Aftermath of Dreaming(85)
My earthly mother has guided me. I should have turned to her before, but no use crying over spilled milk-colored seed pearls. When I got home from downtown, as I was walking into my apartment, a picture on the living room wall caught my eye. I see it so much that it has become part of the scenery, like the tree you don’t notice until it is gone and its protective shade no longer cools you. It is a black-and-white photograph of Momma and Daddy on their wedding day, cutting the tall, proud castle of a wedding cake. My father’s hand is gently guiding hers while my mother’s face looks young and expectant, as if each layer they are slicing through will provide answers to how her life with my father will go. The picture is slightly blurred. It is just a snapshot, taken by a forgotten family member, but it is the only photograph I have ever seen of my parents’ wedding. I know that Suzanne has a copy of it, too.
Momma never spoke about her wedding, nor about a future one that might one day be mine. I wish I had asked her about hers. Maybe brought it up on one of their anniversaries before my father left when that date in the year became like a frozen lake, maintaining its true nature underneath, but with a surface of ice covering it that allowed us to skate over it on top.
The new veil that I have created for my sister appears slightly blurred, just like the one in the wedding photograph of Momma. I finally understood what Suzanne meant about glimmering but not jeweled. I have sewn a layer of white chiffon over the headpiece, muting the tiny seed pearls and sprinkles of jewels underneath, the bridal equivalent of wearing a long strand of pearls inside the deep V-neck of a cocktail dress. A glimpse. Present, but not for show. Suzanne’s taste exactly. And just like the photo. I have been giddy since yesterday creating this for her and have an adrenaline rush from working through the night, and from having everything come out right. I can’t wait to see the veil on her head.
It is quarter to two on Suzanne’s wedding day, and I am all ready to go, though it is much earlier than I need to leave. I decide to forgo a nap—I couldn’t fall asleep right now, but if I did, I might not wake up—and clean up the wisps of fine netting, white threads, and minuscule pearls that are scattered everywhere. It feels better to get rid of the nuptial debris than try to put a dent in all the sleep I have missed. Besides, I’m too excited about having Suzanne see her veil.
As I put together a small bag of veil-crisis remedies—knowing that Betsy in her professional bride-soothing role will have everything, but wanting to be prepared just in case—I dial Michael’s phone number, and am surprised to get his machine.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say, while slipping into my shoes. “Well, maybe you’re in the shower. I was thinking you might want to go early with me instead of meeting me at the church like we planned, but…umm, okay, I think I’m just gonna come by your place, and if you’re ready and wanna come with me, I’d love that, and if not, then at least I can see you real quick before I get swallowed up with maid-of-honor duties. And maybe we can swallow each other up first. Okay, I’m on my way, see you soon.”
I am driving in my truck with Suzanne’s veil pinned to a hanger that is suspended from the clothes hook in front of the passenger window. It’s like riding with the ghost of all brides, but a benevolent one, a sort of phantom fairy godmother. I am wearing my maid-of-honor dress. I considered doing the normal thing and wearing something else to the church, then changing there, and I know I will hear a chorus from the bridesmaids: “You didn’t wear something comfortable before you have to change into that!” and “Aren’t you afraid you’ll ruin it before the pictures and ceremony!” But considering that the dress trails around me like an unused parachute and is a jumbled profusion of floral madness, nothing could be more comfortable or less able to show wrinkles or spots. For the first time, I commend my sister’s choice, though I suspect Michael might be shocked when he sees me since I wear only solid colors and form-fitting clothes. But that’s assuming he’ll notice.
It takes three rings of his doorbell before I hear footsteps approach. I know Michael is home because his BMW is parked out front, its great-on-the-outside/a-total-mess-within appearance on full view in the day’s bright sunlight.
Finally Michael opens the front door. All he is wearing is cutoff jeans, an unshaved beard, and a peculiar grin on his face. Groovy music that sounds like it was recorded outside is playing inside. He takes a long step backward without saying anything, and as I follow him into the living room’s dim light, I see Ivan, a blond dreadlocked deejay from the station, sprawled on the couch. Ivan appears peculiarly specifically cheerful, as well.
“What are y’all—” But my words are suddenly interrupted by Michael’s hand touching my mouth.
“The most perfect flower,” he says, staring at me. “Your dress and lips and mouth and dress.” His fingers are tracing my lips, at first soft, then hard, then gentle, but all annoying, and Ivan is now staring to boot.
“That is so sweet,” I say as I try to bat his hand away. “But, um, Michael, shouldn’t you be getting ready now?”
Michael’s hand is on overdrive. It is grabbing my lips, which can be pulled out much farther than I thought they could, then his hand starts contorting and shaping them with his strong fingers.
“Bloom and die and bloom and die,” he chants like the underlying theme of a nursery rhyme.