Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single

by Heather McElhatton

  I cover my face with my hands. I can’t believe any of this.

  “You’ll understand better when you have children. There gets to be a point when you can’t stand the constant worrying and you have to do something drastic. We had to do something drastic with Bradford because he was running around hurting himself. You were the answer to our prayers. Still, I guess we answered some of your prayers too.”

  I’m trying to hang on to reality right now, because I feel like I’m hallucinating. My name is Jennifer Johnson. I work at…I don’t know where I work anymore. I don’t know where I live anymore. I was having a wedding and now my fiancé turns out to be an alcoholic sex addict with religious-zealot parents who are telling me it’s all okay.

  Mrs. Keller reaches over and puts her thin clawlike hand on top of mine. I stare at the large emerald ring perched on her manicured finger.

  “We don’t want you running around hurting yourself, either,” she says. “Brad will make this up to you. I promise he will. Just think about your wedding and how happy your family will be. Not just now, but in the future. Just stand back, breathe deep, and look at the possibilities. One little incident like this can’t undo a lifetime of opportunity.”

  Ed comes out of the bathroom with his arm around Brad, who’s mumbling something incoherent. I’ve never seen him so completely knocked out before. I’ve seen him drink, slur his speech, and not be able to drive, but this is something else. He looks like he’s having a diabetic reaction or something.

  “He’s all cleaned up,” Ed says heartily, “just needs to sleep.”

  They manage to get Brad to the couch and lay him down. Mrs. Keller takes off his shoes and gets a blanket to tuck him in, like a little boy. After he’s all arranged they head for the door and tell me to call them in the morning. Mrs. Keller says Brad probably won’t remember much of this tomorrow, he usually never does. As she leaves she blows Bradford an air kiss.

  “Nighty-night, Prince Charming,” she says.

  I leave the house early the next morning. I don’t want to see Brad. I get into my stupid mammoth Mercedes and go to Macy’s and pick up the wedding participant thank-you gifts, little engraved silver letter openers we’re giving the caterer, the photographer, the florist, all the people we’re already paying to work at our wedding. Mrs. Straubel says we’re expected to give them gifts. Unbelievable. Where’s my gift for showing up at the wedding? For wearing in a hot, itchy dress I didn’t choose and enduring a church service while standing up? Shouldn’t I get something? Like maybe a silver-plated gun so I can shoot myself in the head?

  As I’m pulling out of the parking ramp, I accidentally cut off a girl in a rusty old station wagon. I didn’t even see her; this car has so many blind spots I might as well be driving a shipping container down the street.

  Luckily she slams on her brakes just in time and avoids crunching into me. “Fuck you, rich bitch!” she yells as I roar past.

  I look at her in the rearview mirror and catch sight of myself in my dark oversize Prada sunglasses and trim pastel jacket. I realize what it must look like. It must look like a wealthy, bossy, self-important woman just cut her off.

  Ha. If she only knew!

  I want to tell her, “It’s all borrowed, sweetie, it’s all an expensive loan,” but I smile at myself instead. I just got called a rich bitch, and a part of me liked it.

  At home Brad is sleepily coming down the stairs as I struggle through the door, dropping shopping bags on the kitchen floor.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He rubs his head and asks if there’s any coffee. “Killer headache,” he says. “The guys really made me hit it hard.”

  I stand there staring at him and I can tell by his casual posture and unquestioning expression that he has blacked out last night. At least a major portion of it.

  So this is it.

  This is when I decide whether to let him have it or to pretend everything is okay. Do I read him the riot act and storm out? Break off the engagement? Call all my friends and family and tell them the wedding is off? End everything? No more wedding, no more marriage, no more rich bitch? Or do I make him coffee?

  These choices we make, they seem so small—they’re made in a split second and yet they can have a ripple effect for years.

  The doorbell rings.

  Brad wanders off with an open robe to answer it. I’m left in the kitchen by myself with my very important thoughts, surrounded by a paper garden of shopping bags.

  “Jen?” Brad shouts. “It’s for you!”

  It’s the travel agency’s messenger service dropping off our plane tickets and hotel confirmation for the Virgin Islands. That’s where we’re going on our honeymoon. Our hotel suite has its own pool and mini-waterfall.

  I sign the slip and take the package.

  I’m about to say something when the phone rings. Brad says he’s going to take a shower.

  He leaves and I answer the phone, because what else am I going to do?

  There are perks for keeping quiet. My reward for overlooking Hookergate is a pearl necklace, a yellow Chanel suit, and my own membership at the Country Club. Mrs. Keller sends it all over with a note congratulating me on my upcoming nuptials, which is a word I despise. It reminds me of rupture and nipple. There’s also something sinister and sexual about it, like coitus, which makes me wonder if Ma Keller is hoping for a quick grandchild. My mind flashes to that scene in Rosemary’s Baby when everyone is standing around Mia Farrow copulating with the devil, all anticipating the birth of a new demon seed.

  Which makes me think of Trevor.

  I don’t even want to go to my own bachelorette party. We’re having high tea at the Grosvenor Mansion. After Brad’s big night out with the boys I did consider scratching all my plans and hiring male strippers, but the truth is, I don’t want male strippers. I want high tea. I want everyone to wear lovely hats and sit still.

  “Are you sure you want me to come?” Christopher says. “I know the Kellers aren’t exactly queer-friendly. It’s okay if you want me to skip it. I know the head waiter there, I’ll just call and tell him to stir Mrs. Keller’s Darjeeling with his Earl Grey.”

  “Mother Tarantula won’t be there,” I say. “You’re coming. You have to come. This is my bachelorette party and you’re the best girlfriend I have.”

  It kills me not to tell Christopher about Brad and the lipstick, but I can’t. It’s too horrible. He’d probably tie me up in Fendi scarves and ship me to Reykjavik in order to stop me from getting married, and despite everything I don’t want to be stopped. I’ve worked too hard, put too much time in, and invited too many guests to back out. It’s vanity that has the real teeth here. Common sense and self-preservation are defenseless against vanity.

  My vanity, anyway.

  My vanity turns out to be uglier and stronger than I ever imagined.

  So, Christopher comes to the Grosvenor Mansion, along with my sister and all my other bridesmaids. All five of them.

  We arrive at the big fake stone castle and walk past the manicured English garden and row of British flags. “Welcome to Ye Olde Grosvenor Mansion,” the host says. “Your journey across the pond begins here.” We’re shown to our light, airy table, which is covered with white linens and silver. I’m briefly pleased until someone throws a pink plastic dildo on the table.

  “For your honeymoon!” someone shouts. “Hope you don’t need it!”

  The waiter, who had come up to the table to take our order, sees the dildo, turns on his heel, and walks away.

  I’m mortified.

  “Give me that!” I snatch it up and hurl the disgusting thing under the table. “Didn’t I say no gifts?”

  “We all brought gifts,” one of the girls whines. “It’s tradition.”

  “Fine,” I say, “but nothing disgusting! We’re having high tea, for freak’s sake!”

  “Okay, open this one,” somebody says and passes over a shiny pink metallic bag. I don’t know what’s
in it, but I already hate the wrapping.

  I try to smile as I dig in the pink tissue paper, and I pull out a big, hairy latex vagina, which starts vibrating in my hand.

  “It’s for Brad, for when you’re tired!”

  Everyone breaks apart laughing until I throw it back in the bag as hard as I can and it stops moving. “Listen,” I hiss, “you can all drop to the lowest common denominator if you want, but you’re not dragging me with you.”

  Silence. Everyone just sort of looks at each other. The waiter comes back and I tell him we want the Queen Elizabeth high tea all around and then I give him Mrs. Keller’s credit card. When he leaves the table is silent. Everyone looks nervous and worried. That’s fine by me. I’m starting to get the hang of Mrs. Keller’s intimidation deal. It’s better to have people scared of you and quiet than acting like monkeys and ruining everything.

  The waiter brings out a large silver cart and starts serving us tea. Little white pots and three-tier trays of tiny tea sandwiches and itty-bitty desserts. I just love it.

  “These are the cucumber sandwiches,” our waiter says, “and these are watercress. The egg salad and chopped ham sandwiches are on the second tier, and you’ll find fruit tarts and éclairs on the last.”

  When he’s gone Hailey picks up a triangular sandwich and says, “What’s a watercress? This is like the weird stuff Mrs. Keller eats. You’re turning into her!”

  “Hailey’s Swedish,” I say. “She’s adopted.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’m not Danish,” she says. “I wouldn’t want my country of origin to be named after a breakfast pastry.”

  She’s really tap-dancing on my last nerve.

  “My biological family is from the upper province of Kierkegaard,” Hailey says.

  “Oh, nobody knows where you’re from,” I snap. “They probably found you wedged inside a shrimp party tray at Sam’s Club!”

  “Jen!” Christopher says. “That’s mean!”

  “I actually prefer Jennifer,” I say. “Could you call me Jennifer?”

  Christopher looks completely confused, like he doesn’t know if I’m being horrible-ironic or just horrible-horrible.

  I know I’m being horrible-horrible.

  I excuse myself and go to the ladies’ room, where I run my wrists under cold water. I wonder if the queen of England has to put up with this.

  When I come out of the bathroom, I run right into Ted.

  He’s standing there in the hallway under a pair of antique lacrosse sticks. His face is unusually pale. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says nervously.

  “Hey, what are you doing here? I’m having my bachelorette party.”

  “I know, Christopher told me. Nice place.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Look,” he says, tugging me down the hall, “I know this isn’t the best timing, but I have to tell you something. I’ve wanted to tell you for, well, for years now, but I’ve been scared. Terrified actually.”

  He grabs my hands.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just listen,” he says. “This isn’t easy for me, but now I’m out of time.”

  “Ted, quit it. This is weird.”

  “You can’t marry Brad,” he says.

  “I can’t?”

  “No, because he doesn’t know you, not really. I know you and I know the real stuff, the good stuff. I know you swear like a merchant marine at old ladies when you drive and that no matter what you order at a restaurant you’ll end up eating my food. I know you’ll knock over any glass of liquid left on your desk for more than an hour and you’d give up your health insurance to keep the Lifetime channel on.”

  “That only happened once,” I say.

  “I know you hate lingerie, you sleep in old boxers and wife-beater T-shirts. I know you never, and I mean never, have cash. You only use plastic. If you park at a meter you have to borrow quarters from people walking by. I know you routinely forget where your car keys are, but you can remember what I said at a company picnic five years ago.”

  “You told me not to eat any more cake.”

  “I know you think you’re fat, but you’re not, you’re gorgeous. The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen and you’re perfect just the way you are. You’re kind and generous and you’re strong. You won’t watch documentaries about endangered animals because they make you cry. I don’t have a lot of money, but you’d be happy with me. You would. I know all the things about you Brad doesn’t and I love you for them. He’s a pudgy douchebag mama’s boy. Plus, I have Mrs. Biggles.”

  “What?”

  “Lana got that job. She couldn’t keep her. She felt terrible. She called me the next morning and I went over to get her.”

  “Mrs. Biggles? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it would have made you feel awful,” he says, “because you couldn’t do anything about it anyway. But you can do something now, Jen. Come with me. You don’t love Brad, you just love the security you think he can give you, but he can’t give you any security because he doesn’t even know who you are. I know who you are, and I love you. You’ll be miserable being Mrs. Brad Keller and you know it. You’ll have to be domestic and cook and clean and you hate cooking. You’re dangerous when you deep-fry things.”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. My bachelorette party is in the next room. I’m getting married tomorrow. Ted smiles. He looks just like a little boy confessing some terrible thing he did, but maybe it really isn’t terrible at all.

  Maybe it’s wonderful.

  “I love you,” he says. “I’ve always loved you and I think you love me. Do you?”

  I look deeply into his eyes. “Yes,” I say and smile, but he isn’t smiling back. Why isn’t he smiling back? Didn’t I just say “yes” out loud and in a clear voice? Did I do it wrong?

  Pastor Mike clears his throat. “I think we’re looking for an ‘I do,’” he says.

  Brad rolls his eyes.

  “Oh, I do!”

  “Then by the power vested in me,” the minister says, and I can’t hear the rest because the sound drains out of the room and the color too, like one of those old TV sets where the image gets smaller and smaller until it’s just a blue dot, a star in another light system far, far away. I’m dizzy. The pastor is mumbling slow speed and I am moving through taffy or tar or thick vanilla pudding. My arms are concrete and my lips can’t move. A hot, heavy ring is wedged onto my finger and my heart slows down, beating more and more heavily until I wonder if it will just stop altogether.

  Then the scene comes racing at me full tilt and all the sound in the room, which had been drained and pale before, rushes in with vivid clarity. People clapping, bells ringing, Brad laughing. I take a sharp, hard breath, like I just came up for air after a deep dive. “What’s going on now?” Brad whispers. These were his first wedded words to me.

  What’s going on now?

  I catch myself as I stumble after him and we rush down the aisle, the applause clapping in our ears, and we tumble breathless into a waiting limousine, where Brad starts complaining about something, and the whole world outside seems like one big blurry mistake.

  At the reception I run for the bathroom with three bridesmaids trailing behind me. They cluck and fret as I lock myself inside the small peach airless space, where I stand with my back to the door, my fingers on the silver lock, staring at myself in the mirror.

  Shellacked hair, severe jaw, tight mouth.

  I’m looking at Mrs. Keller.

  I am Mrs. Keller.

  A rapid knocking on the door. My heart racing. “One minute!” I cry out, and actually look around the room for an escape window, but there are no windows, only the door, which I eventually open. I let myself be led to the reception tent where the band starts up.

  I smile.

  Here comes the bride.

  It’s funny because I’ll remember the whole event—my wedding, that is—the same way hostages and victims of violent crime do. In scattered snapshots, incongruent and
without explanation. A piece here and a chunk there.

  I’ll remember someone shouting, “Here they come!” as we swept down the church steps and how the light sprinkling of rain felt like heaven. I’ll remember Lenny dancing by himself and my mother kissing Abbygael, who wore a purple wizard’s hat. I’ll remember meeting Brad’s ex-girlfriend, Hannah, who was inexplicably invited to the wedding.

  I’ll remember Hailey laughing like a horse and wishing I could stop her.

  I’ll remember the small violet flowers floating in silver bowls on every table and the hot, scratchy blanket of beard stubble that grazed my cheeks all night. I’ll remember my mother telling me how beautiful I am and Ted giving me a kiss. God, I love Ted. I really, really love Ted. He looks good in a suit even though he isn’t smiling. Dashing even.

  I never saw him in a suit before.

  I will not be able to remember my father. Not at any point. He was there, I know, as the photos will show, but I did not see him. Not once. I also won’t remember Christopher very clearly or that he held my hair back in the bathroom, where apparently I was sick.

  It’s a dream wedding! Not my dream, but somebody’s. I know because I’m told how lucky I am all day and night by countless happy, smiling, reassuring people. The gifts table drifts past me at some point, white cards perching like moths on a mountain of satin bows and white paper. Toasters and china and stemware. So fragile! Things that can break and chip and shatter.

  It’s all here. Everything I ever wanted.

  Brad and I even have thrones at the reception table. They’re spray-painted and covered with gold glitter, which will rub off on my dress. There’s a banner over them that says, THE LUCKIEST COUPLE IN THE WORLD! There are also crowns on the table and brass scepters with little Jesus fish on them. As God is my witness I’m going to find out who makes those little Jesus fish and I’m going to stop them.

  Brad appears and offers me his hand for our first dance together. Everyone applauds. He smiles and I recognize him, maybe for the first time.