beads of sweat on Val’s nose. But she needn’t worry about losing the tiara or offending a customer. Sadie is caught in her reoccurring cyclone of self-doubt, fear, and whatever else brews in that pretty head of hers.
A false eyelash sails for the shore of her chin. I catch it before it wanders to the brilliantly expensive gown she has on. Val smiles to show her appreciation and hands me a narrow towel used to protect dresses from the mascara and foundation of blushing brides.
I take the towel and drape it over Sadie’s now reddish neck. She is trying to hold back the sobs, but I know they soon will escape their prison of privacy.
“Val, can we have a minute?”
“Certainly. Can I bring you anything? Aspirin? Valium?”
We both look at our incredibly helpful hostess with troubled concern. What kind of joint are you running here? I want to ask. Our obvious preference for none of the above is made and Val takes her leave.
“Why is it that when one of us breaks down it leads to drug use?” I say in jest. Though last year my breakdown at a slightly less desirable locale did indeed lead to an emergency room visit and a mild narcotic.
Sadie’s quick smile fades as she likely recalls that last time she was the one in control of her emotions. That was normal for us. Me whimpering, sniveling, and caving in to my constant angst while Sadie was assuring, comforting, and advising. But this scene was the opposite of normal. And I know I am witnessing a glimpse of things to come.
“Would it be too inconsiderate if I asked for the valium?”
Sadie does not offer a laugh but holds the towel closer to her throat as if chilled by her outburst.
“Maybe it’s hormones,” I offer.
“Um, I’m pretty sure that is said to comfort or disregard pregnant women, not engaged women. Unless you are suggesting I am so old that my hormones are out of whack,” Sadie sneers. This is definitely new behavior territory for Sadie.
“No. No. I would never suggest that because I am a nice friend,” I pause, “and because we are the same age.”
This gets a laugh. I close the fabric curtain a bit tighter so my friend can open up. “I’m really doing well, Mari. At least I have been managing, don’t you think?”
Kinda. “Yes!” I assure her.
“I have been juggling the wedding details, handling my inner fear that this is too good to be true, and dealing with the pressure at the Tucson Botanical Society to generate more donations.”
“Then over spaghetti at Vauldi’s last night, Carson tells me that Harry will be flying in quite early to have quality father-son time before the wedding.”
I understand the shock value of this news, especially when you are enjoying lamb meatballs and looking forward to your next bread basket refill. However, my first thought is that a father should spend time with his son…especially before such a big life transition. Instead of giving volume to this viewpoint, I make appropriate listening sounds. “Oh. Hmm. Uh-huh.”
Sadie needs me to hear her worries, not determine their merit.
“There is more…but I just cannot discuss it now. Not yet. I’m still trying to pray before I jump into my first response to…this other news.”
Her first response has clearly already come and gone. But I say, “Um. Hmmm. Uh-huh,” and keep my thought life to myself.
It is the right thing to do.