I hate my dress. The skirt is too narrow so it keeps riding up, meaning that all night I’ve been in a fight to keep from flashing my soon-to-be stepfather’s family.
The venue for Mom and John’s engagement party, Antonio’s Restaurant, is beautiful but it’s been a nightmare for me since we got here.
The doors all weigh a ton and feel like they are vacuum sealed on the inside. I’ve nearly pulled myself out of my chair twice just trying to open them.
I can’t remotely get under the tables because of the pedestal bases so I have to eat my dinner with my plate in my lap, which is as fun as it sounds.
This is where they had their first date so when John’s sister wanted to reserve the pre-ADA-built venue as a surprise, what could I say but sure?
I just have to keep smiling at every concerned look or word from anyone and say I’m fine, point out some nice bit of inaccessible architecture, and hope to distract them long enough to get away.
I don’t blame the restaurant. I knew from a single glance that it wouldn’t be wheelchair friendly; most older places aren’t. I get it. Short of tearing it down and starting again from scratch, there’s not much they can do. Amelia would say there’s something they can do, and she’d do more than say it, but I’d prefer to appreciate its old-world charm from the outside than deal with all the inaccessibility from the inside.
And I would have if John’s sister hadn’t told my mom right in front of all their friends that I didn’t mind the party’s surprise venue at all.
Not in the slightest.
So when the wineglass in front of me is filled along with all the others, the protest on my lips dies. The deep red color swirls invitingly and it’s far easier than I ever thought it would be to pick it up.
Catching my reflection in the arched mirror to my side stills my hand as my gaze traces every curve of my wheelchair and the memories of how I got there. They go further back too, to parties and beers, and tree houses and flasks.
I’ve never tasted wine though.
I see one other thing in that mirror: Mom and John as they ascend a few steps out to a balcony, heads bent together in intimate conversation.
I haven’t had anything to drink since the accident and it turns out I’m still a lightweight. They bring wine bottles out for our entire table and no one seems to notice when I help myself again, and again, and again. It’s not like I’m staggering around or anything.
Can’t stagger in a wheelchair. Sway slightly, maybe.
The wine helps a lot.
Who cares if somebody bumps my wheelchair and causes my chicken parm to slide off my plate and onto my lap? So what if I scrape the skin off the knuckles of both hands squeezing through the stone arched doorway of our private dining room? And who even really notices when the waitress stands right beside me and asks the woman to my right—a former client of my mom’s—what I would like to order instead of asking me herself?
Not me.
And more wine for me.
More wine when the happy couple is toasted.
More wine when Layla wriggles her way over to her dad’s lap and pictures start snapping along with calls for me to join them. I graciously decline because even three glasses in I can see there’s no chance I’m fitting through the mess of people and chairs to reach the other side of the table, not without literally making every other person move.
More wine for me.
And even more when everyone makes their way out onto the balcony after dinner to enjoy the stars. Those five uneven stone steps leading out onto the balcony? Why should anyone give those a second thought at my mother’s engagement dinner?
No thank you to the two guys I’ve never met before—John’s cousin’s I think—who offer to carry me up. We’d never fit anyway and then I’d just be trapped out there, waiting on the benevolence of even more strangers to have to carry me back down.
The wine bottles are empty now too, and even though I glimpse champagne flutes on the cocktail tables outside—perfect nose height for me—it’s not worth it. I just want to go home. But that’s one more thing added to this list that I can’t do on my own tonight. I rode with my mom and John who look to be having a grand old time.
Yeah, I’m done.
My hands fumble pulling my phone from my purse, sending it tumbling to the cobblestone floor and skidding under a nearby side table with flowers on top. My head spins a little when I reach down to try to grab it, but it’s not happening. Frustrated tears threaten behind my eyes and the wine is turning sour in my belly. I’m remembering this feeling, the sloppy coordination and my memories becoming angry crayon strokes scribbling through my brain. Broken glass and flashing lights.
Sticky and red.
I shake my head, wanting the images gone, but they don’t leave, just slosh around.
The private dining room is all but empty now save for a much older woman shuffling toward the balcony with a hand hanging on the arm of a younger male relative.
A waiter will have to come soon, just to check on things. That or someone will come in off the balcony in search of the bathroom that has an accessible stall but a door I can’t open. I’ll ask for help with my phone then.
I can wait. No problem. It’s fine.
So fine.
But my eyes are stinging and—
“Rebecca? Why are you still in here?” Mom appears in the doorway, her cheeks flushed and a smile fading from her face as she looks at me. “John’s nephews offered to carry you up. Everyone’s waiting.” The disapproval in her voice is what breaks the damn inside me, not for tears, but for something equally unrestrained.
“Oh, are they? Everyone’s so concerned for me?” I surge forward with an unsteady push of my chair. “Is that why we’re in this restaurant with all its WE HATE WHEELCHAIRS signs everywhere?”
She rears back. “What are you talking about? There aren’t any signs—”
“Yeah, Mom, there are.” My voice comes out in a slight staccato as I push forward again, bumping over the cobblestones. “Sign.” I deliberately shift course to the table and make it all of two inches underneath it before slamming into a thick pedestal. “Sign.” I point at the narrow door leading into this room and the even narrower one to the balcony. “Sign, sign.” With another jabbing point at the five ascending steps, I say, “Sign, sign, sign, sign, and sign. Want me to go on?”
Her lips pull tight. Could that actually be shame on her face? “Joanna said you were fine with this restaurant. I made sure she knew to run everything past you. Why didn’t you tell her it was a problem?”
“Because I couldn’t!” I yell, but the crowd outside is so loud that only my mom and possibly a passing waiter in the hallway outside hear me. “Not with her going on and on about how romantic it is here.” I imitate her voice. “You don’t mind, do you, Rebecca? I’m sure you don’t.” I move to set my empty glass on the table but misjudge the distance, and it shatters on the stone floor.
My mom jumps back, her gaze snapping from the glass to me. “Are you—?” Even in the dim meant-to-mimic-candlelight glow I see more color flush her cheeks. “Rebecca, have you been drinking?”
My face twists up like I might cry, but I force it into scowl. I try to spin toward her but my footplate gets caught on a wooden grapevine carving spiraling up the length of the table pedestal and knocks my foot off. The table is so low on my thighs that I can’t reach beneath it to fix my foot. I can’t back up straight either because there’s a chair behind me wedging me in.
“Let me—” Mom starts toward me, but I shoot a dagger glare at her.
“Don’t.”
She halts midstride, staring wide-eyed at me.
I bang forward then back, again and again with increasing force each time, fully aware that I could inadvertently smash my foot and break something, but I’d rather that than my mom helping me.
Finally, the chair behind me topples sideways with a bang, freeing me to back up and reposition my foot. There’s no helping the angry tears that have left tracks down my face.
“You should think about this stuff.” I make a sweeping arc through the air with one arm, taking in the restaurant as a whole and not caring if she can hear the slight slur in my voice. “I’m your daughter and you should think about me. Just a little. Don’t make me do this.” I gesture at the tears I am powerless to stop. “And for what? A nice party out there with your friends? Did you even notice the stairs or think for even a moment about this, right now, everyone out there toasting you and your new life, knowing I couldn’t be part of it?”
She ducks her head, fast, but not fast enough. I see the tear slip free.
“Or do you just not care at all anymore?” My accusation is as sharp as it is quiet. I don’t want anyone else hearing this. I don’t even what to hear it, to make it feel truer than it already does.
Her head shoots up. “You know I do. I always think about you first.”
But the thing is, I don’t.
A cheer rolls in from out on the balcony.
“You better go,” I tell her, brushing my cheeks dry. “John’s probably missing you.”
A busboy comes in to gather up plates and stops short. “Um, I can come back.” He turns to go but I ask him to pick up my phone first. I hug it tightly to me when it’s safe in my hands again.
“We’ll fix this. I can get everyone to come back inside,” she says.
“Don’t bother.” I’m already pushing Send on the text I just typed and moving toward the door. “Someone’s picking me up. Have a great night, Mom. I won’t wait up.”