Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(51)

André Gevers was a Dutch man, and the first recipient of an artificial heart made by what we privately called the Swiss Project. Jonathan had funded the research, and though he still promised nothing as far as allowing an artificial heart to be used on him, if it worked, I knew he wouldn’t say no to a life.

“Stable. The fake heart seems really happy in there.” I held my hand up with my fingers crossed so tight, I nearly pulled a tendon.

“Two weeks doesn’t mean it won’t be rejected,” Laurelin said. “I’m not trying to be negative, but medical research… there are a lot of failures before something sticks.”

“It’s going to work. He’s going to be an old man.”

“Gevers or Jonathan?”

“Yes.”

“My brother was born an old man,” Margie said, appearing next to me in the mirror, wearing a feminine-cut tuxedo. She was the best woman. We’d been at a loss for men, so she, Sheila, and Fiona were groomsfolk, along with Eddie and Darren. “Your dress isn’t as puff pastry as I feared.”

“You look perfectly marriageable yourself.” I said.

“That’s what I’m told.” She handed me the loose bouquet of flowers. “You ready?”

“Thank you, Margie. For everything. I’ve always felt taken care of with you around.”

“My pleasure. Now go.”

All my sky-blue girls waited at the exit, and I followed them through the stone hallway and into the courtyard. The security detail followed us, as visually conspicuous as they were silent. I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to being famous. It had been a year since my EP hit, and seven months since the full album. I was already having daily wrestling matches with my belief that I was a freak and a fraud, and Darren and Jonathan had to pull me away from them.

In the middle of the chaos and changing expectations, there was Jonathan, always at my side in public and always my master and king in private. We’d planned a wedding between plane rides, concerts, family functions, the management of a handful of hotels, and enough lovemaking to make my whole life a honeymoon.

Jonathan’s divorce made him ineligible for a wedding in a Catholic church. Fortunately, Episcopalians were less strident, and St. Timothy’s was more than happy to do the honors. The church was a huge stone edifice crusted with stained glass and surrounded by old trees in the center of Los Angeles. I got to the narthex, where my mother waited in a dress she tried to look modest in. It didn’t work. She was too beautiful, and she carried it like a cross. She kissed me on the cheek and held me. I was overcome by the seriousness of it all. Yes, I’d been married for two years, and yes, this was all a big redo for the sake of his family and tradition, but those stones and brass fixtures had seen generations of brides. And the pews, from what I could see, were full of people.

“So much for an intimate event,” I mumbled.

“Oh, please, Monya,” my mother said, “you had no chance of that.”

She took my hand, and we were hustled to the back of the line.

St. Timothy’s had a huge organ, and at the first note, a hush fell over the congregation. I waited at the end of the line with my mother as the bridesmaids and groomsfolk walked down the aisle. David and Bonnie were right in front of me with the rings and a basket of rose petals.

“You ready, Mom?” I asked as Margie and Laurelin went.

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to give you away. I hoped I’d meet someone to replace your father.”

“No one could replace dad.”

The music changed, and I took my mother down the aisle so she could give me away. I was so excited I wanted to run, but my mother took it slow. Too slow.

“Come on, Ma.”

“You only do this once,” she whispered.

I felt like a kid held back from the tree on Christmas morning. I knew what Jonathan looked like. I knew what his tux looked like, how it fit, how the white tie blended with the white shirt and how the line of the sharply cut black jacket made a perfect triangle from his throat to his waist, like an arrowhead to… well, I admit I was thinking of my wedding night.

Cameras had been confiscated. I couldn’t look at all the people watching me. But I felt their eyes on me. Felt their good wishes.

Once I got halfway down the aisle, I could see Jonathan, because he’d stepped toward the center to see me. Margie tried to pull him back, but it was a wasted effort. Jonathan did what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted, and he apparently wanted to watch me rush down the aisle.

Could my heart continue to melt every time I saw him? Would the day come when he had no effect on me? When I took his presence for granted? I couldn’t imagine that. He was so straight, so perfect, carrying the formal suit as if it was the most natural thing he could put on his back. The man I’d met had returned, slowly but surely. His sudden visions of his heart rejecting him were gone, and my dreams and fear had collapsed under the weight of our intimacy. He was stronger, fitter, more dominant than ever, and he was my perfect life mate.

“Hey,” I said when I reached the altar, and he took my hand. “How are you doing? You look nice.”

“Nice? I’m surrounded by cross-dressers, and they all look better in a tux than I do.”

I put my fingers over my mouth to stifle a laugh.

As the congregation sat behind us, Jonathan leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I own you. I’m going to take a belt to you just because I can.”