The Other Brother
Page 5
And then I told him yes. A choice between the safety of what we had and the grand adventure we might have? Of course I said yes.
• • •
“But you’ve only known him three months!” my father said. He said this after Jack asked him for my hand in marriage, to which my father replied that there’d be no hand handing over until he and my mother had discussed it with me first. “What do you think this is,” my father demanded of Jack, “the Middle Ages?”
If my father had asked me what I thought Jack was thinking, I would have said I thought he thought he was doing the right thing, which was just Jack’s way, in all things. As for me, I thought it was damn sweet. Honestly. It’s not like I had fantasies of some caveman Neanderthal—I’d have said no to a man like that—but decent manners and asking my dad for my hand? Like I said, sweet.
But apparently my dad didn’t see any of it the same as me, which was why he was freezing Jack out as he demanded, “What can you possibly know about each other?” Followed by, “I mean, do you even really know this man?” Which led right onto my mother adding, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
Leave it to a mum. But of course, being a mum, she had to ask that, didn’t she?
“No!” I laughed, too happy with Jack to even be indignant.
“Then I don’t see what the rush is,” my mother said, eyes still narrowed. “You’re giving me how much time to plan this wedding?”
We told her.
“I can’t help it,” Jack said. “I’ve never loved anyone like this in my whole life, and I want to spend as many minutes as possible of the rest of my life making Mona happy as her husband.”
“Oh, Christ,” my dad said, “we’re not even at the wedding yet and already he’s doing his vows.”
My dad’s voice may have been gruff, but I didn’t miss the slight hitch in it, and I certainly didn’t miss the tears in his eyes or my mother’s. Two minutes ago they’d been ready to interrogate us, and now they were completely on board with us.
My parents had always been hopelessly middle class and had only ever wanted my happiness, and I loved them for it.
“Well,” my mother said, sniffling into a tissue, “with such little notice, the only dress we’ll be able to find will be off the rack…”
• • •
Like I said earlier, for my wedding gown, I went for the Princess Di knockoff. As I believe I also mentioned earlier, I’d choose differently now. But at the time? I loved it. And it being two years since she’d married Charles, the initial fervor for the dress had worn off, so I’d gotten my copy damn cheap.
It was my wedding day!
We were in the bride’s room at the church. Stel and Bri were there in their purple gowns, my twin Maids of Honor. Over the course of our long friendship, we’d discussed what to do when each of us got married. The plan had always been that we’d switch off so that each of us got a turn at being the next most important person to the bride—well, except for the groom—and no one got left out. But when it came down to it, and me being the first in the group to leap for marriage, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t decide on which one to bestow the honor, and so I’d plumped for two Maids of Honor. But that was OK since, to balance everything out, Jack had agreed to pick two Best Men.
My mother was there too. As Stel and Bri fussed with the hem of my dress, my mother nervously played with my bouquet.
“Did you ever wonder why they call it Baby’s Breath?” she asked. “I don’t know. Something about that always strikes me as being barbaric.”
That’s when the knock came at the door.
Since this wasn’t Jane Eyre, that knock didn’t herald the news that there was a madwoman, another wife, living in the attic. But it did come with its own doom.
My mother answered the door, stuck her head out. “Yes?” she said.
Mumble, mumble came the voice she was speaking to.
“No, you can’t talk to her right now,” my mother said, sounding indignant. “It’s simply bad luck to see her in her dress before the wedding.”
“Is that Jack?” I asked.
Based on her words, it had to be.
Was he having a case of the pre-wedding jitters? I wondered. I couldn’t blame him if he was. The past few weeks had been so whirlwind. And if he wanted to chuck the whole thing? Perhaps simply go on the great honeymoon we had planned and not bother with the service? I’d agree to that. I loved him that much.
The one thing I couldn’t bear to do, though, was let him remain standing on the other side of the door, jittering alone. I had to do whatever I could to make him feel better, to let him know that no matter what happened, everything would be OK.
Hiking up my voluminous skirts, I made for the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” my mother practically shrieked at me.
“I’m just going to talk to him around the edge of the door.” It was all I could do not to roll my eyes at her silly superstitions. “I promise, I will not let him see the dress.”
And then my head was poking through the door, I was seeing him in his tux, and he was seeing the small part of me that could be seen.
My first glimpse of his face revealed a man who was very upset—in fact, I don’t think I’d ever seen Jack looking like that up to that point; Jack is simply not an upset sort of person—but as soon as I said, “Hey, you,” softly, his own expression softened.
“Hey, you,” he said back. “You look gorgeous. Well, the tiny part of you that I can see.”
“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” I said, thinking about how blazingly handsome he looked. Honestly, I thought, it’s a shame people can’t just go through life in gowns and tuxes, because a girl could get used to this.
I shushed my mum, who was making anxious mum noises behind me, before turning back to him. But when he didn’t speak again, instead looking at me with those happy eyes—I knew then where the phrase “moony eyed” came from because I was feeling the same way myself, like I was so happy it was like I was on another planet; or, you know, the moon—I felt the need to prompt him.
“So,” I said, “what’s up that couldn’t wait until after the service? Is there some sort of problem I should know about?”
“Oh. Right.” And with that, he was back down to earth. From the expression on his face, it was a glum earth. “My brother can’t make it.”
“Oh no!” I said, all sympathy.
Jack had originally asked his dad, Burt, to be his Best Man. He said his dad was his best friend anyway, which I thought was sweet almost to the point of making me cry, and plus, Burt would get such a kick out of it. But then, when I decided to go with two Maids of Honor, Jack decided to ask his brother to be his second, so that everything would be even. For a while he’d debated—perhaps he should ask one of his friends?—but then his mother, Edith, piped up with, “What about your brother? It was one thing when it was just Burt. But now that it’s going to be Burt plus someone else, don’t you think that someone else should be your own brother? I’d hate for your brother to feel offended at not being picked.”
And so Jack had. Picked his brother, that is. And now it turned out Jack’s brother couldn’t make it. Still, I thought, there were worse things that could happen on a person’s wedding day. And that’s when it struck me how insensitive I was being. Jack had said his brother couldn’t make it.
“Oh no!” I said again. “I hope everything’s all right! There hasn’t been an…accident, has there?”
“No, oh God no,” Jack said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. Instead of saying my brother can’t make it, I should have said he won’t make it.”
I must have looked perplexed at what the significance might be in this slight change of wording, because Jack produced a telegram, which he handed to me.
Can’t shake the paparazzi. STOP. The show must go on without me. STOP. Don’t want to make your Big Day all about me. STOP. Present to follow. STOP. Love, Den
And then, finally, it hit me.
People will say I must have known all along. People will say that, somehow, I must have suspected. But let me state for the record here: No, I did not. And, in my defense, when I later on made clear what I’d learned to Stel and Bri and my parents, it turned out that none of them had suspected either. Perhaps we only see what we want to see.
Sure, Jack had told me he had a brother. Of course he had a brother—that brother was supposed to be in our wedding party! And Jack had even told me about that brother, at least a little bit. He’d said his brother was five years older than him by way of an explanation for why they’d never been particularly close. They’d always been at different stages in their development, and then his brother had struck out on his own when Jack was just thirteen. Sure, I thought it a bit strange I hadn’t met the brother prior to our wedding day. I suppose, though, I just chalked it up to the older brother being busy with his own life and Jack’s and my courtship being such a whirlwind.
But in the days and weeks and even years afterward, any time I tried to review the events and conversations during the three months we were dating and the fourth month when we were planning our wedding, I couldn’t for the life of me ever recall Jack referring to his sibling as anything other than “my brother.” Even Edith and Burt, when they spoke of him, it was always “Jack’s brother,” without a name. They were like three versions of Cordelia from King Lear, all focusing on the blood bond rather than any emotion attached to the relationship. And if I had heard a name mentioned at all? It would have been Dennis, and I hadn’t made the connection.
Perhaps if they had even once referred to him as Denny.
But Dennis Springer?
What were the odds? There must have been a million Dennis Springers in England. Or at least a few dozen. There was no reason for me to think it was the same person.
And yet, as it turned out, it was.
No, I hadn’t made the connection before this. But who would? Who, outside of immediate family, would ever think of Paul McCartney as James, which is his real first name? Who, meeting someone named Michael McCartney, would assume he happens to have an older brother who just happens to be one of the most famous musical artists in the world? You just don’t think like that, not unless you’re told. And Jack, Burt, and Edith—no one had told me. I mean, you’d think someone would have said, right? If there was a word bigger than gobsmacked, that’s what I was feeling.
“So what do you think I should do?” Jack asked.
“Do?” I echoed dumbly, still reeling.
“You know,” he said, “about only having one Best Man when you have two Maids of Honor?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, still numb. “Just go with Burt. Everything doesn’t have to be perfect, everything doesn’t have to be symmetrical, and Burt’s enough man for two.”
• • •
For the first, and probably only, time in their lives together, Denny had taken the high road, done the unselfish thing: He’d sought to make Jack’s Big Day be not all about him.
But of course, it was, in the end.
For, as I stood at the top of the aisle, on the arm of my father, looking ahead toward my husband-to-be, all I could think was:
Oh my God.
I’m about to marry Denny Springer’s brother.
PART II
Connecticut
When Jack and I were first married, and before we had our first son, travel together was so easy. As business at the agency picked up, sometimes we’d take organized tour groups to various places, leaving behind in the office the women we’d hired to help out. At first, I would make detailed lists, starting a few weeks before a trip. I love making lists. In fact, Jack would laugh at me about this trait. “You know,” he’d say, “if you’re ever under psychiatric observation, the first thing they’re going to write in your file is: frequently engages in strange list-making activity.” Well, he could laugh. But who wants to find themselves in a strange country, only to realize something vital has been left behind? Still, Jack is so laid back, about almost everything, soon I learned to grow to be more like him, at least in this one regard. Before I knew it, I too was capable of jetting off to places with the knowledge that, so long as I had my passport and one good credit card with me, anything I might have forgotten could be replaced.
But all that changes after you have kids.
Kids. In a way, they’re like dolls in that they’re not quite the same, not ever fully complete, without all their accessories. They just need so much. Whatever they do—school, sports, games—they need the right gear. And then, if you take them on a trip, particularly a trip that will end with them living in another country for almost three months, well…
There was just no way I could get us all across the Atlantic without a lot of stuff. The boys wouldn’t let me. I tried to pass on to them Jack’s philosophy of travel—“You’ve each got your passports, and your father and I have credit cards, so we’re good to go!”—but they weren’t having any of that.
“But what if they don’t carry my brand of toothpaste there?” William asked, worried.
“Well,” I answered without thinking about it first, “they probably don’t.”
“They don’t?” Harry asked. Now he was worried too.
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s a whole different country. They’ll have their own products in terms of probably anything you can think of.”
My mistake. Now the boys were horrified.
I know. It’s odd for two boys under the age of ten to worry first about whether they’ll have the proper gear to brush their teeth. What can I say? I trained them well: dental hygiene first. I suppose the extremity of their reaction may have stemmed from the fact that I told them that if they didn’t brush at least twice a day, all their teeth would fall out, or, at best, they’d wind up with the rotten teeth of Lex, Denny’s lead guitarist. Extreme? Perhaps. But you try getting two small boys to brush their teeth on any kind of a regular basis. Given any sort of option at all, they’ll forego it completely.
But now, my parenting brilliance had come back to bite me on the arse. I was going to need to make sure they had enough of their special brand of toothpaste, and anything else they deemed essential, to last until they got acclimated enough to their new surroundings that maybe they could start to accept a little bit of change. And so…
Hello again, Strange List-Making Behavior!
• • •
So you get to the airport, you know you’ve got everything on the lists, and you think: Yea! Home free! Right?
Wrong.
One of the curious features of transatlantic travel is that when a person flies from the Northeastern United States to England, they land approximately twelve hours later due to the time difference. But when traveling in the opposite direction, also due to the time difference, you arrive at approximately the same time you departed. The boys loved this bit of trivia. They wondered: “If we just keep flying to the west forever, will we never age?” I didn’t love it quite so much because here’s the thing: no matter how you slice it, no matter which way you’re going or what time it is, you’re still going to be in the air for six hours.
Six hours in a confined space with two boys, boys who are wound up with excitement: “We are going to a new place!”; “We will have adventures!”—it was wonderful in its own way, seeing them like that. As with the toothpaste, William can be a bit fearful, and then Harry, who is normally less so, has a tendency to fall into line with that. So it was really great that they were finally both getting on board with the adventure of the whole thing. But then, six hours of two boys winding themselves up into practically manic levels of excitement, well, it is a bit much. I mean, they’re good boys, but you can’t expect them just to read quietly for a whole long flight. Of course, that’s
what I wanted to do—read quietly. I had some books I’d brought along, but also, in the airport while Jack was off getting coffee, I’d picked up some mags, one of which had a featured article on Denny. From the headlines on the cover, it appeared he might have a new girlfriend, with whom he’d replaced Lalaina LaLani. I thought maybe I could take it out of my bag and read it if Jack fell asleep, as he often did while flying.
But there was going to be no rest for anybody, not with William and Harry bouncing off the walls, threatening to disturb everyone around us. To be fair, none of the other passengers seemed to mind, not too much. No one even glared at them over their repeated trips to the lav to investigate. But then, when the cabin lights dimmed and people started to pull down their shades in preparation for the in-flight movie, I got the distinct impression that if they kept popping up and down, we might have a mutiny on our hands. So what else could I do? I promised the boys they could watch too, even if the film was rated more mature than they were accustomed. I glanced quickly at the movie listing in the in-flight magazine. Not going to the cinema much myself, the title didn’t mean anything to me, but this sounded like a horror film. Still, if they were showing it on the plane, how bad could it be?
• • •
What could the airline people possibly have been thinking of?
You can’t show a film like that to people on a plane!
Perhaps the airline had made the same mistake I had, glancing at it quickly and assuming it was one thing, only to have it turn out to be something else entirely?
Turned out, Alive wasn’t a horror film, not in the conventional sense, but rather, it was the cinematic adaptation of a nonfiction book about a Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashes in the Andes. Lots of people die, but some live, and then when things start getting really bad, they have to, you know, eat each other. I mean, they only eat those who’ve already died, but still.