Six, Maybe Seven

by Katie George

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE NEXT MORNING went like a blur, with women and men everywhere around the property, dressing, preparing, and stressing. The previous day’s summer shower had long since diminished, inviting a cooler (compared to LA’s heatwave) temperature for the outdoor marriage ceremony.

  After painting my nails a quick glossy neutral, I tugged the bridesmaid dress over my shoulders and disappeared across the hall to where a gaggle of women were surrounding Monica. She stood in her dress, already half-way on, and started crying, the tears riling up all around.

  “What are you doing, Monica? This is your wedding day, not your funeral,” interjected a woman whose name I’d gathered was Susie.

  “It feels like I’m signing my death warrant.” The tears turned to sobs, which then placed her mother over the edge in frustration and bitterness. There was no doubt that the wedding would take place, even if Monica’s mom dragged her by the hair with the bride in half a dress.

  “Oh, Monica,” I said, my voice rather sarcastic. “You’re just being an emotional nutcase. Just listen: Soon enough, it’ll be over. You’ll be on a plane with Jerry, heading to Alaska for a natural honeymoon. Then you can say: Wow! For the first time in my life, I have committed to an ideal. An ideal that is…the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  In the midst of the speech I’d delivered, those bustling around nodded in agreement, adding in a few chirpy yeses, but Monica finally ceased the crying and blew into her nose. “Are…you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m positive.” I reached for her hand, unable to do anything more.

  “Be her shrink,” Swetha said as she pulled Monica’s hair up while another lady worked on zipping up the bodice. “That is your job for right now. Keep the woman calm.”

  “If I have to smack an owl, I’ll do it for you,” I said, word vomit beginning to flow. Monica cocked her head in confusion before the hint of a smile popped onto her face. Taking an alternate route, I began again: “You see, when I first saw you, you were dressed up like an English gentleman for one of those college plays. I can’t even remember what it was, but I thought, ‘Isn’t that Jamie’s eccentric pal? The one he claims is the strongest woman on the West Coast at arm wrestling?’ Then I met you after that darned play. You took off this old hat, and your long waves appear—like complete, natural chaos. Entropy is what we called it in chemistry. So…”

  “Girl, where are you going with this story?” Monica’s mom appeared under a pouf of lace.

  “Hi,” I said, blushing.

  “Please continue,” Monica said, her voice still ragged from crying but slowly recovering.

  “So, I met you. The first thing you said to me is, ‘Hey, I like you. You’re wearing black in the middle of springtime.’ I didn’t even mean to wear black, but you claimed it was a sign we would always have something in common. Then we began to hang out, sometimes around Jamie, other times not. When you had that disastrous food poisoning from the Chinese restaurant in downtown Oxnard, you even said, ‘You know what, Emma? I kinda like you a lot.’ Then you hugged me and fell over, puking your guts out. That has—and always will—stick with me. A food poisoning incident always ties people closer together.”

  “Do you remember when we went swimming in that terrible swell in San Diego?”

  “You went swimming in the ocean—with all those bozos and sharks?” Monica’s mom tsked. I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not, as she had a different kind of personality, one that could only be described as original. As a single mother, she’d worked hard all her life—to support herself and her darling little girl. This, for her, was one of the most important events: To send her daughter away to a new protector, who in this case, happened to be an Indian comedian whose mother was a preacher, father was a doctor, and sister was a political activist and contributor. She could not have been prouder of Monica’s selection.

  “Yes,” I said calmly, only retelling the story because my entertaining Monica protected me from doing the dirty work of cleaning the messy dressing room, or fixing somebody’s hair, or doing somebody’s nails, or anything for that matter.

  Suddenly Monica was humming a familiar tune—a provocative one I recognized—which made me cock my head. It was the hum of a nineties rhythm that was 100% Monica and 100% sexual. “Monica,” I blushed, this time tsking, sounding like the perfect mother. “Monica.”

  “Oh, honey,” her mom whispered, holding a needle between her lips from fixing something that I’m sure did not need to be fixed, “I’m a human being. Of course I know that song.” She shrugged, her voice peculiarly accepting, “Trust me, it does not bother me.”

  Monica winked at me, and finally, I stood up to move closer to her. “You are one strange bird, Monica Granger.”

  “I wish my dad were here.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I thought he would at least show up to this.”

  “I’m here—if that is any consolation. I mean, I will sing with you if you need it; I will attack someone with wasp spray, also, if you need it.”

  She reached out to stroke my face, which was weird in itself, but I’d experienced enough lately to consider this event anything but normal. “You’re so sweet, honey babe. Listen, I want this to be you someday, okay?” She moved in closer, her lips pink as a petunia. “This has gotta be you. Someday.”

  “Um, yeah.” I said, swiping my hand in front of my face, no big deal. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if all these weddings were turning me off from the practice—or pushing me closer to online dating.

  Her tongue slid over the cusp of flowery lips. “You’ll dance with me tonight, right? I sure know Emma Richmond likes a good disco—all without a sip of alcohol. It’s so freakin’ weird.”

  “Emma, would you mind running to my room to grab my camera? I left it on my bed.” Monica’s mom handed me her key, and as a dutiful gatekeeper, I hurried upstairs, intent on keeping a personal smile for myself, because for the first time in my life, I considered the fact that there was no law saying I had to get married. In fact, I decided, I might just live as a stag hart for the rest of eternity. I could adopt a kid; I always wanted one of those. Or maybe a cat would do. No, I decided instinctively, I wanted a kid. A kid and a pet cat are never the same, no matter how much Ella used to explain the humanity of a good, faithful pup.

  You know what, I said to my heart beat that was like a little advice-giving drum, maybe this all just doesn’t matter. Time would continue to tick, whether I wanted it to or not, because that is the definition of time: Forever and ever. There is no human way to stop forever.

  JERRY AND MONICA’S lips locked for a brief moment before he gently took the small of her back and dipped her low like a professional ballroom dancer. When he lifted his bride up, he pumped his fist into the air, as he had won the prettiest prize in the world. He shouted out, “The best day of my life!” Monica blushed with a great intensity, a beacon of reddish emotion. They were off like a rocket down the lily-padded aisle and off in the direction of the inn, where they would get ready for the walk down to the reception hall, a little rustic barn close enough to hear the gentle thump of waves.

  I quickly whisked away the tears with the back of my hand, intent on keeping it a private matter, when Swetha sidled up next to me. “Emma,” she said, “it’s okay to cry.”

  “Oh, darn, you saw that?”

  “Yes. Don’t hide your emotions—it’s lying to yourself.”

  I begged to differ, but Swetha was an optimist, it seemed. She hadn’t shed a tear at all in the ceremony, looking like a tower of grace mixed with calm solicitude. Her long black hair cascaded down her back in bouncy ringlets. “You know,” I said, pursing my lips. “I guess I get a little teary-eyed at these things because they’re so touching. This is a huge commitment to make in front of all your friends and family.”

  “It is.” Swetha nodded, the hint of glitter littering her eyelids. “I never thought Jerry would marry. He’s so crazy, like a bullet train off its rails. He can
not sit still, never will learn how. Then he brings this girl home to our mother, a beautiful woman who is as active as he. That was intervention, Emma. Divine or whatever you believe. I say this because you seem like you could use a hug.”

  “A hug?” I asked, though I hadn’t felt convicted by this until the words came out of her mouth. “I guess that is sorta true.”

  She pulled me into a side hug as we walked away from the scenic outdoor wedding area, where a floral arch gently swung in the breeze. “People come into our lives for a reason; it is up to us how we treat them, and in return, are treated. People will disappoint me, as I see it; but it is up to me to not disappoint others, if I can help it.”

  THOUGH THE WEDDING itself was Protestant-based, the reception proved to be a highlighted mixture of Indian and American cultural values. As soon as we arrived in the rustic barn that came with the inn for receptions such as this one, we saw that one side of the area was highlighted with Northern Indian foods like manna from above. A worker from the catering service explained the dishes to us, and I ended up choosing samosa, a savory pastry; a flatbread called naan; and different types of flagrant curries. The dessert area seemed absolutely delightful, from pies to kulfi, an Indian ice cream variety.

  At the table littered with little sparkling LED lights, I took a seat next to sweet Swetha, who was about to dig into her naan. “You will just die when you have some samosa,” she explained quickly. “It is my absolute favorite.”

  The barn was covered in papier-mâché flowers as big as pigs strewn from the chandeliers and other light fixtures. Lights adorned the entire area, illuminating the partygoers in each ray of the rainbow. The reception, Monica had mentioned, would embody the colorful tradition of the Indian culture, and I could see this now, even though the barn’s bucolic outlook persevered. Three disco balls illuminated the dancefloor, a wide space next to a DJ who had started the night with festive, traditional Indian music while we ate. A large screen played a show of photographs of Jerry and Monica as kids and, eventually, their time together.

  A few tipsy members of the wedding party fell over Swetha’s chair, righting themselves. The cocktail hour had livened some folks, I decided.

  “Just be glad this isn’t a typical Hindu ceremony,” Swetha said as she forked some food into her mouth. “It would be three days. One day for the Pooja, the next day for henna tattoos and all, then finally the wedding day itself. It’s very intense. Part of me is very glad Mom converted to Christianity—because I honestly cannot go through with a traditional Hindu wedding. A Christian wedding is simple enough, don’t you think?”

  “Three days? No way!”

  “Yes, yes. I know!”

  When the bride and groom appeared, my heart soared. Monica was bedecked in garb unlike anything I’d ever seen in person. Rusted orange, pink, purple, blue—it gave her sari a mind of its own. Jerry took her arm in his, and the two hurried to the dancefloor, where a pumped-up Indian song blasted from the stereos. The crowd went wild as Monica and Jerry entered the haze of their own planned dance. As they pirouetted like professionals, Ms. Granger waved her hands in the air. The fantastic cacophony of excitement was bursting forth like a glorious sunrise.

  As soon as they made their formal entrance, lithe as butterflies, they began dancing about to their first song as man and wife, a Bollywood movie theme blaring through the speakers set around the farmhouse. Within a few minutes, the crowd began to jump in with the couple, together forming a wild worm of anticipation. Bodies mixed together, forming a large concoction of sweat and tears.

  The music transformed to the American variation, pumping us even more while the party continued to grow larger and larger, mushrooming to the size of an electric cloud. This was the party I’d been waiting for, as I danced between some of Jerry’s Indian relatives, all the while dreaming about what lay in store for tomorrow.