I’m petrified. The pre-ceremony pint of blackberry brandy that Mack made me drink served only to make me drunk and petrified. Two blackberry-smelling beads of sweat roll parallel down my body from each armpit. My stomach isn’t helping. I try to concentrate on bending my knees. If they lock up on me, I’m dropping hard.
The groomsmen fan out behind Father Fish. With Beth being an only child and me only having one sibling, we struggled to fill out the wedding party. My groomsmen are Aaron Rosner and Mack, while Beth’s bridesmaids are Claire and my sister Jeanine. Mack is best man, serving as Hatch’s stand-in while he’s doing God-knows-what to a Thai prostitute. Claire is the maid of honor, and still uncomfortably attractive. The groomsmen and I stand at attention, hands clasped behind our backs, just like we practiced at rehearsal last night. True to form, Mack forgets and folds his hands in front. I elbow him, eyeing his hands.
What? Mack mouths.
“Your hands,” I say through gritted teeth and a half smile.
“Oh,” Mack says, gritting his teeth and wincing. “I forgot.”
Aaron meets Jeanine halfway down the aisle, escorting my sister to her seat. Kenny Rogers snaps a shot of both bridesmaids as they enter the church. The best man and maid of honor, Mack and Claire, are next. Mack meets Claire halfway down the aisle, escorting her all the way to the altar. Separating in front of Father, they both wink at me.
Jack is up. He’s the ring bearer. We don’t have a flower girl, not that it seems to faze this six-year-old. “Walk slowly,” we all told him last night. “This isn’t a race.”
He listens to our advice. I’m guessing he covers the length of the church in about twice the time it took the entire wedding party. Jack gets to me and smiles. I smile back. As I give him the thumbs up, I look at my father’s watch on my wrist. I’m proud of Jack and maybe even a little proud of myself.
The trumpets go silent.
The rustling of wedding programs. Someone coughs.
Wagner explodes out of the pipe organ. Everyone stands.
The double doors at the back of the church open wide. I see Beth on her father’s arm. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. But I’m not nervous. I don’t feel sick or even faint anymore.
Usually when a moment is bigger than me, it involves someone getting hurt, someone dying, someone getting buried. But not today. This is living. This is me rising up, spitting the dirt out of my mouth, and telling my demons to kiss my ass. I’m not one for religious moments, but if this is what true grace feels like, sign me the fuck up.
Beth looks radiant. Her dress is simple but elegant. The top of the dress is off the shoulders, slowly dipping to a V in the front with a hint of embroidery and beading. Her bouquet is made of white and peach roses to tie in to the color of the bridal party’s dresses.
Did I mention she looks radiant?
Father Fish steps forward into the aisle. I follow him. We meet Beth and her father just as the music stops. Mom stands in the pew next to us. I’m the only one who seems to notice her wobbling.
Mom is intoxicated. She’s wearing an inappropriately white dress of course, accessorized by an oversized strand of pearls that gives her a flapper throwback look—and not in a good way. Beth caught her this morning chasing a couple Darvocet down with a pitcher of mimosas. Several people have asked me why Leon decided not to come to the wedding. My answer to all of them has been, “Because he’s a dick.”
Father folds his arms, careful not to bump his cordless microphone. “Deborah,” he says to my mother, “you and…”
The pause we all knew would come.
“…your husband, John Fitzpatrick, gave life and love to your son Hank. You watched him grow into manhood. Today, he’s chosen to marry. I ask that you accept his choice of a bride into your own family, that you give your blessing to him as he continues life now in a very different way, that you give consent to this marriage.”
Father extends his hand, palm up, and bows his head. Mom says, “We do.”
Father Fish smiles when Mom says “we.” He turns to his right, walks a couple steps until he’s halfway between Beth’s parents. “Joan and Stan,” he says, “you gave Beth life and love. You taught her how to get along in this world. And also, today, she has chosen to marry Hank. I ask that you now give your blessing of her choice of a husband, and that your home will always be open to your daughter and your future son-in-law.”
Joan and Dr. Burke say, “We do.”
Father steps back toward the center of the aisle. “And now, Stan, I ask that you offer your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Dr. Burke kisses his daughter. He turns to me, nods. We hug.
The gesture is scripted. Dr. Burke and I had been working on it since last night. He came up with the idea at the rehearsal dinner, saying to me, “A hug instead of a handshake would add something special to the moment, don’t you think?”
I said, “Sounds like a plan to me, Dr. Burke,” if only because it seemed more appropriate than, I’m a not-so-closet narcissist about to experience a day in which I’ll be overshadowed to an almost obscene degree, and you’re asking me if I’d mind making a play for the spotlight?
The hug is perfectly executed: a firm backslapper in which we each bury our head in the other’s opposite shoulder. I can even hear the muffled awwwwwwws in the crowd.
Stan puts his daughter’s hand in mine.
Beth smiles at me, her hand shaking a little. I look into her eyes, but of course stray down to her cleavage. A single strand of pearls and two matching pearl teardrop earrings offset her tanning bed–bronzed skin. I give her hand a squeeze. I look back into her eyes, winking at her.
There’s a pause. A brief moment of silence. I can hear my father’s watch ticking.