Don’t Forget to Smile
“Surprise!”
Not again. Not another surprise party. Only this one isn’t an engagement party. I have just stepped into my surprise bridal shower, and all the guests are female. At least fifty women are gathered in Alice’s house, a few I recognize, most I don’t.
Orange streamers are draped on the walls; platters of square sandwiches and potato salad line the countertops; piles of gifts are stacked by the fireplace. I was told to come over for an emergency seating-plan crisis, but I realize too late that the pleading phone call was just a ruse.
“You have to see the look on your face!” shrieks Jessica. “You had no idea, did you?”
I scan the room to see just who exactly is here and am relieved to spot my mother, in the corner, with a none-too-pleased expression on her face, eating a dry celery stick, and then Melanie, on the couch and deep in conversation with Lila.
Oh no, Lila. I’ve pretty much come up with every excuse in the book so I won’t have to see her. But here she is, in all her fiancé-stealing glory.
I say hello to strange faces as I make my way toward my mother. “Surprise,” she says, with more than a touch of bitterness.
“I can’t believe you didn’t warn me,” I whisper.
“What, and ruin all the fun?”
“I said I didn’t want a shower.”
“I know. So you can imagine my surprise when I got the invitation in the mail. It was so nice of her to consider consulting me on the date.”
I sigh. “I’ve learned to just shrug it off.”
“Now you’re going to have spend your whole life shrugging things off. You should have confronted her at the beginning and nipped this mother-in-law problem in the bud months ago.” She stabs her celery stick in the air to make a point. “You’re in for years and years of aggravation.”
Have I ever confronted anyone? “That’s a wonderful thing to say to your daughter the week before her wedding.”
“They don’t pay me to sugarcoat.”
“What does that even mean?” I grab onto her arms. “I need to say hello to my two friends. Come with me?” I’m afraid to leave her alone in case she attacks someone.
“Go ahead. I want to check out the house. I was thinking of sneaking into Alice’s sock drawer and mixing them all up so none of them match. I bet that would drive her nuts. Then maybe I’ll just hide in her closet until this is over.”
“Try to control yourself. I’ll be back soon.” I reluctantly let go of her arm and head over to my friends. Along the way, I notice that Alice’s friends and family (which is ninety-nine percent of this party) are staring at Melanie, the Monica Lewinsky of Arizona.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I say, hugging her, feeling awful that she has to endure all this unpleasant attention today. Next to Alice’s yapping friends, the tabloids seem tame.
Melanie squeezes me tightly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I guess now I have to hug Lila. “Hey.”
“I can’t believe it’s your shower!” she sings. “You’re almost a married woman.”
“I know.”
“You sure you’re ready for this? You’ll never have sex with another man.”
“That’s usually what marriage means.”
Melanie puts her arm around me. “You guys are meant to be. I just know it.”
Lila winks. “It’ll be a sad day for the singles of Arizona when you two are officially off the market.”
I know she’s kidding and that her comment was entirely appropriate (within the context of this conversation), but it still sends willies down my spine. You don’t just wake up one morning and find your roommate’s ex-boyfriend sexy. You harbor a crush on him, waiting for your chance, waiting to pounce. Waiting for his girlfriend to move to New York. No, I’m convinced that even in this world, Lila has a thing for Cam.
There’s a sourness in my mouth, a sourness I can’t swallow away. I look for the platter of celery to clean my palate, but don’t see it. “Has either of you seen the veggie plate?”
Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t think there is one.”
So where did that celery stick come from? Oh, God. My mom brought her own carb-free snacks from home. I start biting my fingers again. How insanely embarrassing. How insane, period. I should never have let her go off on her own. When my mother is in one of her insane phases, she’s a serious danger—I’d better find her before she does any serious damage to Alice’s sock drawer, I decide. “I’ll be right—”
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” shrieks Alice. “It’s the time we’ve all been looking forward to. The time to play How Well Does the Bride Know the Groom?”
I wonder if I can join my mother in that closet.
“Gabrielle, you have to sit here,” says Alice, pointing to a chair that has been decorated with—shock of all shocks—orange streamers. “I’ve asked Cam twenty questions about himself, which he answered. Now I’m going to ask you the same questions. Every time you get an answer wrong, you have to take another piece of gum.” She points to the bowl on the coffee table, which is overflowing with Bazooka bubble gum.
I cannot believe I am going to have to participate in such a lame game. I cannot believe how embarrassed I’m going to be when I get all these answers wrong. This is the most miserable game I have ever heard of, obviously invented by a group of sadistic mothers-in-law hoping to humiliate their future daughters-in-law. I fake a smile and sit.
My mother takes this opportunity to rejoin the party. She leans against the wall and waves. She unzips her purse and removes a plastic bag filled with celery sticks.
“Here we go!” chirps Alice. She takes out a stack of white index cards and begins reading aloud. “What is Cam’s favorite color?” She leers at me, waiting for me to get the answer wrong.
The pressure, the pressure! The crowd of strangers is staring at me, waiting for me to say the wrong answer. But wait! I know that one! It’s…“Purple!” I say triumphantly.
“Yes,” says Alice, checking the back of the card.
The crowd claps politely.
“What was his first pet?”
“Ruffles the cockatoo is the only pet he ever had.”
“Right again,” Alice says and the crowd claps.
I look up at my mom and she gives me a thumbs-up.
“What is Cam’s favorite movie?”
Hmm. That’s a tough one. “His true favorite movie is Caddyshack. But there’s no way he’d admit that, so I’m going to go with Vanilla Sky.”
“Right again,” she says, sounding more than a little surprised. “Plus you got the next question right, too—what’s his favorite movie that he’s too embarrassed to admit?”
More clapping. I’m on a roll! Except my audience is starting to fidget. I think they’re getting bored.
“What is Cam’s favorite meal?” Since Alice’s eyes are twinkling for this one, it’s not too hard to figure out.
“Coconut shrimp.”
She smiles, but then the questions start coming fast and furious.
Alice: “How old is his oldest pair of underwear?”
Me: “Eleven years.” I have to admit it makes me uncomfortable that Alice has any information regarding Cam’s underwear.
Alice: “What is my son’s favorite sports team?”
Me: “The Cardinals.” And this is supposed to be hard?
She fans the index cards. “You know, this game is getting a bit tedious. Let’s play something else.”
Hey, I was just starting to have fun! Sure, they were all excited about the game when they thought my mouth would be stuffed with gum. “No, let’s continue,” I say. This is my chance to show Alice that her son confides in me. That I’m important to him. That I’m the next queen of his court.
“How about bridal bingo?” the very pregnant Blair asks.
“I think we should finish this game,” says my mom from the back of the room.
Alice rolls her eyes. “But it’s boring.”
“My daughter wants to continue, so let’s continue.” There is an edge to my mother’s voice. One I recognize.
“I don’t want to,” Alice says, eyes slit.
My mom reaches into her purse, then into a plastic bag, and slowly, purposefully, removes a celery stick, lifts it high above her head…
Oh, God. She’s going to do it. She’s going to throw the stick at Alice.
…tilts her hand into tossing position…
Don’t do it! Mom, no!
“I think Gabby should finish the game,” Melanie pipes up.
After an audible gasp in the room at the sound of the quasi-celebrity’s voice, Alice mutters a quick, “Fine, we’ll finish the ridiculous game. What does Cam like on his pizza?”
The celery stick pauses in midair. Then, instead of soaring across the room, it finds its way to my mother’s mouth.
Chomp.
Whew. “Pineapple and pepperoni,” I answer.
My mom winks at me, and I wink back.
When I get home, Cam is waving a bottle of champagne.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
He’s smiling. “We closed the house today.”
“Really? Wow. Congrats.”
“Congrats to us.” He pops the cork and it flies into the ceiling, making a smacking sound and a slight dent in the paint. “Whoops.”
“At least we don’t own this place.”
He pours the champagne into two glasses—two glasses we registered for. “In the new place, we’ll be opening all bottles outside.”
Tuesday, the week before I get married, I step out of the elevator and there he is.
There they are.
Nate and Mystery Woman. They’re standing outside the building, on the other side of the glass doors, talking. But not regular how-are-you talking. Not that I can hear them. Not that I need to. You know how in TV shows, the characters are always standing absurdly close together so the cameraman can get the right shot? And you hope that the actors carry around breath mints or spray because their faces are barely a millimeter apart? That’s how close Nate and Mystery Woman are. His hand is in fact touching her upper arm. I peer. At least, I think it’s her upper arm.
My feet are stapled to the lobby floor. Heather was right. Nate has hooked up with someone else. A coworker, perhaps? Jerk. Ass-wipe. He sleeps with me (yes, yes, not sleep-sleep, but still) and says he’ll call, but doesn’t even have the courtesy to tell me he’s seeing someone else. Or the courtesy to tell me that I should no longer be waiting for his call! It’s been many weeks and I haven’t been staring at the phone, praying for it to ring, but I have occasionally glanced at it while cursing its silence.
He steps into the street and hails a cab. He and Mystery Woman get inside. And I thought that hailing was something he did just for me.
I feel like crying.
But the crappy part is, the absolute worst part, is that it’s not because of Nate’s rejection. No, I feel like crying because I feel empty. Like a shell. Because I realize that I don’t really care that Nate rejected me. Because as much as I wanted to find someone new to be in love with, Nate didn’t really matter to me at all.
And that’s what makes me want to scream, to kick, to cry.
The fact that I may never love anyone the way I love Cam.
“Follow me, everyone,” instructs Tricia, physically placing us in order. It’s Thursday evening and we’re in the middle of the wedding rehearsal at the hotel. So far the evening is going relatively smoothly, except for a few small concerns: one, my mother has been eyeing Alice like a lion eyes a gazelle; two, Blair looks so pregnant that I’m afraid she might give birth at the ceremony; and three, I’m concerned that I’m going to feel like a guest at my own wedding, since I barely know any of the people on the guest list. And I only like one of my bridesmaids. Furthermore, I didn’t choose the menu. Or the flowers. Or the tablecloths. Or the band. Safe to say, it’s nothing like that beach ceremony I used to dream about.
And the groom? Is he the man of my dreams?
“Now you have to walk slowly,” Tricia is saying. “One foot in front of the other, and don’t forget to smile.”
First the grandparents, then the bridesmaids and ushers, then Blair and Matt, Alice and Richard, Cam, Lila, my mom and then my dad (yes, they each walk on their own).
As I wait my turn, I feel like a fraud. And it’s not because I’m wearing a blue sundress, although that isn’t helping. It’s because I promised myself that I would have to decide ASAP which life I want, and ASAP has already passed. I still don’t know. I don’t want to be married in one life and remain fancy-free in another. It’s just wrong. I’m getting married in four my-time days (two Arizona days) and I’m still torn. One second I think I should get married, the next second I think it’s a mistake. I have to choose one life over the other, once and for all. But I can’t make up my stupid mind. And the worst part is, even if I do finally make a decision, what then? Will I even be able to actually choose? Deep down I believe that the act of choosing a life will block the other one out, but what if I’m wrong? What if I’m destined to spend my whole life divided?
“Your turn, honey!” my mom calls from down the aisle. “Keep your shoulders down!”
“Yes, Gabs,” says my dad. “You don’t want to look like a quarterback.”
Hey, look at this! My parents are getting along.
“No!” both Alice and Tricia shriek simultaneously. I stop in my tracks.
“The bride absolutely cannot be part of the rehearsal,” Tricia says.
Alice runs up the aisle. “It’s bad luck,” she says, at my side again and breathless.
It’s a wedding miracle. My parents are agreeing. Alice and Tricia are agreeing. I better not have entered another parallel universe. I really shouldn’t joke.
Tricia says, “The maid of honor is usually the stand-in.”
“Blair, get over here!” calls Alice.
“I’m tired,” whines Blair, who’s plopped her body and unborn child on one of the folding chairs.
“Lila!” I call down the aisle, but she’s immersed in a conversation with my groom. Surprise, surprise.
“I’ll do it,” Alice says.
Tricia tries to block her. “I don’t really think that’s appro—”
Alice pushes us both out of the way, turns toward the front of the room and begins walking down the aisle, singing the wedding march.
Everyone in the wedding party has their mouths open. Even Richard, my future father-in-law, looks uncomfortable. It’s not every day you get to watch your wife marrying your son.
Tricia squeezes my hand and mutters just loud enough so I can hear, “Gabby, I promise I will watch her like a hawk at the wedding. If she tries to pull anything, I will personally take one of her orange flower arrangements and knock her over the head.”
Afterward, we all go over to Alice and Richard’s for dinner. Richard is wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook, and Alice is scurrying around making sure everyone’s glasses are filled.
Once the main course is over, before dessert is served, Richard takes off his apron and taps his wineglass with his fork. “If you can all be quiet for a second, I’d like to make a toast.”
I have to admit, I’m surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Richard speak in public. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I heard him speak, period. Cam puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder.
Richard clears his throat. “We’re here tonight to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my son Cam and his fiancée Gabby.”
Everyone cheers. Richard waits for quiet and then continues. “As some of you might know, Alice and I will be celebrating our forty-first wedding anniversary next week. Some people scoff at the idea of love at first sight, but the day Alice walked into my father’s store where I was working the register, that was it for me. It wasn’t just her big smile and shining eyes, although she was, and still is, the most beautiful woman in the world. It was just a feeling I got. But what a feeling. No denying it, it was the real thing. I knew right then and there I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I told her that her purchase had come to eleven ninety-nine, and she shook her head and told me that instead of paying she would redesign my display window, and the rest is history.”
The crowd goes “Aw!”
“One day a little over three years ago,” he continues, “Cam came into my store and told me he was seeing someone. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘What’s she like?’ ‘She’s beautiful,’ he answered. ‘She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s sweet. But it’s a lot more than that. I can’t explain it,’my son said, ‘but I just know it’s the real thing.’” He raises his glass. “And now, please join me in a toast. Those of you who are parents all know that we want our kids to have twice as much as we do—to be twice as happy, live twice as long, be twice as successful. So to my son—I wish you two houses, four children and eighty-two years of marriage to your beautiful young bride.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and Cam and I both walk over to hug Richard, and then, yes, hug Alice. I can’t believe how sweet that was. Married for forty-one years…I can’t even imagine. Do I want to imagine?
“You should have seen those window displays before I got my hands on them,” Alice says. “They were embarrassing.”
After another glass of wine, I find my father in the sea of people.
“I can’t believe my favorite kid’s all grown up,” he says, hugging me and rubbing his chin into the top of my head.
I smile. “I’m your only kid.” For a fleeting moment I’m a little girl again and I feel safe in his arms. “Daddy…is this the right choice?”
He pulls away and searches my face. “Honey, if this isn’t what you want—”
I laugh nervously. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Just prenuptial jitters. I know what I’m doing.”
If only that were true.
It’s Friday in New York, one Gabby-day before my wedding, and I’m still stuck. After an exhausting (but exhausting in a good way) day of work, I manage to avoid running into Ron, but see Nate and Mystery Woman in the elevator.
Funny, how in the beginning, months and months went by and he was MIA, and now that I wish he really was MIA, I see him everywhere.
“Hi,” I say, looking at the floor.
“Hey. How’ve you been?”
Now that’s awkward for ya. I mumble something even I can’t understand and head out to the subway.
I don’t get a seat. Great. What else can go wrong today? Somewhere underground around Fortieth Street, it grinds to a halt and goes pitch black.
Wonderful.
That had better be a woman’s purse rubbing against my leg. I clutch my own bag tightly to my side. A few minutes later, we start up again and finally I’m at my stop. When I step outside, it starts to rain.
Lovely.
Soaking wet, I rush to the apartment and I go straight to the bathroom to wash away the grime of the city. Then I realize that I’m starving and that I should have picked something up for dinner. I’m about to open the fridge when I spot a note on the freezer door: “G: You drank my apple juice. I did not give you permission to drink my apple juice. You owe me two dollars and fifty cents for my apple juice. H”
I did not drink her apple juice. She is crazy. I take the note off the fridge, crumple it and toss it into the garbage can. The disgusting, smelly garbage can. Everything in this city is smelly and gross. I hate this garbage can. In my new house with the Jacuzzi, I’m going to have a garbage disposal.
I spend the rest of the evening watching TV. Heather storms in around eleven and yells at me for not emptying the garbage.
As I get into bed, I look forward to falling asleep. Look forward to Arizona, where the streets are clean, where disposals rein over cans, where Cam is waiting for me. Just as I’m floating in that fuzzy place between wakefulness and sleep, the phone rings, jarring me. Hoping it’s Cam, I feel my heart speed up. “Hi, baby,” I murmur.
“It’s me,” says Melanie.
And then I remember where I am. Or more precisely, where I am not. Which not for the first time causes me to wonder, what would have happened if I had been asleep? Would someone else have answered the phone while I was nestled in Cam’s arms, back in Arizona? Someone with my body? (Or my clone’s body?) Where the hell am I when I’m asleep?
“Yoo-hoo,” says Melanie. “Anyone there?”
“I’m here,” I say. Though at this point in my life, I’m not entirely sure.
“You’re not going to believe who I just saw.” There’s a lot of static and I can hear loud noises in the background.
“Who?”
“Cam and Lila. On a date.”
Surprise, surprise. “Where were they?”
“You mean, where are they. I’m at China Grill in Tempe. I’m on a blind date and I just passed them on the way to the bathroom. I’m in a stall right now. She was feeding him with her chopsticks.”
I feel sick. They’ve gone public.
“It was so nauseating,” she continues. “But I had to tell you. I mean, I’d want you to tell me, if I were in your place.”
“Did they see you?” I hope they did. I hope they did and felt horrible and guilty and had a big fight.
“I don’t think so. But they will. I’m going right over to yell at them. I’m going to tell them—”
A siren goes off outside and I don’t hear the end of Melanie’s sentence. “I missed what you said. Sorry. It’s loud here.”
“I said I’m going to tell them that they suck.”
Right. That’ll crush them. “No, don’t say anything to them. Please. There’s nothing either you or I can do.”
We chat for a few more seconds, and then I hang up and stare at the ceiling. Another siren goes off and then the phone rings again, but I just let it ring. It’s probably Melanie calling me back to tell me he’s kissing Lila now, they’re making out right in the middle of the restaurant, or even worse, he’s on his knees proposing. I can just picture it: the whole restaurant applauds when she throws her arms around his neck and yells, in When Harry Met Sally style, “Yes! Yes!” But when I check the caller ID, I see it’s Soho Grand. I groan. Just what I need, Ron wondering what I’m wearing, or hopefully, what I’m not wearing. I want him to stop calling me. I want him to go away. I put the pillow over my head to stop the ringing.
“I’m going to kill you!” Heather screams, pounding on my wall.
I hate that he calls me at home at night. I hate that Nate never called. I hate that I don’t really care that Nate never called. I hate that Brad barfed all over my bathroom. I hate how cold the winters are. I hate that I share a wall with a crazy woman. I hate that somewhere, in another life, right now, Cam could be proposing to Lila.
As the third siren of the night wails in the distance, I toss and turn, and toss and turn, and realize that I’m sick of the subway, sick of the men, sick of the cold. Sick of the garbage.
And then I hear the squeaking in my closet.
You’ve got to be kidding. On top of everything, the mouse is back. I have to get out of here. What if all this noise keeps me up and I can’t fall asleep and then my Arizona porthole closes and I’m stuck in this world forever? I need to go to sleep. Right now. I throw on jeans and a shirt and my sneakers, grab my purse and run like hell.
All the way to the Bolton Hotel in Times Square. No phone. No Heather. No mouse.
“I’d like a room please,” I say to the man at the service desk.
“For how long?”
“Let’s start with one night.”
“Would you like the king-sized featherbed?”
“Sure. Why not? A quiet room please.”
“Something high up then. That’ll be two hundred dollars.”
I hand over my credit card. For two hundred dollars, those feathers had better be goose.
“Do you have any baggage, ma’am?”
Oh yeah, do I ever. “No.”
“Then you’re all set,” he says, his face devoid of expression. I guess he’s used to women with no luggage checking in after midnight. “Here’s the key card for room 2715.”
I wait for the elevator, and when it opens, I’m face-to-face with Brad.
He turns red when he sees me. “Hey, Gabby. How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks. You?” He’s the last person I feel like dealing with now.
“Okay. Um. Listen I want to apologize for the night we went out. I don’t remember most of it, but it couldn’t have been good.”
“No worries.”
“Cool. Take care,” he says. “Um, is Heather with you?”
“No. Why?”
“I just thought…oh, never mind.”
What an ego. He was probably worried she’d pounce on him. I think about the last time I was here, and how he ignored her. I step into the elevator and press the button for floor twenty-seven. Or maybe he thought there was a party in one of the rooms. The last thing on my mind is partying. I’m so dead, I can hardly keep my eyes open.
I kick off my sneakers, strip off my clothes, close the blinds and pull down the covers. I flop down on my two-hundred-dollar bed and go straight to sleep.