“Walk in heels without busting your ass. Check. Slowly turn and smile. Check. Send supportive vibes to best friend while she attempts to duplicate your feat of walking without tripping. Check. Adjust train. Check. Take bouquet. Check. Make Reverend Hughes hurry things along so you can get out of this dress and have a beer. Check.”
The rest of the ceremony was uneventful. Nothing out of the ordinary. I kept waiting for an “aha” moment when everything would suddenly make sense.
When Jack kissed me, his new bride, a little too long, Reverend Hughes cracked, “Save some for the honeymoon, son.” His comment provoked a laugh from the congregation, who burst into applause when Reverend Hughes introduced Jack and me as Dr. and Mrs. John J. Stanton.
As we faced our friends and now-blended families, Jack looked delirious with happiness; I looked, to be honest, relieved. The camera followed Jack and me as we headed out of the church before it panned back to catch the attendants’ departures. Jennifer and Jimmy were the first to leave. Even though she was dressed for a wedding, Jennifer looked like she was attending a funeral. I zoomed in on her grim, unsmiling face and hit the pause button. I pressed my hand against the screen.
Jennifer. My soul mate. The love of my life.
I remembered.
How could I forget?
She told me she was gay when we were in the ninth grade. She had a crush on the most popular girl in school—Rachel Nicholson, the captain of the cheerleading squad—but she told only me. I kept her secret, though that didn’t stop other people from guessing it. Something in her eyes gave her away. Truly the mirrors to her soul, they were unable to hide what she was feeling. They still are.
At the time she came out to me, I was so naïve I barely knew what the word lesbian meant, but I envied her. I wanted to be as comfortable in my own skin as she was. To be so young but so certain about who and what I wanted.
Back then, I had been too busy wondering what people thought of me to just be myself. Instead, I had tried on and discarded personas as if I were shopping for jeans at the mall. None of them had been a perfect fit so I had picked the one I thought I could grow into: the type-A overachiever. I had set nearly impossible goals and hadn’t stopped until I reached them. When I did, I had set the bar even higher. All so I wouldn’t have to face the image and esteem issues that had set in when I was fifteen. That was the year I had developed an acne condition so serious it had earned me the odious nickname Pizza Face.
“You’re beautiful,” Jennifer used to tell me even when my forehead looked like a slice of double-stuffed pepperoni. “When you’re older, you’ll look back on all this and laugh. You’ll show up for the class reunion happy and successful and supermodel gorgeous and all those assholes that are being jerks to you now will be eating their hearts out.”
I hadn’t believed her, of course. I tended to dwell on negative comments and ignore positive ones. I guess not much had changed from high school to now.
Even though Jennifer was into girls and I was into guys, it hadn’t stopped us from being friends. But it had tested our bond. She had listened attentively while I told her all about my latest adventure in the backseat of some guy’s car. When it was her turn to share, I hadn’t paid her the same courtesy. I didn’t want to hear her talk about Frenching a girl or getting to second base.
I was jealous of her girlfriends. Not them personally. I didn’t find fault with them as people. I didn’t like the idea of them. Time Jennifer spent with them was time she spent away from me. I resented them for taking her away from me. I hadn’t known how to put that into words. If I had, perhaps I wouldn’t have wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself and spent more time being a better friend. I made up for it later—I gave her my shoulder to cry on during senior year when she broke up with her first serious girlfriend—but I would do anything to get back the years in between.
Out of respect for her parents, Jennifer had kept her burgeoning sexuality under wraps until she got to college. In high school, Marcus was her beard—and she was his. They had helped each other fulfill society’s expectations of what was “normal” while, at the same time, remaining true to themselves. They had come bursting out of their respective closets after they joined a student-run GLBT group on campus in Champaign, but their friendship had endured. I had often wondered if she were closer to him than to me.
“You and he have something in common that you and I don’t,” I’d tell her.
“Are you sure?” she’d retort. I’d thought she was kidding. My sexuality was a constant topic of debate for her friends. So much so that it became a joke for us. When I went to parties with her, we used to call them recruiting trips.
The “recruiters” had come calling in high school. Because I was a good athlete—I lettered in soccer and basketball—and because Jennifer and I were so close—we spent every waking moment together—most of her friends had assumed I was gay. A few of them had hit on me. I hadn’t been offended, but I hadn’t accepted any of their proposals.
My “rampant heterosexuality” was a cover, they had said. They had asked me what I was compensating for. I hadn’t thought I was compensating for anything. I had thought I was just having fun. Looking for my prince. Who knew that what I really wanted was a princess?
I had listened respectfully when my father had given me the old “men won’t buy the cow if they can get the milk for free” speech, but it had felt like he’d been secretly pleased to be delivering that lecture instead of the one that began “So what’s this I hear about you having feelings for other girls?”
I didn’t have feelings for other girls. I had feelings for one girl: Jennifer. Except by the time I realized it, it was too late to do anything about it. I was married to Jack and she was off in the middle of a civil war.
My parents adored Jennifer and they said they didn’t have any issues with her sexual preferences, but they made it clear that what was okay for her was not okay for me.
“You don’t want to be like your cousin Tommy, do you?” my mother had once asked, referring to a distant relative we saw once a year, if that.
My cousin Tommy had a great job, a fabulous house, and a gorgeous boyfriend. Why wouldn’t I want to be like him?
The message I had garnered from my mother’s rambling explanation was this: even though Tommy seemed to be happy and well-adjusted, I was supposed to pity him because his happiness wasn’t “real.” By whose definition? I wish I had been brave enough to ask the question but, though we were urged to stand up for ourselves, Patrick and I weren’t encouraged to second-guess our parents.
I had said yes to Jack’s proposal because I loved him, not because of his apartment’s prime vantage point across from Wrigley Field. But, as I often teased, that had helped seal the deal.
The whining of the hair dryer in the bathroom snapped me out of my reverie. Jack was out of the shower. I didn’t have much time.
I restarted the video and skipped ahead to the reception. Watching myself dance with my father put a lump in my throat the same way it had that day. Back then I had been overjoyed to make him so proud of me. Nineteen months later, I feared what his reaction would be when I told him that day had been a mistake. He’d still love me. Of that, I was certain. What I wanted was his approval. I didn’t know if he would grant it.
At the reception, the lobster dinner was frequently interrupted by the sound of silverware tinkling against crystal water glasses—the traditional sign that the new bride and groom should stop what they were doing to kiss. It was fun the first five or six times. The last fifteen or twenty were a bit tiresome.
Where was Reverend Hughes and his “save some for the honeymoon” when I needed him? Oh, yes. Hiding behind the five-foot floral arrangement in the middle of the gift table so he could quaff champagne without being seen.
One person after another stood up to make toasts.
Patrick’s toast was funny. Recounting the prom night story, he warned Jack to never take me by surprise. “But if you feel you must,
” he said, “duck fast because she’s got a wicked left hand.”
I drew a laugh by pretending to draw back as if to punch him. Then I kissed him and gave him a hug. “Thank you, big brother,” I whispered in his ear. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, sis,” he replied. The big lug actually teared up on me. Like most siblings, we fought like cats and dogs but had each other’s backs when it counted.
Jack’s father’s toast was gracious. “I have always wanted a daughter,” he said, raising his glass in my direction. “Now I can finally say I have one. Welcome to the family, Sydney. I hope you feel as welcome in ours as you do your own.”
He gave me a crushing hug. My new mother-in-law didn’t follow suit. When she had hugged me, I had barely felt the pressure. She would ratchet that up in due time.
My father’s toast was touching. “I became a parent the day my kids were born. I became a grandfather the day my son introduced me to his son. I didn’t become a father until today, when I saw my daughter get married. Jack, you’re a good man. I’m happy to have you in my daughter’s life—and in mine. Congratulations, you two. May your worst day together be ten times better than my best.”
He and my mother drew Jack and me into their arms. I had cried like a baby, makeup running everywhere. I’m surprised I didn’t end up looking like a wet raccoon in any of the pictures. I looked dazed in most of them, but that was nothing new.
Unnerved by either the occasion or by having to follow something so heartfelt, Jimmy hemmed and hawed through his speech. He dropped more um’s, uh’s, and ah’s than Jonathan Demme had when he accepted his Oscar as Best Director for The Silence of the Lambs. I was so embarrassed for him that I hit fast forward until he was done.
Jennifer was last to speak. Before she took the microphone, she quickly downed a glass of champagne for fortification.
“When you write,” she began, “you’re supposed to write what you know. When you speak, you’re supposed to speak from the heart. Since I hate to write and I can’t stand public speaking, I’m not quite sure which way I’m supposed to go. For those of you who know me, I’m sure that doesn’t come as much of a surprise.”
Her captive audience laughed over their chocolate éclairs.
“Sydney has been my best friend for as long as I can remember,” Jennifer continued. “We’ve been through more together than any two people have a right to. Whenever anything good happens in my life, she’s the one I want to share it with. Whenever anything bad happens, she’s the one who makes me feel better. She knows what I’m going to say even before I do. This is one time I think I’m going to catch her by surprise.”
She paused dramatically while the crowd oohed in anticipation.
“Because I’m going to ignore her completely. Jack, this message is for you,” she said, putting him on the spot instead. “Take care of her even when she says she doesn’t need you to. Listen to her even when what she’s saying is unspoken. Love her no matter what. Do these three things and we won’t have a problem, will we, Doctor?”
“No, ma’am,” he obediently replied.
“Uh-oh, Jack,” a heckler called out. “Looks like you’ve got two wives instead of one.”
“Better than three,” Jack shot back.
His sarcastic comeback ingratiated him with the men but alienated him from the women, including the members of his fan club—the half-dozen nurses from the hospital who occupied a table near the dais. They pelted Jack with the souvenir miniature silver wedding bells that had been handed out to each guest.
“Looks like someone won’t be getting any tonight,” Jennifer joked. “I guess my job here’s done.”
I stopped the tape. I had seen enough to make me remember the rest. Jack and I had visited each table to thank our guests for coming, then we had paused to cut the four-tier Italian cream wedding cake. Accompanied by much wolf whistling, Jack had slid the blue garter off my leg. Jimmy had out leaped the other single men to claim the prize. The scrum for my wedding bouquet had threatened to turn into an all-out brawl. A few hours before, my bachelorette party had nearly degenerated into chaos as well.
The night before the wedding, Jennifer and Natalie had taken me to T’s, one of their favorite lesbian hangouts. To prevent me from having a final fling or hoping that I would have one, neither would say. Whatever their reasons, the surroundings had put a whole new spin on the party games, let me tell you. Especially when the object of one of the games was for me to collect as many kisses from perfect strangers as I could.
At the party, I’d downed several shots of tequila on a half-empty stomach, but I’d managed to remain upright. Even when Natalie had done her best to floor me. She’d been cool to me all night. When I’d asked her why, she’d steered me to a quiet corner and lit into me.
“I’m going to tell you what your best friend won’t,” she’d said. (I hate when people begin sentences that way.) “Jen’s leaving and it’s all your fault.”
“Leaving?” I hadn’t known if she’d meant Jennifer was leaving town or leaving her. Jennifer hadn’t mentioned either scenario to me. “What do you mean she’s leaving?”
“She wants to get as far away from you as possible. Not that I blame her.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Darfur.”
A knot had immediately formed in the pit of my stomach. Jennifer couldn’t have picked a worse place if she had tried. Darfur was a simmering cauldron of violence that could boil over at any time.
“If something happens to her,” Natalie had said, “I’ll never forgive you.”
“If something happened to her, I’d never forgive myself, but I don’t think her decision has anything to do with me. She’s always running off to one natural disaster or another. Even though this one is man-made, the concept remains the same.”
“Open your eyes, Syd,” Natalie had snapped. “Darfur’s an excuse, not a destination. She’s leaving because she’s in love with you. She always has been. Why do you think she’s leaving next week? Because she’d rather live in hell than watch you with Jack. I don’t know what she sees in you. Whenever I look at you, all I can do is ask myself how such an intelligent woman can make such foolish choices. This isn’t the fifties. You don’t have to hide behind a man. With a law degree in your pocket, you could easily support yourself if you wanted to. Jennifer would throw me over for you in a heartbeat if she thought you could ever come to terms with who you are, but you’re too much of a closet case to ever let that happen.”
“Whoa, hold on. First of all, I’m not a closet case. Second, there are three women Jen’s always said she would never fall for: a straight woman, a married woman, and her best friend. I’m all three.”
Natalie had rolled her eyes so hard she had nearly fallen asleep standing up. “Not quite.”
“Okay, so I’m not married yet. Two out of three ain’t bad.”
I had tried to use levity to lighten the mood, but Natalie hadn’t been able to find any humor in the situation.
“You might want to crunch those numbers again. Or do you have so much internalized homophobia that you can’t think straight? Pun intended.”
I had known where she was going but I hadn’t wanted to go there with her. “You think I’m… Does Jennifer think I’m…”
“I’m not going to put words in your mouth, Syd. But until you can say the words, I’m not having this conversation with you.”
She had tried to walk away and I had tried to stop her. Jennifer had separated us before our war of words could turn physical.
“This side of the room is much too serious,” she said. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is supposed to be a party.”
She had bought a round of tequila shots as a peace offering, but the truce had proven to be only temporary. Relations between Natalie and me had remained frosty at best.
I was roaring drunk by the end of the night. Jennifer had taken me home and poured me into bed. When she had tried to excuse herself to head to Natalie’s apartm
ent for some “late-night aerobics,” I had talked her out of it.
“We both know she’s pissed at you right now,” I had slurred, “so why don’t you give her a little more time to cool off?”
“Good idea.” She had lain next to me on the bed, sliding her pillow close to mine as if we were going to spend the rest of the night sharing secrets. We had hinted around them instead, neither of us quite able to trust the other with the complete truth. She was in love with me and couldn’t tell me; I was concerned for her safety but didn’t want my fears to be a distraction for her.
“When were you going to tell me about Darfur?”
“You’ve read the paper. You’ve seen the news. I shouldn’t have to tell you what’s going on over there.”
I had punched her lightly on the shoulder so she could realize I was serious. “Okay, smartass, when were you going to tell me that you’d be in the middle of it?”
“This weekend is supposed to be about you, not me.”
“So you were going to let me come home from my honeymoon to find you gone?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Natalie says I’m the reason you’re leaving. Is that true?”
“Unless you joined the militia while my back was turned, you’re not the reason I’m needed over there.”
It had been a hedge but I had let her get away with it because I had been more concerned with her answer to my follow-up question.
“She also says you’re in love with me.”
“She says a lot of things when she’s drinking tequila. In vino veritas. Truth is in the wine. Isn’t that how the saying goes? There’s no such adage for tequila. Probably because it effects each person in a different way. It makes me horny, it makes you sleepy, and it makes Natalie argumentative.”
I would have selected a different word. Mean or cruel would have been much more appropriate.
In Medias Res Page 8
