by Gable, Kate
15
Sydney does her best to keep her head up, and I wonder why she ever invited these people to this in the first place. I know that I'm lucky that I don't live near my mom, and I don't have much family to speak of beyond that. I don't know how my mom would react if I had invited her to a dress shopping extravaganza like this one, but Sydney has family, cousins, aunts, and uncles that all live in the area, and all are going to be judging her by the type of wedding that she has.
The thing about large extended families is that if you have a good one, then everything's great. But if you don't fit into their idea of how things should be, and you don't marry according to their standards, things can go awry.
She told me that her mom isn't particularly happy with Patrick. She didn't even tell her about the cheating, but the pregnancy prior to marriage was highly inappropriate. They're somewhat of a religious family, even though in many cases they're full of hypocrisy. There are all these rules and regulations of how things should be, but in reality her aunt got pregnant when she was fifteen and married an abusive guy, and when she tried to leave him, everyone encouraged her to stay because being married is more important than being in a happy marriage.
A bridal attendant invites Sydney to the back to the dressing room, and I wish her good luck, giving her a tight squeeze. I want her to know that at least one person is here for her. I’m not entirely excited about her chosen husband to be, but I’m willing to give him a chance if she is.
The cousins chitchat and their mother arrives along with Sydney's mom, whom I've only met once at some event for work. She came half an hour late to that and complained about the quality of the food. Marilyn had Sydney at twenty and is trim and energetic. They look so much alike they could be sisters.
Same almond eyes, same high cheekbones and olive skin, only Sydney’s mother’s hair is cut short. She wears a little bit of jewelry and is dressed in a suit. She works as a realtor focusing on immigrants getting into their first homes. She's a first-generation Korean American who came here when she was young and has no accent whatsoever. Her nails are polished, her makeup is flawless, and she looks just like any other realtor anywhere in California; very well put together and camera ready at all times.
In the company of these women, I feel severely underdressed. Since my shift at work hasn’t started yet, I'm wearing jeans, flip-flops, and a casual t-shirt with cold shoulder sleeves.
Everyone in Sydney’s family gives me the exact same look the first time they see me, probably thinking, ”Of course, she doesn't know how to dress. She's a cop."
My problem with shopping is not due to my career choice, but because I don't like it. Once I find clothes that I enjoy the feel of, I tend to wear them until they wear out. I’ve mentioned this to the therapist at work and told her that I’ve felt this way about clothes since I was a kid. She said that I might have what they call sensory sensitivity, meaning I have heightened sensitivity to the touch and feel of things. That made a lot of sense especially thinking back to the dreadfully uncomfortable dresses and shoes that my mom used to make me wear, they always pinched my calves and toes.
Minutes move like hours while I sit here wedged in between her family members, and Sydney can't come out fast enough. The bridal assistant comes out first with a big smile on her face. "Are you guys ready?" she asks with a hop in her step.
I give her a little clap of encouragement, but everyone else seems a lot less impressed.
Sydney comes out looking radiant. She's smiling ear to ear, her white teeth showing, glowing. The mermaid cut dress accentuates her curves, even adding in places where she thought she was lacking, and her belly's nicely disguised, not at all visible unless you know what you're looking for.
"I just feel so beautiful in this," she says in a half-whisper, looking at herself in the large mirror, standing on the pedestal.
"Really?" Her mom crosses her arms and leans forward. "Come on. Are you kidding me?"
I watch Sydney look at her mother in the mirror without tilting back, her nose crinkling, and the smile falling, holding back tears.
"Come on, Sydney. Let's be serious. You cannot get married in this. How much does it cost anyway?"
"$2,500."
"No, absolutely not," Marilyn says. "That's way too much for something like this, and you’re showing. You do know that most of the family members don't know that you're pregnant, right?"
"Look, I like this dress," Sydney says, forcing her shoulders back and looking at her mom sternly, whipping her hair around.
The bridal consultants huddle in the corner of the room, sending judgmental looks in the family's direction. Carol points out that the dress doesn't quite fit in the back, and her bridal consultant says that everything is fixable. This is why they have the clips. Everything is tailored precisely to the bride. The ruching in the front is elegant and helps disguise the protruding stomach, but Miranda says that it makes her look fat, actually using that word.
"Are you kidding me?" I snap, unable to contain my disgust any further. "You are going to tell her that she looks fat?"
"Look, I know that I'm a big girl, but this dress is doing her no favors."
"Maybe she doesn't want any favors. Maybe she's beautiful the way she is,” I say.
"Look.” Miranda throws her arm in my face and points her remarks directly at Sydney. "If you want to take advice from your friend here, who clearly has absolutely no sense of style, then go right ahead. But I just want you to know that you're probably going to be a laughingstock at the wedding. We’re the nice ones. You know how everyone is, the cousins, the aunts and uncles."
I wait for her mother to say something nice, but she doesn't. Instead, she and her aunt laugh about the sweetheart neckline, talking about how it looks like it's something out of the 80s.
Unable to hold them back any longer, Sydney begins to cry.
"You all need to shut the fuck up," I say, walking up to her and draping my arm over her shoulder and helping her off the pedestal. "She's the bride. She can wear whatever she wants. She can wear a paper bag. You're just lucky to be invited, so you better watch what you say.”
Her cousins start to yell, throwing their hands in my face. Marilyn pulls them aside and tells me to leave. I walk Sydney back to the dressing room, where she sits down on a stool and collapses into tears.
16
The dressing room is much bigger than I thought it would be. It’s about the size of three TJ Maxx dressing rooms. The floor is carpeted and there’s a large standing mirror with filigree around the corners in the center.
Sydney sits on the little seat in the corner, her head buried in her hands, her shoulders slumped down, moving with each sob. I run my fingers over her naked back, and she looks even more frail and alone than she did up there.
When we first met and she talked about her family, I was a little jealous. I wished that I could have people in my life who lived close to always go to events with or just have dinner with on Sundays. But seeing how they treat her, I feel bad for her. I know that Mom and I have had many disagreements, but she would never do that. She would never ruin my day like that, especially if she thought it was an important time for me.
"I'm really sorry," I whisper.
I say loudly enough for anyone who's listening to hear. I want them to know that that wasn't okay. That wasn't a good way to treat her no matter their opinion of her dress.
"That's fine, no sweat,” Sydney says, lifting up her head, her mascara smeared under her eyes.
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"They're just like that a lot. They just like to suck up all the oxygen in the room."
"Why do you let them?” I ask.
"I don't know.” She shakes her head. "I mean, you should've seen the parties that my mom threw for me when I was a kid. They were elaborate bashes just to impress all these relatives that she would then talk trash about when we got home. She never wanted me to be a cop, and she never wanted me to marry a cop. She can't handle t
he fact that I don't need her permission. I can do what I want, and that's how it's going to be.”
“Look, I know that relationships between mothers and daughters are complicated and all I want to say is that I'm here for you, but you can't let her treat you that way. It's not right. Even if she thinks your dress is ugly, which it absolutely is not. It's your dress, it's how you want to present yourself. It's not her day; it's not her time, it's not her wedding. I know that you want to please her.”
"I don't want to please her," she shakes her head, "absolutely not."
“So, why did you invite her? Why did you invite any of them?”
“I don't know. I guess I just kept thinking better of them. I thought maybe this time they would actually be nice.”
“It's not right. I'm here for you, no matter what,” I reiterate. “I saw your face when you put on this dress, you looked happy. You loved it, right?”
“Yeah. I don't even want to try on any other dress. It's just going to be something very pale in comparison.”
“Well, get what you want. Get what makes you happy.”
“But what if they just sit there and mock me?”
“What if you didn't invite them?” I offer.
Her eyes get big.
She raises her eyebrows.
“Patrick really wants a big wedding.”
“Well, if Patrick's family is nice, then have them there,” I say.
“Really, I can do that?”
“You can do anything. You're an adult. You know how we go to all these domestic violence calls and when we show up, they are worn down. But when you ask them to file a report, to do something-”
“They don't, they never do," Sydney finishes my thought.
“I'm not saying that your family's bad, but this relationship is not great. If you want them to behave better and you want them to treat you better, you should create boundaries.”
"Easier said than done.”
“Yes, absolutely. I agree, wholeheartedly, and I struggled with that myself. I want to let Luke in more, but I'm just so worried about him hurting me that I put up these walls. Besides you, I don't really have many friends. I'd love to, but it's just hard. It’s hard to put up those boundaries and really keep them there and not feel insecure and uncomfortable. All I’m trying to say is that I'm here for you, whatever you want to do.”
There's a knock at the door.
"I'm sorry to bother you. I just wanted to see if you would like me to pull any other dresses," the quiet voice on the other end says.
I know that she's biding her time and we're taking up a lot of it.
"What do you want to do?" I ask and Sydney gives me a nod.
Standing up, I extend my hand to help her to her feet.
17
I want to stay here longer and help Sydney with her family, but I have to go. John is waiting and if I don't leave now, I'll be late. As soon as I bring that up, Sydney just waves gently in my direction saying that of course she understands.
"How long are you going to stay here?" I ask her.
"I don't know.” She shakes her head. "Walk out with me and help me deal with them, just for a little bit."
I try to hold her hand but she brushes me off. I know she needs to look strong, and she does. The only thing I manage to do is to give her one last squeeze before leaving and glaring at her awful mom and her mean-spirited cousins. As the door closes behind me, I hear the bickering start once again, but I hope that this time she'll be able to hold her own.
On the drive over to John's house, I'm tempted to call my mom and tell her how much I love her, but she might have a heart attack and assume that we have found Violet's body, or something morbid like that. We're not exactly a touchy-feely family. I drive over to Burbank where John, Terry's brother, Ruth and Deacon’s Islington's oldest son runs a gym.
Back when Terry mentioned it, I had assumed it was going to be something like 24 Hour Fitness, women in leggings on the ellipticals, men lifting free weights. But it's anything but that.
This is a bodybuilding gym, the kind that I have only seen on television. In addition to that, there's a large boxing ring in the middle, and an old man, straight out of Rocky, yelling something in the face of a young eighteen-year-old who looks more than a little annoyed.
No one approaches me and there's no front desk, so I walk around before approaching the least intimidating looking man in the place; a young ten-year-old kid who actually curses.
"Well, thanks for nothing,” I say.
A tall man with the widest shoulders I've ever seen, rivaling those of The Rock or Arnold Schwarzenegger, approaches me. He's drenched in sweat but has a nice smile.
"Just ignore that guy. He thinks he's the best thing in the world since sliced bread. But you know how fourteen-year-olds are."
“Never met one like that before,” I admit.
"He's won a couple of titles. Thinks he's going to be the next Evander Holyfield.”
I feign a smile, pretending I know who he's talking about. "Listen, I'm looking for John Islington. Is he around anywhere?"
"The owner?" he asks. “What's this about?"
I introduce myself and give him my card. He tells me to call him Lenore and gives me a card with just that name on it, and a phone number on the back.
"Is this a first name or last?" I ask.
"It's a nickname,” he says without offering any other info.
"I don't know if you've heard, but John's parents are missing. His brother is very concerned and I’m here to talk to John."
"Deacon? Are you serious?" Lenore glares at me, his olive skin getting even shinier, glistening even brighter under the fluorescent lights.
"You know him?” I ask.
"Of course. He's a legend. He ran this place before John. Just an awesome guy. Aren’t they in Mexico?"
"Well, that's the thing. He was in Mexico, but they came back. They got an apartment in West Hollywood. That's how I got on the case, but they're not there."
"What about their boat?"
"What about it?" I ask. "Is there something you can tell me?"
"No. I mean, they talked about possibly coming back and retiring, but I know that Terry and Maureen are having a baby, and Deacon and Ruth, they were just over the moon by that, but that was about it. Did they actually decide to give up their dream life?"
"Yeah, it looks like it." I nod. "On the other hand, we have no idea where they are. That's what I'm trying to find out. Is there any chance that you think they could have gone somewhere else? Taken off? Maybe on a little impromptu vacation?"
Lenore shifts his weight from one foot to another. He adjusts the fit of the beanie on his head, narrowing his eyes. They're a nice hazel color. “With anyone else, I would say yeah, they could have taken off, but the Islingtons? No way."
“Why is that?”
"They'd never miss being there for the baby. Ruth was just over the moon about being a grandmother. She was going to take care of that baby anytime they needed. She was going to be Nana extraordinaire."
I give him a slight nod, writing everything down in my notebook. I write down a few impressions from the gym as well. There's a distinct sweaty smell to the place, mixed in with bleach and detergent as everyone sprays down their stations.
The door at the far end swings open and bright light streams in. The view goes straight to the parking lot. A tall man, who seems to be almost as wide as the doorway itself, walks in. Lenore calls him over and introduces me to John Islington. John is dressed in a tank top, his muscles bulging out of it. His forehead is covered in sweat, and his head is shaved down to the scalp. He has the firm handshake of someone who is either overcompensating or doesn’t realize how strong he is. I start to ask him questions, but he stops me and pulls me into his office.
The place is relatively small and isn't luxurious in any sense of the word. There's a desk covered in tons of papers, a laptop, a small printer, and hundreds of empty Amazon boxes, stacked one on top of the other haphazar
dly.
He moves a huge chunk of them away, clearing out a chair that appears out of nowhere. I take a seat trying to avoid the big stain on one side. I ask John the same questions I asked Lenore, and he doesn't tell me anything of much significance. He has no idea where they are. He hasn't talked to them since before Terry did.
What is noticeable is his annoyance when I bring up his brother's name. His eyes flicker a little bit. He shifts in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"Terry seemed very concerned about them. He said that there is no way that they would just take off, go on a trip somewhere without telling anyone in the family. Is that true?"
Again, he shifts a little. I make a mental note to repeat Terry's name at every opportunity, just to press his buttons.
"Look, Dad and I got into a little tiff."
"Oh, really?" I ask.
"It's nothing. We argue a lot. We butt heads. We're very similar. He seems to think that Terry's app, his so-called company, is going places. I don't. Terry doesn't have the business mind to make anything like that work. He's going to be a great father, don't get me wrong. But that's it. And it's not a bad thing."
I tilt my head slightly.
"Look, I'm not saying that to be mean,” John continues. “It's not a bad thing. Being a great father? Well, that's all we can really aspire to. Right? But the company? He can't call anyone. He can't get investors. He can't get customers. He's just not that kind of person. You talked to him, he just makes you feel uncomfortable. Who would want to invest in someone like that?"
He's right, in that Terry is a little bit standoffish, but I also found him incredibly sincere about worrying about his parents.
John, on the other hand? Let's just say it's a little unusual to come and tell the son that the parent is missing, and for them to start immediately complaining about the business decisions that his father has made.
"Look, I shouldn't be talking about this," John says, exasperated. "But I just want to tell you where Dad and I stood. It was about a week ago, he came over. He said he was moving into that apartment. I said 'Why? You saved all of this money for your retirement. You went to Mexico and you lived frugally on the boat.' They fished for everything they ate, they bought local fruits and veg. They saved a lot. And then he told me that he’d invested $75k into my brother's business. I was pissed off."
