Notes From the Backseat

by Jody Gehrman

  Okay, okay, Dannika’s wearing a chiffon dress in pale orange with a plunging beaded bodice. The short, flowy, above-the knee style shows off her mile-long legs to great effect, but frankly the overall look is a little too Victoria’s Secret for my taste.

  Just so you can visualize the dramatis personae.

  Joni’s dress we’ll get to in a minute.

  Originally, the bride had no intention of hiding herself from the guests as they arrived. She’d planned on mingling with her friends, dressed in her shapeless nightgown-thing, drinking beer like it was any old day at the beach. That was one of many plans I had to alter today.

  Luckily, Phil was able to scrounge up a big army tent; we pitched it near the dunes and I made it my on-site beauty headquarters. Joni thought it was silly to stay away from her guests, but I explained it was necessary if she was going to debut with any panache. I wanted everything to be perfect when she walked across the sand to join hands with Phil. I even had an old guy with a banjo work out a little ditty that sounded passably close to a here-comes-the-bride. I was going for gasps all around, with dabbing handkerchiefs from the women and choked-down emotions from the men. You know me: if I’m mystical about anything, it’s the power of a truly glamorous entrance.

  Remember when I prepared you for your first date with Jean-Paul? There was steaming and plucking, masks and lotions, an hour of experimentation to find just the right nail polish. Well, take that experience and ratchet up the intensity about twelve notches, you’ll have a pretty accurate picture of our morning. Things were a little tense at times. Not only were we rushed, with inordinately high stakes, but I didn’t have all of my tools, so a good deal had to be slapped together from the ingredients in Joni’s kitchen: egg white pore-shrinkers, avocado masques, that sort of thing. In a way, this was just as well, since Joni’s an organic girl at heart; no doubt some of my more chemical-edged products would have freaked her out, even though they’re faster and more effective than nature’s bounty.

  The dress, though, was the real challenge. I considered lending her my elegant shirtwaist number with rhinestone buttons, but that seemed rather tacky since everyone had seen me in it just the day before. Even if we could overcome that, I knew the effect would be more chic than romantic, which just wouldn’t do. I tore through Joni’s closet in search of anything I might be able to work with, but it was wall-to-wall peasant-gear in there: torn jeans, aging cords, wool sweaters, frayed ponchos. She barely owned a single skirt, let alone a dress that could be transformed into a gown.

  Finally, desperate but trying very hard not to show it, I asked about the grandmother whose riding gear I’d worn yesterday. Did she leave behind anything else? Joni thought about it a second, then told me if she had, it would probably be in her mother’s attic. She explained how to get there, and as soon as I was out of view, I ran down that dirt road in the grandmother’s boots until my lungs ached. When I arrived at the old Finnish farmhouse, Joni’s mother greeted me with surprise. I told her why I was there and as soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted my mistake.

  “But Joni already has a wedding dress. Mine.”

  “Yeah, um, the thing is, there’s a stain on it. Red wine. We tried everything to get it out, but nothing worked.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

  “Oh, that! I think that’s from when I wore it, but who cares? No one will notice.” She pushed some lank gray bangs out of her eyes and I tried to imagine her as a professional dancer. Her sagging breasts and bulging stomach were now encased in a cheap-looking sweatshirt with the logo of a roofing company splashed across the chest. Below that, ill-fitting polyester pants clung to her lumpy hips and thighs. I was in full-on makeover mode and I was already seeing what a little foundation and the right shade of matte lipstick could do for her washed-out, spider-vein riddled complexion.

  “Mrs. Greenfield, I’ll level with you. This is an important day and Joni deserves to look stunning.” I took a deep breath and pressed on. “I’m sure your dress was gorgeous on you, but she should have something that reflects her personality. That’s why I just want a few minutes in your attic.”

  She seemed a little taken aback by my earnest intensity, but she let me in. “Are you sure you want to bother?” she asked uneasily. “I mean, a dress is a dress, right?”

  I had to struggle to maintain my composure. A dress is a dress? Where do people pick up such misguided ideas?

  “The right dress,” I said, “is nothing short of a miracle.”

  She gave me a funny look, but finally pointed me up the stairs. She apologized about not being able to help, saying she had a lot of cooking to do, but I assured her it was no problem. You know from tagging along at flea markets and estate sales that I prefer to paw through other people’s junk alone. I was afraid I might have hurt her feelings, but I figured a slightly miffed mother was a small price to pay for Joni’s resurrected beauty.

  It took ten minutes of weeding through cluttered milk crates and decrepit rattan chairs before I found the steamer trunk. As soon as I saw it, I knew its potential, and my heart started fluttering inside me like a wild bird in a cage. A tiny brass padlock kept the lid firmly locked, but a little work with my bobby pin and voilá, the treasure chest was laid bare.

  It was Granny’s stuff, all right. I recognized the same subdued, understated taste responsible for the glorious riding boots I had on. Breathing in the heady scent of silks, chiffons and furs growing old together, I carefully unfolded one item after another. There were mink stoles and satin gloves, rayon dresses and wool blazers. It was clear this trunk was reserved for only the most cherished items in her wardrobe—the elite distillations of a lifetime spent loving quality clothes. Going through them was strangely intimate and as I removed each piece I refolded it and set it aside with the reverence of an archaeologist uncovering ancient jewels.

  The last item in the trunk was a simple ivory silk dress. It was knee-length, sleeveless, with a fitted waistline and a subtle A-line flare. I loved the bateau neck and the tiny seed pearls embroidered along the waist and at the hem. It was Joni all over—or rather, the Joni I imagined, freed of her natty dreads and her Mexican ponchos. I held the silk to my face and inhaled deeply, thanking the attic gods for this rare find.

  Hours later, when Joni emerged from that musty old canvas tent, I gasped along with everyone else, even though I’d left her side just minutes ago. She was beautiful. The naked curve of her scalp seemed to heighten the striking perfection of her face: she was all cheekbones, eyes, teeth and lips. The silk luster of the dress along with the buffed-to-perfection shine of her skin made her look lit from within. Walking across the sand in her bare feet, the afternoon sun pooling in the hollows of her clavicles, she was luminous.

  Looking at her serene smile, no one would ever believe the conversation we’d had five minutes earlier:

  JONI

  I can’t do this—God—what am I doing?

  ME

  Listen, babe: We’re not our parents. You got that?

  JONI

  I refuse to get fat.

  ME

  Nobody wants you getting fat.

  JONI

  Shit! Just go out there and tell them I can’t do this.

  ME

  Okay, one more time: We’re not our parents. We’re free. Now take a deep breath.

  JONI

  I can’t breathe.

  ME

  In and out. There you go.

  JONI

  What if he doesn’t really love me? He might not even know it. Boys never know what they feel.

  ME

  Joni, you came home drunk last night after table-dancing at a dive bar and puked all over him. You know what he said? “That’s my girl.” Are you telling me this guy doesn’t love you?

  JONI

  No. You’re right. I’m just being wimpy.

  ME

  Then let’s do this.

  JONI

  Okay, okay, okay…I’m ready.

  ME

 
; Good girl.

  JONI

  Shit!

  As she joined Phil under a driftwood arbor, she didn’t look the slightest bit stressed or unsure. I was so relieved. Ever since last night, when her panic had manifested itself in none-too-subtle ways, I’d been gambling on my gut instinct. I sincerely trusted that she wanted to spend her life with Phil. If I didn’t believe that—deeply, instinctively—there’s no way I would have busted my butt making her glow.

  The ceremony was gorgeous, if a little counterculture. Big River was more inspiring than any church could hope to be; it was an expansive, dramatic beach framed by the Navarro River on one side and steep, weather-beaten cliffs on the other. Instead of a preacher, Joni and Phil opted to be married by an elegant old woman sporting a halo of frizzy grey hair, flowing purple robes and a delicate orchid lei. Coop stood beside Phil as the best man, looking dapper and sexy as hell, even if his tux was just slightly on the small side. Joni’s bridesmaids were Portia and Miranda. They wore matching green silk dresses that, paired with their fiery hair, brought to mind mermaids. Joni read a beautiful poem she’d written. I don’t remember the whole thing, but there was one part that stuck in my head:

  In love, we cannot make mistakes

  we can only make beauty

  fragile, deadly flowers

  strewn about like confetti.

  When they kissed, the crowd cheered wildly. Someone threw a felt fedora into the air. The banjo player picked a few lines of something fast and jubilant that sounded suspiciously like “Ice, Ice, Baby.” A couple of seagulls careened overhead in wide, giddy circles. Beside me, Dannika swiped at a tear with the back of her hand. I passed her my handkerchief and she blew her nose in it, hard, then handed it back. Thanks.

  “I’m never getting married,” she said, “but it’s still so goddamn beautiful.”

  I nodded in agreement—with the beautiful part, not the never-getting-married bit. I found a patch of my handkerchief that wasn’t defiled by her snot and dabbed at a few tears of my own.

  Soon, the crowd started to disburse. Joni and Phil were mobbed by well-wishers. Coop made his way toward me, hugged me so hard I lifted a few inches off the sand. He just held me like that for a long moment, my toes dangling above the earth, while seagulls screeched and the ocean roared. I wanted to stay there forever, smelling his smells, wrapped tightly in his arms.

  When he put me down at last, I said, “What was that for?”

  “For everything,” he said. “You’re a genius. You know that, right?”

  “A genius, really?”

  “Obviously. Who else could take this ragtag bunch and whip us into shape like you did?”

  “Gwen.” I turned, and there was my dad holding hands with Kelly. “We’re going to head over to the house. You want a ride?”

  “Oh, um, no, we’ll probably help clean up here, first.” Everything had been so frantic this morning, I’d completely forgotten to tell Coop about my father. “By the way, Dad, this is Coop, my boyfriend.”

  Coop looked from me to him and back again in surprise. My father took advantage of his confusion and gave him a squinty once-over. His bushy eyebrows furrowed in a look of paternal concern. He must have approved at least a little, because he stuck his big, rough hand out and Coop shook it firmly. It was all so man-to-man, I wanted to laugh, but I remembered in time to complete the introduction.

  “This is my father, Martin, and his…” I hesitated for half a second.

  “Fiancée,” Kelly said, buttoning her coat.

  “Fiancée,” I repeated, a little hoarsely. “Kelly.”

  My father and I exchanged a look. Mine said, You? Getting married? His said, What can I say? I’m in love.

  “Great to meet you,” Coop enthused. “Wow. I had no idea.” It was a little vague, what Coop had no idea about—that I had a father or that he was here or that he was marrying this cat-eyed brunette. It was probably better to leave it ambiguous.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see you there.” Dad nodded at us, flashed a crooked grin, and they ambled down the beach, along the river’s edge toward the parking lot.

  Coop stared after them. “Did you mention your dad would be here?”

  “I just ran into him last night.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  “I guess Kelly’s friends with Joni’s parents.” I shrugged. It was a weird coincidence, that was for sure.

  He looked at me. “Don’t you sort of…dislike your father?”

  In our three-month courtship, I’d only divulged minimal data: my parents divorced years ago, I was mad at my father, we weren’t on speaking terms. “Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

  His gaze went soft and he ran his thumb over my eyebrow. “Promise you’ll tell me the whole story sometime?”

  I just nodded.

  Because, you see, I do want to tell him. I want to tell him about the time I trapped a monarch butterfly in a Mason jar, sealed it tight, and cried when it went still. I want to tell him about the day I almost jumped off the high dive, but instead climbed back down with hot pee running down my thighs. I want to tell him about the years when my dad and I were close, after the divorce but before I got mad at him—when he’d call me from a commune in Berkeley, a village of yurts in Arcata, a straw-bale hut in Ashland, and we’d tell each other secrets. I want to tell him everything about the girl I was before I met him and I want to hear everything about him, too.

  All in all, things look promising (knock on wood).

  Bubbly with Love,

  Gwen

  Saturday, September 20

  6:00 p.m.

  Marla,

  Okay, chica, get yourself another cappuccino, because what I’m about to tell you requires fortification.

  When you get this letter, you’ll disown me. I’m a disaster at love; my heart is a tiny, shriveled-up pea. The hard ones, you know? Like those wasabi kind we used to get at Trader Joe’s.

  Maybe it’s the only-child thing. I never learned to share. I covet. I hoard. I can’t afford a decent therapist.

  Then again, she really is a bitch.

  There I was, floating along on my pink cloud of champagne and pure, sugary optimism. My inner soundtrack was blaring “Some Enchanted Evening” and I just knew that Coop and I were destined for sixty years of sweet, monogamous bliss. I was already moving into our chic, trés retro apartment, arranging the furniture (his red leather chair would look divine next to my cream silk couch, incidentally) and naming our children (Audrey and Clark, of course).

  That’s when I walked into the kitchen.

  And saw them.

  With their arms around each other.

  Embracing.

  “I love you, Coop,” the viper murmured against his shoulder.

  “Love you, too, kid. I’ll always be here for you.”

  I watched this touching tableau, paralyzed by horror. They stood in profile near the sink; her cheek was pressed against his lapel, eyes closed. He was looking out the window. She must have sensed me, because her eyes popped open. But she didn’t move. She just stayed there in his arms, her glacial stare taunting me.

  “How much more of this do you expect me to take?” My words were like knives slicing through the air.

  “Gwen.” He loosened his hold on her, but he didn’t jump back like a man caught at something. He just eased himself away, turned to me with a nonchalance that was grotesquely out of sync with the toxic sludge bubbling up from my gut. “Something wrong, kitten?”

  “Something wrong, kitten?” I barely recognized my voice; each syllable sounded hollow and cold. “I walk in on—on this—and you stand there like everything’s cool?”

  Dannika, the treacherous cow, actually pursed her lips together to keep from laughing. It took every ounce of control not to go for the eyes.

  Coop took a step toward me, but I backed away. He frowned. “Maybe it looked sort of—I don’t know, suspect—but there’s nothing going on here that I’m ashamed of.”
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  “Friends hug sometimes,” Dannika informed me, like she was addressing a cranky toddler. “It happens.”

  “You’ve done nothing but provoke me all weekend!”

  She widened her eyes. “Provoke you?”

  “Please! I’ve tried to be a good sport, but for Christ’s sake, you’re a miserable bitch and you’re after my boyfriend.”

  She offered me a saccharine, condescending smile. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Come on, Dannika, that smile is even faker than your tits!”

  Coop put a hand up. “Whoa, let’s cool down, Gwen.”

  “I’m not going to cool down, okay? Jesus, Coop, you expect me to just hang back while you cuddle up with this harpy?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t know what you thought you saw—it was just a hug.”

  “Oh yeah? And what about Malibu?”

  He stared at me blankly. “What about Malibu?”

  Dannika shook her head. “She won’t let go of this fixation. I tried to tell her we’ve always been friends.”