Aftermath of Dreaming(86)
My attempt to ask what the hell he is doing comes out in gibberish thanks to his hand still having its way with my lips. As I manage to pry his fingers loose, Michael immediately trains his detail-obsessed attention onto my dress, and the general grooviness of his behavior and the scene finally sinks in.
“Oh, God, no. Michael, are you tripping on the day of my sister’s wedding?” He is now trying to pick the flowers off my dress, grabbing at the fabric—and ergo, my legs—relentlessly. “Yes, you are. Okay, can I just die now please?”
Michael’s face crumples like a punctured balloon. “No, we’re going to the Phish concert today.”
“Yeah, clearly—you’re in great shape for that.”
“Wow,” he says, eyes blinking hard and fast. “Okay, I really can’t handle your dress right now.” Michael sits down on the couch and covers his face with his hands.
“Hey, man, don’t harsh out his trip.” Ivan has moved his feet to the coffee table, and is lying stretched out.
“Oh, no, God forbid I harsh out the Phishing trip.”
Michael is now playing some pseudo peekaboo game with himself, his hands flapping open and shut rhythmically over his face.
“Hey, man, seeing as how you’re vertical,” Ivan says. “Could you hand me the nose-blowing paper?”
“The what?” I suddenly wonder if this is some newfangled acid. And I thought stamps were all kids had to worry about.
“The nose-blowing paper, man.” Ivan sounds agitated, and is pointing at a box of tissues, his finger jabbing the air. “I got to blow my nose.”
My dress billows around me, a storm of flowers raining in the air, as I pick up the desired object and hand it to him. “Here. Blow away.”
A long expanse of white net floats by, then is stopped like a sail catching the wind as Betsy and I place the veil on Suzanne. The three of us stare at the nuptial angel reflected in the full-length mirror of the church’s dressing room.
“It’s breathtaking,” Betsy sighs.
“It’s Momma’s!” Suzanne ecstatically cries.
“Well, I figured it would definitely match with the prayer book and the music and all.”
Betsy squeals with delight.
God is happy with this home. The cathedral my sister is getting married in is gold and ornate, but tasteful in its excess. Baroque music is playing at full steam, filling the air like a teapot about to explode. I am standing at the altar waiting for Suzanne-the-bride to come forth. Six bridesmaids are in a line at my right with Mandy closest to me. Even in her conservative bridesmaid dress, she manages to look like she just posed for a Cosmo cover, like some Freudian reminder of what this ceremony is really about.
There is a pause of silence, a crash of chords, then three hundred congregants rise as the wedding march begins and Suzanne effulgently floats down the aisle. Tears immediately start streaming down my face, keeping pace with her steps. My sister is stunningly beautiful as immense joy exudes from her, blinding each row as she walks by.
As I sit in the front pew between Betsy and Mandy during the nuptial mass, my small but audible sobs accompany the vocalist who is glorifying the cathedral with “Ave Maria.” The almost-married couple is kneeling at the altar while music swirls around them like fairy dust gracing their union. Betsy looks completely blissed out, not unlike Michael before I harshed out his trip. Without removing her eyes from the bride, she reaches into her voluminous bag and puts a box of tissues on my lap. I blow my nose under cover of “Ave Maria’s” final crescendo.
At the reception afterward, I decide the cathedral won the contest for most ornate, but it was close. The hotel ballroom is decorated like a Renaissance court, with two gigantic food-laden tables lining the walls and round white-covered tables festooned with pale soft flowers spread throughout around the dance floor and band.
Guests are making their way through the receiving line, which is missing its customary first greeter, the mother of the bride. I suddenly imagine a spotlight to commemorate her empty spot at the beginning of the line. The place where our father should have stood, between Matt’s mother and the bridal couple, is also vacant and therefore closed up, their bodies moved together to where he should stand, as if he never registered in Suzanne’s existence. I am next to Suzanne, commencing the attendant portion of the line. Tears are still flowing down my face—they haven’t stopped since they started the minute Suzanne walked down the aisle—but I am resigned to them now, like some really bad lipstick I’ve been forced to wear. I’m not even sure what they are from—happiness, sadness, both at once. Or maybe they are special tears from a reservoir that is marked just for nuptial events—tears to accompany a cacophony of emotion, too loud and jumbled and filled up to be quickly understood. If the guests I am greeting notice my quiet crying, they don’t seem to care, or at least no one mentions it, like my neighbors and my screaming at night.
My voice and Suzanne’s overlap, singing a roundelay with each other, the repeated phrases and similar angled nods of our heads becoming a sibling social duet.
Suzanne’s refrain is, “Thank you so much. Well, simple is what we wanted because it’s all about who’s here, but once you see the possibilities…”
My chorus is a constant underscore of “Hi, so nice to meet you. I’m Yvette, Suzanne’s sister. Yes, there is a resemblance. Thank you for being here. Hi, so nice…”