The Nightmare
This isn’t real. I know this isn’t real. I know that no matter what this feels like, it isn’t real. I know, for instance, that the Neptune roses, with their distinctive scent, their lovely lavender color and thick, plump blooms, aren’t something I’m smelling with my real nose, or seeing with my real eyes. I know this because they keep telling me what is and isn’t real; what is the truth, and what is my nightmare.
But I don’t need them to tell me. I would know because I’ve been here before. Twice before. I’ve been in this dress that I had to squeeze into because I had a little too much of the garlic mashed potatoes with my bacon-wrapped filet mignon at the rehearsal dinner last night. And maybe one or two too many glasses of wine. Not to mention the cake.
I would know I’ve been here before because the hairstylist pulled my updo a bit too tightly and my headache is starting. But it looks really good, so I just pop a couple of Advil and stick it out.
I would know because the same monarch butterfly is delicately flitting in the breeze near the archway of flowers and I think, Maybe this is a sign of good luck. Maybe this time it won’t be so bad after all. Maybe it’ll be okay. But even as the orange and black wings fold together when it pauses on a lily, I know it won’t be okay.
They don’t need to tell me because I know that no matter what I do, I can’t change anything.
Here is where I turn around and inhale deeply to take in the surroundings. Here is where I see the guests, all dressed in their finery, milling about and talking to each other. Uncle Paul can be heard chortling loudly. I don’t need to turn around to know that he told an off-color joke and that Sydney’s friends are uncomfortable, trying to excuse themselves from his presence. Here is where Michelle, our friend who lived in the house behind ours when we were kids, comes up to me. She will place her hand on my shoulder to get my attention.
I turn, though I am not really turning.
“Hey!” she says.
Here is where I say, “Oh my gosh! It’s so nice to see you! How have you been?”
I play along with the words because that is what I do here. She beams back, tells me about her job, her husband, her eight-month-old daughter that she didn’t bring with her to the city and misses terribly. I let my mind wander. It isn’t rude, because I already know everything she is going to say.
“That must be horrid.” I shake my head. “Poor little dear!”
Now she will tell me that kids are hard, really hard, but also a pure joy.
I nod, like I did that day. I smile, I try to say the words again, give her a hug again, and take a deep breath as the string quartet starts to play. I give Michelle a knowing look and head in the opposite direction.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not strip naked and streak the wedding? If it’s fake, if it’s just my screwed-up brain, why bother with any of it? Why pretend?
I do it for her.
Even though the tears are already forming in the corners of my eyes, I force myself to go past the rows of chairs, past the milling crowd, past the decorated white archway and into the gorgeous little cottage. I can’t help but look around at the room again. It’s such a beautiful little space. There are large windows draped with flowing sheers. There are comfy chairs, vanities and mirrors, and a mini fridge. The other three women in the bridal party are helping themselves to another round of mimosas, but Sydney is just staring into the mirror. I put my bouquet down on the table next to the dainty love seat and wrap my arms around her from behind, looking over her shoulder at her eyes in the mirror.
“Still time to run,” I say a little too seriously. Is that what I said before? It must be. It has to be.
“Oh, stop,” she laughs. She really laughs. She is giddy and nervous and full of adrenaline. She is all those things a bride is before walking down the aisle.
“Just saying.”
She is biting her lip ever so slightly. It’s something she does when she is more nervous than she wants to admit. It’s one of her quirks I love most.
“You’ll mess up my veil.” She’s right. I’m pulling it down a little with my weight. It takes all my effort to straighten up again. I fix her veil, run my fingers through her hair, which is curled with big, elegant tendrils. It’s a shift from her normal ponytail and work clothes. She works from home, so she is often in yoga pants and a grubby shirt, because working from home means tending her garden between bouts of insane productivity.
“The music has started,” I say. I want to cry. I want to shake her and grab her and run. I want to save her, but I can’t.
“Hey there.” She looks up at me through the mirror and turns to grab my hands and hold them. “I never thought I’d see you cry at a wedding.”
“I’m not crying, you’re crying.” I jibe her as I lean my head back to try and convince my tears to absorb back into my eyes.
“It’s not like I’m moving away. I’ll be in the same house, the same drive from your apartment, the same life, just with a ring on my finger. Wait, am I supposed to wear the engagement ring during the ceremony?” Her attention switches to her finger. On it gleams a gorgeous, simple square solitaire surrounded by twenty or so smaller diamonds and a diamond-encrusted platinum band.
I use my most informational voice. “Tradition dictates you shouldn’t wear it on your left ring finger during the ceremony, but you can wear it on your right hand, if you want to.”
“How the hell do you know that?” She starts trying to jimmy the ring off her finger.
Here is where I lean over to get the hand lotion.
“It’s really stuck on there!” She squinches up her face while trying to tug the ring off. She has been engaged for over a year, but I want to say the ring is tightening like a noose around her neck.
I hand her the lotion. “Don’t tug; you’ll make your finger all red.”
“Oh, thanks.” She puts a little lotion on her finger and the ring slides off without too much trouble. “You’re really on it today.” She nudges me with her elbow and rubs the remaining cream into her hands.
“Can you – ” she starts. She is going to say, Can you wear it for me? I don’t want it on the wrong finger in case there’s some kind of bad luck or curse or something.
“Yes,” I say too quickly.
“Yes what?” She crosses her arms. She hates to be interrupted.
“Sorry.” How would I know what she was going to say that day? But I do know. “Yes, I can wear it down the aisle in case you’ll be cursed if you put it on the wrong finger!” I make a scary face and wiggle my fingers towards her like some sort of ring monster.
“You know me so well.” She hands me the ring, with a glare.
“I’m not superstitious about most things; you know that. I just want today to go well.”
Today will be fine, I want to tell her. Today is going to be beautiful. Today isn’t the problem. “Today is going to be the most amazing wedding day ever,” I say truthfully.
The other three girls and I straighten our dresses and take one last glance in the mirror. I add some lipstick to hide that I have been sneaking hors d’oeuvres.
I take her arm because I took her arm that day. I walk with her to the designated spot, her wedding planner on a headset waving her hands for us to stop before the crowd can see us. Sydney grabs my arm more tightly, taking a deep breath.
“Let’s…,” I start.
She looks up at me. Her smile is so blissful. She is so happy. This is how I remember her. This is how I want to remember her.
“Let’s what?” She is practically giggling.
I want to say, Let’s get the hell out of here. Let’s run. Let’s steal a fancy car and drive off like Thelma and Louise, but without all the crime and death.What I do say is, “Let’s go.”
The music changes from something lovely but unrecognizable to Pachelbel’s Canon in D. It may be overused in these situations, but it was our father’s favorite. It’s a way for him to be here, even though I am in his spot. It’s a way for us to remember. The lavender roses are for our mother. She, too, is absent from the event, passed on like our dad. Before I let that thought overtake me, I think of the beautiful roses in my hand. I fiddle with the ring on my finger; it feels foreign and too heavy.
I take a last breath before we step forward, turning the corner to see our friends and family standing and waiting for us, for her. She lights up as the crowd murmurs in awe. She is a vision, taller than me by a few inches, but I found particularly high heels so we would be about even. I also made sure to convince her to get low heels so she would be comfortable, a slight manipulation on my part to even us out down the aisle. Everyone is beaming. Sydney is glowing.
I jab my thumb onto a thorn in my bouquet. I push it on, hard, until I feel a drop of blood slide down my hand. It is the only way I can keep myself grounded enough not to leap up to the altar and strangle the man responsible for everything. I want to remember her happy. You have to understand that.
I release her arm, careful to be sure the blood doesn’t drip on her gorgeous art deco dress, and I let her go. I let him take her hand. I let it happen. And now she’s dead.
