Woman Last Seen(12)
We’re getting married in Mark’s garden. Our garden! We decided not to marry in a church because the last time the boys were in a church was at their mother’s funeral and Mark and I did not want to prompt any difficult memories. Mark has no problem with the fact we are skipping a church service. He is not religious—if ever he believed in a God, he stopped after watching his wife die of cancer when she was just thirty-two. I consider myself vaguely spiritual, although not wild about dogmatic patriarchal doctrines. I suppose I had probably always thought I would marry in a church—if ever I was to marry at all—not for me so much as for my mother.
My mother is a regular churchgoer but she stopped trying to drag me there when I was nine; she was embarrassed in front of the other churchgoers by my open lack of enthusiasm for the prayers, recited by rote, that seemed to fall on deaf ears. That was around the time my father left us. My mother’s response to his departure was to up the ante with God. No longer satisfied with weekly visits, she went to mass daily; it wasn’t clear who she was praying for—my father or herself. Despite not attending personally, my mother’s beliefs—and her guilt and fear—have permeated my entire life. I have a very acutely developed conscience and actively choose to do the right thing whenever I can, even if it is inconvenient, boring or genuinely hard. It was difficult to know what the right thing to do was in the case of deciding where to marry, considering my mother’s desire for a church wedding but playing that off against the boys’ trauma. I briefly wondered whether I could simply find a church that was completely dissimilar to the cool, gray-stoned, nineteenth-century one Frances’s funeral had taken place in. Mark pointed out that modern churches don’t make for great photos anyhow. I backed the boys. My mother is delighted she’s going to be a grandmother but irritated that I didn’t marry in a church because she thinks the whole thing seems a bit improper. Not sanctified. I put a lot of energy into not letting her view get inside my head.
“Today, darling, try not to resent how much attention the boys will get.” I mentally roll my eyes at her but outwardly work hard to keep every muscle in my face still. For as long as I can remember I’ve aimed not to let her know what I’m really thinking. Focus. I’m getting married. I will have a new family. I don’t need to care what she thinks or says anymore.
“Why would I resent it?”
“Well, no one would blame you, darling, if you did,” she says hurriedly. Identifying her mistake, a moment after she’s made it. Situation normal. “It’s just that traditionally brides expect to be center stage and command all the interest.”
I’ve insisted that the boys are very much center stage throughout. I was the one who suggested that they invite their friends, that they should stand with us as we say our vows. That they wear navy blue linen suits that echo their dad’s. If I tell her all of this, it will sound as though I’m overexplaining. Somehow my sincerity will sound contrived. I simply add, “It’s really important that they are a big part of the celebration, that they know we are all in this together. I’m more than happy to share the oohs and aahs with the boys.”
Luckily at that point, before things could get heated, Fiona calls up the stairs that the car is waiting to take us to the wedding. If we don’t get a move on, we’ll be late. “You don’t want Mark thinking you’ve changed your mind,” Fiona yells.
Our wedding is a happy, chaotic, boozy, child-friendly affair. It flashes by as everyone warned me it would; a series of Technicolor images, clinking glasses, broad, sincere smiles. I expected to be the one who oohed and aahed the loudest over the boys but in fact when I saw the three of them standing at the top of the aisle waiting for me, I was swept away by a far greater emotion than considering how cute they looked. I cried. Big, gulpy, happy tears rolled down my face, ruining my makeup but making Mark’s day. When I reached the top of the aisle, I could hardly stutter out my vows, I was that overawed. That damned happy!
Our guests look elegant, healthy, excited, every last one of them. I invited my friends, a couple of work colleagues, one or two of my mum’s friends and their families. Naturally, Fiona is my bridesmaid. Mark invited more than twice the number of people I did, not at all kowtowed by the traditions that dictate second weddings ought to be smaller, quieter. He invited his entire extended family and all his friends. I try not to think of how many of the guests at my wedding were Frances’s friends. To be fair, it is impossible to tell because everyone is thrilled for us, for him. I’m showered in compliments and congratulations. If people secretly think Mark marrying within a year of his wife’s death is a little too soon, they have the good manners not to say it aloud.
After the ceremony, when we are milling around in happy clusters and I’m straining to keep my weight in the balls of my feet so my heels don’t sink into the grass, I stand with Fiona, peaceful, content. I allow my gaze to drift across the scene of celebration and make an effort to lock it in my mind. All day I’ve consciously tried to hold on to the precious moments: Mark’s expression as he first saw me drift toward him, the boys’ laughter breaking through the chatter at regular intervals—my ear is attuned to that sound now, I can identify their laughter in among other kids’—the beautiful flower arrangements that are everywhere and fill the air with a heady, intoxicating scent, the fizz of champagne on my tongue, although I don’t really need alcohol, I’m already drunk on joy. Seb’s hot little hand has been firmly wedged in mine for a lot of the day but he slips my grasp and joyfully dashes off to join Oli and some other children who are clustering around the cupcake table.