A Patron Saint for Junior Bridesmaids

by Shelley Tougas

Eden smiles.

  “No teasing!” I say.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Stop smiling then.” I use a stern voice, but I realize I’m grinning, too.

  Eden says, “I know you want to see your friend Jessica while we’re in Holmestrand, but I can’t stay two nights. I got offered an extra shift, and I really need the money. Maybe you can squeeze in a short visit.”

  “That’s okay. I texted Jessica, and she’s on vacation with her parents.”

  “Is there someone else you want to see?”

  I think about Jessica, the kids in my youth group, my teammates in soccer. I think about Mr. and Mrs. Swanson, neighbors who always gave Luke and me five dollar bills instead of candy on Halloween, and Joyce the waitress at Dave’s Diner who never got our orders straight, Father Benson and his crooked teeth, and even John Danner and his goofy laugh. When Eden told me about our road trip, I was excited. But now that we’re leaving tomorrow, I don’t want to go. I’ve said my goodbyes, and I don’t want to say them again.

  And worst of all—what if I see Brent Helzinski?

  Eden studies me. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Of course. What about you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” I say. “We’re both fine. Everything’s fine.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Grandma starts texting me photos. She’s with Luke at the flower shop, but I said I needed to stay home and work on the toast I’m supposed to give at the wedding. Because I have no idea what to say.

  Even though I escaped the flower shop, she wants my advice. I get photo after photo after photo with Grandma’s commentary in all caps.

  RED ROSES DON’T GO WITH PINK, RIGHT?

  I guess not.

  BUT ROSES ARE ELEGANT, RIGHT?

  Yes.

  Then my phone rings. It’s Mom, but there’s another text from Grandma, so I let the call roll into voicemail.

  PINK CARNATIONS WOULD BE TOO MUCH PINK, RIGHT?

  I know Grandma. The only correct answer is “right.” And I really want to work on the toast I’m supposed to give, not study photos.

  Right.

  Less than a minute later I get a text from Mom.

  Grandma just texted me flower photos and says you’re at Maggie’s. Is it a good time to talk?

  Before I can reply, Grandma’s back at it.

  THIS IS A LILY BUT IT’S TOO WHITE, RIGHT?

  Grandma, you have great taste and whatever you pick will be perfect!!!!

  Hopefully all the exclamation points will put a stop to it.

  But it doesn’t.

  I’m typing a note to Mom when I get another message from Grandma.

  DO YOU KNOW WHEN EDEN HAS HER BREAK TODAY? I WANT TO CALL HER ABOUT THE OPTIONS.

  Then my phone rings, and it’s Mom again. So much for writing a toast. I toss my notebook aside and answer the phone.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “How are you sweetie?” She sounds tired. “I figured it’d be easier to call than keep texting.”

  “I’m good. I’m trying to write the toast I’m supposed to give at the reception. Everything sounds dumb. Will you help me?”

  Silence. “Mom?”

  “How about when I get there? I need time to think.”

  “Okay. How’d your job interviews go?”

  Silence.

  “Mom?”

  She sighs. “Nothing has panned out. The towns around here are so small, even smaller than Holmestrand. There’s no work. It looks like I’ll have to drive nearly an hour to a bigger town.”

  “That stinks.”

  “I was at the post office, and I met a man who just moved to the area. We talked about the job market and my retail experience and the hardware store. Turns out he’s a manager of a new shopping center about an hour from here. He offered me a job on the spot. He promised he’d let me set my own schedule so I can work while you’re in school and be home when you’re home.”

  “Wow!”

  “He said I won’t have to work weekends.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “He said he’ll pay me more than starting wages because of my experience.”

  There’s no emotion in her voice. I don’t understand. “It sounds perfect, Mom.”

  “He manages the new Home Supply Station.”

  I nearly drop the phone. I sit on my bed and wrap the blanket around me. Suddenly I’m cold from head to toe. Neither of us speak. I listen to Mom breathe.

  Finally, I croak out words. “What does Dad say?”

  “He says maybe this is God’s plan.”

  “God isn’t mean and stupid!” I shout.

  “Mary, please. I have to take this job, at least until something else comes along.”

  My stomach boils, and the heat rises to my chest. Even my face burns. “Don’t take it. I mean it, Mom. Don’t.”

  “I’m afraid it’s the only option right now.”

  I press the end call button. I hung up on my own mother! I’ve never done that before. I send a quick, truth-stretching text. Sorry. Lost the connection. Call you later! Xoxo. Then I turn the phone off so I won’t hear it ring when she calls back. I need something to throw, but I can’t break my phone, and I can’t damage Eden’s room. I take tissues from the box on Eden’s nightstand, wad them into a ball, and throw it as hard as I can. The fistful of tissues floats through the air and lands on the puzzle with the weight of a whisper.

  Dear Holy Saint Sebastian, Patron Saint of hardware stores, you’re an epic jerk.

  Chapter Twenty

  There’s going to be a wedding in 7 days

  The outside of our house looks perfect. The neighbor who’s taking care of the yard is doing fine. Maybe it’s because Luke isn’t tearing up the grass with his dirt bike and jumping through the sprinkler all summer. The lawn is emerald green, thick, and free of weeds, with yellow flowers planted around the For Sale sign.

  Inside, though, there’s a layer of dust on everything. While Eden goes out to pick up sub sandwiches—we have strict instructions not to mess up the kitchen—I vacuum and dust. I save my room for last, because it doesn’t look like my room anymore, and I hate it. The real estate agent told us to “de-personalize the space,” which means strip away the personality. My bed is covered with a new pink bedspread and a bunch of matching pillows with pink and white flowers on them. If I still lived here, those pillows would stay in my closet. Who needs that many pillows? There’s nothing on my desk or my dresser. All the pictures, notebooks, and books are in boxes in the basement waiting to be moved to North Dakota.

  Eden calls, “I’m back. Let’s eat!”

  In the kitchen Eden is unloading a grocery bag. Out comes Dr Pepper, potato chips, chocolate, jelly beans, and chocolate chip cookies.

  “What about the sandwiches?”

  “I changed my mind.” She takes a deep breath. “I was thinking about Illinois and how I need to be different there. Grandma won’t be with me all the time. The more I think about all the stuff I might have to do, the more I realize I don’t know how to do it. Do you know I’ve never made my own doctor or dentist appointment? I’ve never sent back a meal at a restaurant. There could be a roach on my salad, and I wouldn’t be assertive enough to tell the server. I have to practice this stuff.”

  I pop two jelly beans into my mouth. “I’m trying to connect the dots. How’d you go from sandwiches to jelly beans?”

  “Because I really want junk food, but I know it’s not the right choice. I decided I shouldn’t care about what the cashier thinks.”

  “You really care about what the cashier thinks?”

  “Stupid, huh?”

  “Not stupid. I know it’s hard for you, but I didn’t know it was that hard.”

  Eden says. “Maybe you should try to talk me out of eating this stuff, so I can practice being assertive.”

  “You sure? I don’t want to stress you out.”

  “I’m sure.”

 
I read the label on the cookie bag. “Two cookies have 140 calories!”

  “That’s not too bad for a treat.”

  “Nobody stops at two cookies. We’ll eat the whole bag, plus you have potato chips and chocolate. And Jessica says chocolate gives you pimples.”

  “I think that’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “What about all the chemicals in this stuff? I can’t pronounce half of the ingredients.”

  Eden takes the cookie bag from me. “That’s enough. Good practice, right?”

  “You were great,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “You held your ground.”

  “Also the lady at the register accidentally gave me a dime in change instead of a nickel. So I told her she made a mistake, and I gave her back the dime, and she gave me a nickel. That went okay.”

  I open the cookies and start eating. “Maybe you could get more practice with the wedding. I know everything is pretty much decided, but I’m talking about little things like the color of fingernail polish. You can make that decision.”

  “Actually, I made a big decision.” She stares at the table while she talks. “I didn’t even consult Justin about Las Vegas.” She looks into my eyes, which Eden doesn’t do very often. She’s either practicing her assertiveness, or maybe … maybe she trusts me. “You’ll support me, right? No matter what?”

  “I’m the junior bridesmaid. Why wouldn’t I?”

  She blushes. “Because … well…”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The family won’t like it. It’s a big city with crime and drinking and gambling, but we won’t do any of that. We’re going to Hoover Dam.” She opens a can of Dr Pepper. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else. I went to St. Vincent de Paul’s thrift store the other day and bought a DVD for us to watch.” Of course Catholics have their own chain of thrift stores that raise money for charity. St. Vincent de Paul is the Patron Saint of charities, obviously. “I’ve always wanted to be invited to one of those slumber parties where girls stay up late, eat junk food, and watch scary movies. But I was never invited. Not once. So I bought Friday the 13th.”

  I’m not supposed to watch R-rated movies, but I’m not going to ruin the bride’s one and only slumber party. I’ll close my eyes and plug my ears. We finish cleaning up, and as soon as it gets dark, I dump a bunch of pillows in front of the TV, and Eden starts the movie. For the next ninety minutes, my heart pumps at race car speed. I saw Coraline a few years ago and had to sleep on the floor of my parents’ bedroom for a week. And that was a kids’ movie! Obviously Friday the 13th is higher on the fear scale. In the movie, these young people are reopening a camp near a beautiful lake. Years before, a boy drowned there because counselors weren’t paying attention. One by one, the teens trying to open the camp are murdered, and it turns out the dead boy’s mother is killing everyone to prevent the camp from reopening. We watch half the movie with our hands over our eyes. At one point, Eden screams, and then I scream, which makes her scream again.

  When the credits roll, I laugh and say, “Nice choice! You pick a movie about a murderer in the woods while we’re stuck in the north woods of Minnesota.”

  Eden says, “I wanted to turn it off fifteen minutes after it started.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” I hit her with a pillow.

  “I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”

  “Eden, it would’ve been the perfect time for you to practice being assertive.”

  “Can we sleep with the lights on?” She shuts the blinds on the living room windows.

  “Definitely.”

  “I think we need a distraction, and I’m craving fries. There’s a McDonald’s on the bypass, right?”

  I don’t know how she can eat after all the cookies and potato chips, but it’s her slumber party, so I change from pajamas back into clothes.

  * * *

  Turns out McDonald’s is closed.

  Across the highway from McDonald’s, squatting on the hillside like a fat king, is Home Supply Station. Brent Helzinski isn’t the only bully in this town. I think about Mom, who can identify the difference in nail grades with a glance, having to work at Home Supply Station with dumb clerks who think nails mean tips of your fingers.

  “Eden, drive to Home Supply Station. I want to pretend it’s a Saturday afternoon and see it completely empty. I want to see full shelves with sale stickers and nobody in line waiting to buy things.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  That’s the great thing about Eden. Rather than tell me I’m being childish, she understands. She drives across the highway, parks by the cart corral near the entrance, and turns off the engine.

  I stare at the big sign near the door. Big Savings on Garden Tools! In an instant I’m reliving that moment when Brent held me under water. It’s like I can’t get any air. I’m afraid and angry at the same time. I hate this store even more than I hate Brent Helzinski. I despise its TV ads that end with the sound of a train whistle. (Train whistle! Home Supply “Station!” Get it?) I hate its orange-and-green sign and its money-back guarantee.

  How can one heart hold so much hate?

  “I’m sorry about the store, Mary. It’s terrible.”

  “My great grandfather built our store. I mean literally, brick by brick.”

  “It makes all of us sad, really, it does. But Grandma says your dad will make good money at the oil job, and he won’t work so many hours. Grandma says it’s a blessing in disguise.”

  “Blessings shouldn’t come in disguise. Grandma thinks she knows what’s best for everyone, and she doesn’t. Look at the wedding! She’s driving everyone crazy.”

  “She wants it to be perfect.”

  “Perfect for who? Her?”

  Eden sighs. “Can we go home now?”

  “You know my mom might take a job at this stupid store.”

  “I heard.”

  I think about Nick and his shoplifting and how Ecuador’s economy might be smaller than Home Supply Station’s bank account. I think about Jesus yelling at the people who did business in church.

  “This place is just another bully kicking around people who work hard. You know who’s worse than the bully? The people who shop here. It’s like the kids at your school—some of them picked on you, but most stood around and ignored it. That’s worse. God, I could scream.”

  “Maybe you should. Maybe it would help.”

  I open the window and shout, “I hate you, Home Supply Station! I hope you burn to the ground!”

  “Feel better?”

  “A little.”

  I open the door and march closer to the building, past the cart corral, and scream, a long ear-splitting scream like the girls in Friday the 13th.

  I hear Eden’s door open. “Okay, it’s good you let all that out, and now you feel better. Let’s go.”

  The scream doesn’t empty my rage. It fills up the tank. I pick up a water bottle dumped by the cart corral and throw it as hard as I can. The bottle is light, so it floats a few feet and lands on the pavement. I look around for something else.

  “Mary? Please let’s go.”

  “In a minute.”

  “Get back in the car please, because it’s a good idea to get back in the car.”

  I see a golf-ball-size rock and grab it. I snap my arm back in a wind-up, and just as I’m about to smash the glass entrance of the fat king, I feel a tug on my arm. The rock fires off to the side and hits the light pole. Eden gasps and squeezes my arm tight.

  “You of all people should get it!” I yell. “You need to explode more than anyone. Get a rock and throw it. Let’s break the windows. They’ll never know it was us.”

  Eden points to the car. She takes a deep breath and says, “Mary Margaret Miller. Get in the car, and I mean it.” For the first time, I see Grandma in Eden’s face—her wide eyes and the arch of her eyebrows, the way she tilts her head. “And please do i
t right now if you don’t mind.”

  I snatch my hand away and return to the car, making sure to slam the door hard. Instead of driving straight to my house, she cruises through town. It’s like a slideshow of my life: Holmestrand Elementary, Jessica’s house, the bronze plaque that lists all the Holmestrand people who died in war, Holmestrand City Hall, Dave’s Diner, Hair Affair Salon, Bernquist and Stenski Law Firm, and the empty Miller Family Hardware with its “For Sale” sign.

  “Just drive home so we can go to bed,” I say.

  Instead, Eden turns left and pulls into St. Bridget’s parking lot. She stops near the front door and turns off the engine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to help, but I don’t know what to say. Maybe the church doors are open. Would you like to go inside and pray?”

  “Praying is like screaming in outer space. Nobody hears you.” I’ve turned on a faucet. The feelings and the words gush. “Go ahead. Tell me I’m a bad Catholic.”

  “Mary, I think everyone wonders about praying.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t even like admitting it out loud, but sometimes I get angry at God.”

  I give her a sharp look. She’s chewing on her thumbnail.

  “No matter how angry I get, I know He forgives me.”

  “News flash, Eden: God isn’t listening.”

  But Eden doesn’t look shocked by what I’ve just said. Instead she quietly says, “I didn’t know you feel like that, and I’m sorry.” There’s no lightning bolt from Heaven, and Eden’s not telling me that I’m a bad person, or reminding me that these thoughts are sins, or trying to talk me out of how I feel. She adjusts the rearview mirror and fidgets with the keys. “You should talk to Grandma.”

  “Hah!”

  “I mean it. She left the church for a whole year, and not many people know that.”

  I’m stunned. “Grandma? The Rosary Queen?”

  “You’ll have to ask her about it because I think it would help you see that lots of people feel what you’re feeling.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Mary, it’s bad for your heart to throw rocks at windows and punch boys in the face. I’m not lecturing you about doing that, but I’m saying it makes you feel terrible, and I don’t want you to feel terrible.”