They got to the gate of Suzanne’s apartment around 11 p.m. Georgia time. The three of them unloaded the immediate necessities from Marci’s car and then gathered on Suzanne’s living room floor for a beer. Jake would be sleeping on the couch, and then helping get Marci’s stuff into storage and the truck back to the U-Haul place the next day.
“I’m sorry you both had to take off work tomorrow,” she said to them as they sipped from the cold bottles.
“What are friends for?” Suzanne said. “Mondays are a slow day for me anyway.”
“No problem,” Jake said. He thought for a minute, weighing his words. “I’m not going to press you, Marce, on what all this is about. I just need to know one thing. Are you safe?”
“What?” What did he mean?
“I mean, I don’t need to know what’s going on, or who this guy is if there’s a guy. I just need to know that you’re safe. You know, because you’re running away...”
The question embarrassed her. It had occurred to Marci how much she was asking of her friends, but she had never stopped to think they might be worried about her. She wondered how long Jake had been waiting to ask this question.
“Oh, Jake,” Marci said, putting a hand on his. “Yes, I’m fine. There’s no danger, honestly.”
“Good,” he said, with a tone that meant the matter was closed until she chose to bring it up again. After all the crying in the car, she had thought she would have no tears left. Yet looking at her two best friends sitting there with their beers, rescuing her without questions or judgment, she wept with gratitude anyway.
For the next few days, Marci more or less lived in her pajamas. She had somehow managed to assist with unloading her things and taking the rest to storage, but after that she’d collapsed into a pile on Suzanne’s couch and stayed there, only sometimes making her way to the guest bedroom or the shower. Suzanne brought her a cup of coffee before heading out to work each morning, and that same cup was often still half-full next to her as late as two or three in the afternoon, when she would paddle to the refrigerator for a can of Diet Coke.
She watched TV nearly twenty-four hours a day—lots of crime dramas, but also a variety of soap operas in both English and Spanish. “Do you even understand what they’re saying?” Suzanne asked her one afternoon. Marci shrugged. Who needed to understand?
In the evenings the Diet Coke was replaced with a glass of red wine, as Suzanne joined her on the couch and forced her to eat something while they talked or watched reality TV together. Marci’s family called daily, partly to see how she was doing and partly to not-so-subtly remind her that Nicole would be coming down next week to start the wedding preparations in earnest. Jake called a couple of times to check in, but kept these conversations short, respecting Marci’s need for space. “If he was sitting where I’m sitting, he’d be respecting his own need for space,” Suzanne teased, kicking Marci gently with her socked feet. She had been patient with her friend, withholding comment on both Marci’s approach to mourning and her lack of personal hygiene all week.
By Saturday morning, however, Suzanne had reached the breaking point with Marci’s lolling around. At exactly 7:00 a.m., she yanked Marci off the couch, despite protests that she was missing a particularly good episode of True Crime. She piled her into the shower and threw the ratty pajamas in the washing machine. Suzanne pulled her into a skirt and top from her own collection, and then literally sat on her lap on the toilet while she applied makeup to Marci’s face.
They went to Suzanne’s favorite breakfast spot, where Marci was forced to consume a no-yolk vegetable omelet and Bloody Mary for good measure. They went for manicures and massages, and then to Lenox Square Mall for a couple of hours of shopping. Despite her constant protests and whining that she’d rather be home in her pajamas, Marci had to admit that it was the best day she’d had in a long time. By dinner time, she felt ready to talk. She bent Suzanne’s ear for nearly two hours about Doug, Cathy, and everything else. Now it was time to stand up again; falling apart with her best friend had been the first step.
#
Nicole’s wedding was two weeks away. Given the elaborate Indian traditions they were trying to combine with the Thompsons’ very milquetoast Presbyterianism, Nicole had her work cut out for her. She had taken a month’s leave of absence from work to manage the festivities and the honeymoon. Ravi was joining her in a week, and his brother and sister had both been enlisted to help with the preparations.
Ravi’s mother was still refusing to attend the ceremony or even speak to Nicole. Ravi came from a very traditional family, and his marriage to a family friend had been arranged since his infancy. He had foiled his parents’ plans for him from the start, however—first by choosing journalism over medicine in college, next not only by dating Nicole but by choosing to marry her without his parents’ blessing.
His older brother Kal had also stepped outside the tradition of arranged marriage, but he had wisely chosen to fall in love with an Indian doctor, whose family was well-respected in the community. His wife, Pritha, had received a slightly frosty reception at first. It had warmed a good bit when the two families met and Mrs. Argawal learned that Pritha was a third-year resident at Washington’s most prestigious pediatric hospital. Once Ravi had chosen Nicole, however, Pritha became Mrs. Argawal’s second daughter overnight. Pritha would teasingly thank Nicole for this from time to time.
Always the optimist, Ravi had assured Nicole that his mother would come around eventually and that she was a stubborn woman, but nearly always saw reason in the end. “Nearly always?” Nicole had asked, at which Ravi muttered something about a feud and a sister she hadn’t spoken to in forty years. “But that won’t happen to us. I’m her favorite,” he reported brightly. Somehow, Nicole confessed to Marci later on, she did not find this all that reassuring.
Still, Nicole could be pretty stubborn herself, and she had tasked herself with throwing the most spectacular Indian/WASP wedding Atlanta had ever seen. She spent hours combing through books and online articles to learn about various traditions, and then grilling Ravi and his siblings about which were the most important to their family and which ones could be sacrificed in compromise with the Thompson family traditions (not to mention the fantasy wedding Nicole had been imagining since she stopped thinking boys were icky). She could not control whether Mrs. Argawal decided to attend the festivities, but she could do her best to ensure there would be as little as possible to complain about whether she did.
Marci had observed this process, largely by phone and e-mail, with a kind of awe. Just reading a few articles Nicole had forwarded to help acclimate her to the culture made Marci dizzy. She couldn’t imagine trying to glean enough useful information to plan a multi-day party and hope to impress her future mother-in-law at the same time. If it were me, I’d tell Ravi we were going to Vegas or he could take his chances with the arranged marriage.
Now that the wedding was so near, Nicole was losing her grip on her calm resolve, and bridal neurosis was beginning to take over. Marci’s first task after Suzanne had helped snap her back to reality was to pick Nicky up at the airport the following day and she could tell right away that the stress was getting to her. Her normally perfect hair was frizzy and disheveled, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her carry-on luggage consisted of a thick stack of books with tiny post-its sticking out from various pages, and an enormous navy blue binder marked “WEDDING.”
She met Marci at baggage claim with a cell phone tucked under her chin, pausing only for a second to give her sister a peck on the cheek before resuming a heated conversation with someone Marci could only assume was the caterer. “No, no, that is not what we ordered... Absolutely not, it all has to be vegetarian... Well, I don’t care what your notes say, as I told Chris—you know what? If I could just talk to him directly that would be great...Why not? So? I work on Sundays all the time...Never mind, I’ll just find his cell phone number and contact him directly. Thank you so much for not being even a bit helpful.
” She snapped the phone shut and gave Marci a tired smile. “A little bitchy or Leona Helmsley?”
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
“Full on Leona.”
“Yeah,” Nicole sighed. “I thought so. Oh, Marci, this wedding is killing me. If you ever get married, you’ll understand. It just takes over your whole life.”
Marci mumbled something noncommittal. She was beginning to dislike the way people kept saying, “IF you get married,” as though being thirty years old and watching her younger sister prepare for nuptials meant that she was basically ready to be put to pasture.
Nicole made four other calls on their half hour ride home from the airport: one to the cell phone of the elusive “Chris,” two to the wedding coordinator, and one to the photographer. By the sound of the calls, Nicky might’ve been managing the merger of two multi-national corporations, rather than a celebration of love between two people. They were just over halfway home when she ended a call and turned to Marci. “So, how are you doing, anyway? I’m sorry about your breakup with that guy. What was his name?”
“Doug.” It tasted like saltwater in her mouth. “But it’s really not that big a deal.” She had told Nicole and her parents the essentials about her flight from Austin, the nothing job, the end of a relationship, but had also glossed over most of the key details. Like the fact that she had been offered a something job just days before leaving town. And that she was an adulteress and that her boyfriend’s wife was pregnant. Minor details.
“Well, I’m sorry. Mom said you seemed pretty upset when—Oh, hang on!” She answered the ringing phone in her purse and Marci was alone again, surrounded by the sounds of details clicking into place.
Since leaving Austin, Marci had counted more than thirty-two voicemails from Doug. After getting Nicole back to her parents’ and accepting her mother’s absolute insistence that she stay in her old bedroom for a few days—“to help your sister”—she went through her phone’s overfull inbox and deleted every one. The only one she could not resist listening to was the final message, reasoning that it could represent the last time she would ever hear from Doug.
It was apparently a continuation of a previous message, which she had already deleted.
“Urgh! Your phone cut me off again. Anyway, I don’t even know whether you’re listening to these messages at all, but it makes me feel better to tell you all this anyway. It always made me feel better to talk to you. I know this whole situation has hurt you most of all, but I hope you’ll see that I’m hurting, too, and call me back. Okay? Please, Marci? Call back. Anytime.” Click.
Doug’s voice still ringing in her ears, she stared at the phone for a moment before hitting Delete. She scrolled through her list of recent missed calls—“D.S.” accounted for at least two-thirds of them in the past week—and paused on the most recent call, from 10:00 this morning. Her finger hovered dangerously over the Send button on her phone. She argued with herself, and tried to imagine what Suzanne would say to her right now: “Is there anything he could say to make himself seem like less of a shithead?”
No. There wasn’t. Marci clicked the number, but instead of dialing it, she went to the options menu and selected Block. She did not know whether she was strong enough to make this choice every day, so she decided to take the choice out of her hands. Her phone asked whether she was sure she wanted to block all calls and text messages from this number. She was. I did it, she thought. I am a strong, independent woman who will not be ruled by some charming Texas asshole. And now I need a drink.
#
Monday morning she awoke in her childhood bedroom, wearing an oversized t-shirt of Ravi’s he’d left on his last visit—the only thing in the house she could find to sleep in. She’d have to run to Suzanne’s today to pick up some clothes, the bulk of which were still in boxes. She had more or less relented to the idea of staying with her parents and Nicole for a few days, but vowed to go back to Suzanne’s for a couple of nights sometime before the wedding.
“That’s fine,” her mother said when she announced this plan at the breakfast table. “Just be back by 11:00 because I need your help with something.”
Great. So began two weeks of indentured servitude to the bride and the mother of the bride. Marci took her time at the apartment, indulging in a long shower and enjoying the quiet with Suzanne at work. She allowed herself a few minutes to sort through a couple of her hastily-packed clothing boxes, noticing with a smile that all the boxes Wanda had packed contained neatly folded and efficiently packed clothing, while her boxes looked as though she’d just taken piles from the floor and scooped them directly in.
She stopped at a coffee house on her way back home, ordering an extra-large raspberry white chocolate mocha. A couple of years ago, she had made the mistake of calculating the number of Weight Watchers’ points this drink represented, and found that it was around seventeen, the same as a milkshake and nearly two-thirds of her daily allowance. Today, she didn’t care. If she was going to spend the next two weeks running around to the caterer, the photographer, the florist, and the alterations place, she deserved a little indulgence.
By the time she pulled back into her parents’ driveway, it was 11:30. She carried a duffel bag and a defensive explanation for her tardiness, but her mother didn’t even bring it up. “Oh, good, you’re back,” she said, not looking up from her task of spreading mayo over ten slices of bread. “Go wash for lunch. Aunt Mildred’s expecting you in about an hour.”
“Beg your pardon? Mildred?”
“Yes,” her mother sighed impatiently, “Mildred. She can’t drive any longer and I have to go with your sister to the dress shop, so I need you to take her to the cemetery.”
“Does she have a reservation or something?”
“Very funny, Marcella. She goes once a week to visit Uncle Herbert’s grave. You’ll need to pick up some fresh flowers for him on the way over.”
“But...I thought I was going to be helping with wedding stuff.” Marci sounded about twelve, even to herself.
“You are, sweetie. This is what I need you to do today so I can go with Nicky. We have to do the final payment and fittings today, so I’ve got to be there. I’m sorry; I know Mildred is...not your favorite. But you’ll be doing me a huge favor.”
“Fine,” Marci grumbled and went to wash her hands. Suddenly, everything she’d been dreading doing today seemed far more appealing.
Aunt Mildred lived in Peaceful Estates, a huge assisted living complex with various phases dedicated to people with different levels of ability and independence. On one end were a collection of cluster homes with garages and cute little gardens; in the middle stood a midrise apartment building with smaller but still private suites and a nurse’s quarters every few floors. Between these two, there was a small green park with tennis courts, shuffle board, chess tables, and a swimming pool used primarily by the grandchildren of the residents.
On the other side of the apartment building was a community center, cafeteria, and finally, a squat brick building on the far right end of the property. This was more hospital-like in appearance and function: it had single rooms, wide ramps on all sides, and two ambulances parked outside. Waiting.
Golf cart paths and manicured lawns filled in all the rest of the space, other than the parking lot and driveways coming from the cluster homes —“Tranquility Cabins,” a wooden sign informed her. As Marci parked her car and headed for the apartments in the middle, it occurred to her that the residents here got to keep less and less stuff, along with losing their independence, as they moved from left to right.
“You’re late,” Mildred greeted her, seconds after she’d knocked on door 601. “Let’s go.” She pushed Marci back into the hallway toward the elevator with her big purse. Coach, Marci noticed. Nice. No, thanks, Aunt Mildred, I don’t need to come in and sit down. Freshly baked cookies? Oh, I couldn’t possibly, but thank you for your generous offer. No, no, I’m happy to take half a day to do this with you. Please don’t mention
it.
As soon as they got to Marci’s Corolla, she wished she’d thought to bring her mother’s car. She struggled to help Mildred into the low seat and rushed to move her CD case, purse, and a couple of fast-food bags out from under the old woman’s clunky black heels. Mildred did not comment on any of this, but maintained a death grip on her Coach bag, and tightened her lips in obvious distaste.
With a series of vague commands—“Go up a ways,” “Turn before the chicken place,”—and wild pointing, Mildred directed Marci to the Kroger nearest Peaceful Estates. It took some doing to get Mildred out of the car, and the two made their way into the grocery store to buy flowers. Remembering her mother’s command to be respectful of her elderly relatives, Marci reached out to support Aunt Mildred’s elbow, but the old lady jerked it away huffily. “Don’t be an idiot, girl. I can’t drive. No one said I couldn’t walk.”
Marci mumbled an apology and remained a couple of steps behind the slow-moving woman for the rest of the errand. “Where’s the usual girl?” Mildred demanded as an acne-ravaged teenage boy offered to assist them at the floral counter.
“Um, I’m not sure, but I’m Greg. I’ll be happy to help you,” he said with a squeak. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, Marci observed. Poor kid.
“We’ll see about that. I need a dozen mixed carnations with some white Gerbera daisies mixed in. And don’t give me any garbage from the front bins that are brown around the edges.” Involuntarily, Marci thought of Nicole on her cell phone and shuddered.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and went to work. For someone so young, Greg proved exceedingly competent and patient. He came back with a bouquet Marci would’ve thought beautiful on the first try, and then without so much as an eye roll, made three more trips to the floral case to replace individual stems Mildred found unacceptable for one reason or another.
The Marriage Pact Page 16
