—so I sucked down another glass of champagne, kept my mother-of-the-bride smile firmly in place and watched from the sidelines. And even though I thought I was doing a pretty good job, my bad attitude must have been showing just a little, because both my mother and Julie came over to ask if I was OK—I assured them I was.
The maître d’ kept my glass full. Frankly, he was supposed to. As much money as I laid out—including the coconut shrimp and mini lamb chops during the cocktail hour, beef Wellington and sea bass for dinner and the Viennese table with the chocolate fountain—he should have been at the door of my complimentary suite with a rose and a mimosa the next morning. But now we’re back to shoulda, and that woulda killed me for sure.
Anyway, my problems started the next day when I woke up, and shoulda, coulda and woulda did not stop the train wreck in my head, or keep the elephant from tap dancing across my aching body. I mean, I’d probably had more to drink in one night than I had consumed in the last decade. My mouth felt like I’d been sucking vintage sewer water and I wanted to call room service or 911 for an Advil and orange juice IV because I could not remember where the bathroom was or imagine dragging myself to it and trying to find the pill bottle in my toiletry bag. That would have meant I had to open my eyes. I had tried that already. The little bit of light sneaking through the drapes made me want to vomit.
Then he coughed. And my heart about exploded out of my chest because I didn’t know he was there. Or who he was.
I jumped up so fast my brains banged against the inside of my skull, and as I caught sight of those high heels, my suit and new purple lace bra and panties in a heap on the floor, I came to the horrifying realization that my lumpy brown body was bare-butt naked. So I snatched the spongy beige blanket off the king-sized bed, uncovering a king-sized man, and I suddenly realized HE was J.J.’s cousin Ron, the best man. And I thought, Oh my Lord, what else don’t I remember?
“I didn’t expect to hear from you before noon.” He rolled up on his elbow and didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to be where he was. Or to be skin-side up.
Then he smiled that killer smile, the one I had been avoiding since he showed up at the wedding rehearsal and J.J. introduced him and I thought, That’s cousin Ron? The one who was like a second father to J.J.? Second fathers are not supposed to have bulging biceps or voices like hot buttered rum on a cold day. At the ceremony he kissed my cheek before depositing me at my designated pew. I sat there, doing my best to look motherly and not think about how good he smelled and how good those lips felt on my cheek.
Ron was pretty popular with the ladies at the reception too—I saw more than one of the bridesmaids giggle at something he said, then bat her eyelashes as he obligingly twirled them around the dance floor. I swear I even saw my mother grin at him when he stopped by their table to chat—not that I was paying attention or anything. And when the time came, he gave such a beautiful toast about how he’d watched Amber and J.J. learn to love each other, from puppy love to grown-up love. How attending the wedding meant we would all be there to help them love each other for many years to come. And he was right. I had seen it, in my own living room. I glanced over at Mama and Daddy, who had finally left Brooklyn and moved to a retirement condo in Maryland. They had been so worried when Amber and I set out on our own, but I showed them I could take care of her and I could throw this wedding without anybody’s help, thank you very much. Mom said I was crazy—“It’s a wedding, not a coronation”—but they sat there just beaming. That filled me up too. I had a little speech planned, except there really wasn’t anything left to say and I had no voice to say it with. So I clinked my glass, toasted to their future and washed down the disappointments of my past. Because suddenly, in the midst of a sit-down dinner for 220 people, I felt totally alone. I mean, I had my daughter to love, J.J. too, and my family, but who did I have, for me—personally?
Could I say I loved Gerald?
Of course, I did. In my way. He was the one and only man in my life, and we’d sure been together long enough. Well, not exactly together. You can’t exactly be together with a man who has a wife and three kids—they’re not even kids anymore. Yeah, I know that sounds bad, but I didn’t think of it like that. We never talked about Annie; in fact, the only thing I knew about her was her name. I heard about his children growing up. He heard about Amber. The time flew by. We shared some pretty significant moments along the way. I guess you could say we reached an understanding. We could be together on my birthday, unless there was a recital or a ball game, but not his. Major holidays were out, but that left a whole lot of evenings, the occasional Saturday, whenever our calendars coincided. I wasn’t staying home waiting by the telephone. He didn’t have to lie to me. I didn’t have stray socks on my floor, fuzz in my sink, toilet seats left up, anybody telling me what I could and couldn’t do with my money and my time or expectations that would never be fulfilled.
Amber and I had also reached a kind of understanding about me and Gerald. Back when she was thirteen, she came home early from a sleepover—flew up the stairs, barged into my room to tell me all about the party and found him there. No, she didn’t catch us doing anything, but it sure wasn’t what she expected from dear old Mom. After that, they’d run into each other from time to time—until the day Amber and I saw Gerald in the mall with his family. I tried to act like I didn’t see him and dragged Amber into a sporting-goods store, praying she didn’t see him either. But before I could even pretend I was seriously interested in the teepee of aluminum baseball bats, she was in my face. “Wasn’t that your friend? Who was that with him?” It was a game of Twenty Questions I’d rather not have played. Especially since Amber was not buying my answers. Anyway, our discussion progressed into a screaming match in the car that I, not so proudly, ended with “because I’m grown and as long as you live in my house and I pay your bills, what I say goes.”
Gerald was not at the wedding.
But Ron was, and now he was pointing in my direction, if you get my drift. And he had to go.
“You have to go,” I said. It came out somewhere between a shriek and a question. Then I got this flash that my hair must be smushed to the side of my head, so I kind of ran my fingers through it, casually, and wrapped the blanket around me like a super-sized tortilla.
“Don’t cover up.” He patted the bed. “Come on and relax. We can order in some breakfast, take a shower. And later I’ll help you get those presents into your car.”
I saw the tower of packages and had this vague memory of the bridal party cavalcade carrying them to the suite. Ron came last—carrying a silver-wrapped box that felt like his and hers barbells. I think the others were gone. I hope the others were gone. I prayed the others were gone. I remembered looking at all those beautiful boxes and starting to cry, because the day had been overwhelming—the whole week, really. Ron surrounded me in a hug and I remembered that it felt so good. And then I was standing in the middle of the floor, in my tortilla, crying again, which made it worse, because I do not cry. I’d rather shoot staples under my fingernails than snivel and whine. But there I was, sniveling like a champ, and I couldn’t stop. “Please don’t tell anybody.” I was begging. “I’m so embarrassed.” It was pathetic. I was pathetic. A spectacle. I was just grateful there was no mirror where I could see myself.
He hopped into his tuxedo pants and brought me some tissues. “No need to be embarrassed.”
That made me snort. “Oh, of course not,” I said. “The mother of the bride traditionally sleeps with the best man.”
Which made him laugh. Me too, for a moment. I wiped my face and tried to get my head together.
“We’re all single adults here.” Ron folded me in his arms again. Those arms—against that strong chest, which, I realized to my horror, now smelled more like my perfume than his aftershave. How much had I rubbed up against him? Couldn’t the floor just open up and swallow me? But I wasn’t getting off that easy. He kissed my eyelids and said, “Last night was great. And once you get
to know me, you’ll realize I would never disrespect you in any way.”
Get to know him? Was he crazy? And what exactly had made last night so great? Other than the obvious? I yanked myself out of his arms, kind of like a fly coming to its buzzing senses just before the Venus flytrap clamps shut. The fact that I slept with a man I had known for all of two days was already too much for me to process. Now he thought I was ready to exchange vital statistics? I hadn’t found myself in bed with anybody but Gerald in twelve years, and I can count on one hand with fingers left over the times we woke up together. And when was the last time he told me it was great? On top of that, I didn’t even know how old Ron was—somewhere north of J.J., but definitely south of me. And he was J.J.’s cousin and godfather. End of story. It was going to be hard enough trying to pretend this never happened when we both showed up at christenings, Thanksgiving dinners and other family get togethers.
I guess Ron read the near-hysteria on my face because then he said, “Would you be more comfortable if I left?”
I babbled something that ended in yes, then headed for the bathroom, dragging my blanket behind me, because at that moment the suite felt very small and I did not want to see whether he was annoyed or relieved.
I took a long shower by the red glow of the heat lamp, letting the water rush over me, even my hair. I’d figure out what to do with my wet naps later. Clearly, I had stepped over some invisible boundary and needed to wash myself back to the other side of the line, where I belonged. I closed my eyes, let the water stream over my head, my neck, my shoulders, my back. I tried to let my mind go blank, but scenes from the day before popped in and out of my head like a slide show—Amber and J.J. scouring each other’s faces in wedding cake, me floating down the aisle on Ron’s arm, the Olympian prowess of the single women leaping and diving for the bouquet, the speech Amber made before she and J.J. left for their bridal suite at another hotel. She thanked me for being her mom, every day. Not just on special occasions, but during bad dreams, scraped knees, report cards—good and bad—acne breakouts and tattoos. She said she hoped one day she could be as good a mother to her children. Well, remembering that only prompted more waterworks. Somehow tears feel different from shower water, and the hot drops traced down my face, but enough was enough. I blew my nose in my washcloth and felt around for the soap.
When I got down to my feet there was a tender spot on my baby toe and I knew it was a blister from all that dancing. The Hustle, the Electric Slide, the Booty Call—ironic, huh? I hadn’t grooved like that in years. My dad even took me for a turn around the floor, calling himself waltzing. And I danced with Ron, at least I remembered that part. Now, I would never have agreed to a slow dance, but it was one of those sneaky ones where the band starts off with some boogie music, then slides into a slow jam before you have a chance to make a graceful exit. Next thing I knew, I was cheek to cheek, smelling that good cologne. It didn’t hurt that I caught my ex’s eye. That made me snuggle a little closer, and you can see where that got me. You know as well as I do there’s no fool like an old fool.
Then the lightning hit me right between the eyes and I dropped the soap. What did I drum into Amber’s head whenever we talked about sex? Not the “sperm and egg, isn’t it a miracle?” talk when she was young. But later, when boys’ names started creeping into her conversation and one of her little girlfriends turned up pregnant. Yes, I did everything short of beg and bribe her to wait until she got older, which led to lots of eye rolling, heavy sighing and bolting from the car, which is where I usually arranged these intimate tête-à-têtes so she couldn’t escape. I also told her that if ever, whenever—I could barely say the words, but I made myself clear. She had to promise me to use a condom. “I don’t care where he tells you it hasn’t been or how much he says he loves you—no latex, no sex.” That wasn’t just for Amber. Even after all these years, Gerald had to live with that rule too. But I had no idea exactly what we did last night, much less what we used, which only compounded my complete mortification.
I didn’t even dry off. I snatched the terrycloth robe from behind the door, kicked the blanket out of my way and charged out of the bathroom. How in the world was I going to ask him if he had put a sock on it?
But Ron was gone. Damn. Just like he said he’d be.
I yanked open the drapes, turned on the lights and got on my hands and knees. Crawling around on the carpet like an insane crab, I found an earring back, somebody’s long dried-up contact lens and a three of clubs, but not that little square wrapper. The panic was rising as I tore the sheets off the bed, but still nothing and I couldn’t tell if I was shower wet or if I’d worked up a sweat. I wanted to scream, but the last thing I needed was hotel management showing up at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just looking for a used rubber. Do you think you could help me?” There is no tip big enough for that. So I sat on the bed for a second to collect what was left of my wits. That’s when I saw his business card on the night stand. Ron owned an auto body shop. I don’t know what I thought he did, but it wasn’t that. He didn’t look or act like any mechanic I’d ever seen. Anyway, he had written his cell number on the back, so I could have called him to ask, as casually as I could, if either of us had had the good sense to make at least one smart decision that night, but I was sure he already thought Amber’s mother was crazy. A conversation about whether he’d used a raincoat was more humiliation than I could handle. So I took one last sweep of the suite—felt under sofa cushions, moved the coffee table. I was digging around in the trash can with the hotel ballpoint and bingo! Securely wrapped in layers of tissue was the evidence I needed. Hallelujah!
Then I was completely through. I called for a pot of coffee and started throwing clothes, lilac suit and all, in my bag because I had to go home. And there was not one doubt in my stressed-out, hungover mind that none of this foolishness would have happened if I hadn’t lost my job the week before the wedding.
2
“Don’t tell everybody your business, ’cause then it’s theirs.”
Correction.
I did not lose my job. Why do people say that? You lose your wallet when you’ve got too much on your mind and fifteen errands to run and you leave it by the coffee machine at the Wawa after adding six sugars to your twenty-four-ounce dark roast to keep you going. Five stops later the cashier has rung up a week’s worth of groceries. You’re in a panic because you’ve dug to the bottom of your purse, only found lint, and you can hear the rumble in the line behind you. You rush out, knowing you’re on top of the “idiot of the day” list and that it’s time to go home and notify the credit-card companies that it wasn’t you trying to buy a yacht with your VISA card. That’s lost. It’s careless and you had a hand in it. When Fido digs under the back fence and takes a hike people say you lost your dog, but I say if he can’t find his way home he lost himself. And as for losing my mind—I am not going to let anybody make me crazy, but this job situation came pretty damn close.
No, I didn’t lose my job. I was never careless with it. I walked into Markson & Daughter twenty-five years ago—before there was a logo, a corporate headquarters, a factory or a staff. I was the staff. I mean, at the beginning it wasn’t even like a job. It was some crazy experiment that became bigger than I could imagine. I’m not sure Olivia could imagine it now either.
It was 1980, and I was nearing the end of my twelve years of mandatory servitude. Thirteen, really—kindergarten counts. I was not thrilled with the idea of continuing to subject myself to teachers, boring classes and grades. But one day, after a borderline report card, Mom said that unless I won the lottery—big time—I was going to have to work for the next forty years. Her point was nobody can afford to pay you what eight hours of your life is worth, but as long as you’ve got to spend your time to get a check, you might as well get the most for it. And college would definitely increase the value of my hours. It was cold for her to lay it out like that, but that’s my mom, bless her heart, and it got my attention.
When my
guidance counselor asked what I was interested in, I said making money. Since there was no degree in that per se, he suggested business administration. Sounded good to me, like I could wear nice outfits, sit at my desk and supervise my staff. Hey, I was eighteen. What did I know, other than I didn’t want to wear work boots and climb telephone poles like Daddy or clean bedpans and patients’ behinds like Mom? Nothing wrong with that. Just not for me. So I went to Manhattan Community College, first off, because they accepted me, and because my parents could help me swing the tuition. The school’s whole mission was to teach you how to work. I mean, back then they didn’t even have a real campus. Just floors in a bunch of office buildings in Midtown where real people were working all around you, and you could imagine yourself doing the paycheck polka along with them. And I liked the idea of getting my associate’s degree in two years so I’d have something in a frame to keep me motivated for the next two.
First semester my parents let me get the hang of college life, but one Friday during winter break, Daddy was counting out the contents of his pay envelope. I slid over, waiting for him to peel off my usual handout, and he said, “You know, you are too old to be getting an allowance. Nobody’s gonna take care of you forever, including me.” I was hurt, but I got the hint.
What Doesn't Kill You Page 2
