The First Night of Her Life

Everything in the small mountain town is soaking wet and cold. Despite being in the height of summer, typically warm and sunny, the sky, low and gray, exhausted from its downpour, hovers in a state of readiness, like there’s more to give, but at the moment no energy to give it.

Inside the vaulted-ceiling living room of the spacious ski chalet, chosen for its grandiosity and proximity to the base of the mountain, chairs have been carelessly shoved to one side of the room that had, hours before, been the makeshift setting for the ceremony. Despite it being midday mere hours after the celebration, there is a distinct lack of revelry and merriment, as well as a sharp lack of lighting, in the room. On the other side of the large open-concept room, a sturdy dining room table fitting the style of the mountain house holds a plentiful spread of carefully arranged gourmet sandwich fixings, beautiful flowers and a few lit candles. The room itself is quiet. A few guests sit scattered on sofas, each engrossed in their phones. A couple sits on the floor, their backs facing the cavernous room, talking quietly and stifling the occasional outburst of laughter. The groom, in his swim trunks, a towel flung over his bare shoulder, stands at the oversized window near the food table, looking out at the again darkening sky and the rain-soaked yard. Somewhere behind him, the bride cleans up a spilled drink from the coffee table.

Distant laughing can be heard from down the hallway, where the new groom’s brothers are gathered in the indoor hot tub, taking advantage of the opportunity to reminisce and catch up. The groom, elated to have his brothers in town for the festivities, remembers that he is on his way to join them. Glancing backwards, he sees his bride hunched over the coffee table, towels in hand, and his heart flutters. Or was that a drop? He feels the gnawing in his stomach, something he recognizes as annoyance. He knows she’s disappointed, maybe even upset. He knows she wants something different out of this day, and his torso tightens in response. Why can’t she just be happy? He will have to push her off, avoid her, if he is to go and do what he really wants to do - spend time with his brothers. A wave of nausea hits him. Has he made a grave mistake? He shakes his head, trying to clear the thought - no use dwelling on it now. He hears one of his brother’s voices calling for him to join them. He looks up in time to see his new bride sigh. But this day isn’t all about her - he wants to join his brothers and he intends to do that. Fetching a beer from the fridge, he patters flat-footed down the hallway toward the hot tub. After all, what’s done is done. There are hot tubs to enjoy and drinks to consume. Bring on the bubbles!

As the bride rises from the floor, she regrets having picked this skirt. She so painstakingly selected her reception outfit, one that shows off her figure but is casual enough to wear the whole afternoon, one that she feels pretty in but not one that will make her look like she tries too hard to look good. But right now she feels more icky than good. She hears a man’s voice calling for someone. She pauses her cleaning and looks up just in time to see her lanky new husband retreating down the hallway, beer in hand. Husband - how she hates that word, so foreign, so ominous, so…wrong. She has not allowed anyone to utter that word in her presence, so deeply does she revile it. She had even asked the wedding officiant to omit the words husband and wife from the ceremony, opting for partner and friend instead. But now she realizes that the man walking away from her toward the hot tub is indeed her husband. The thought appalls her. Will she get used to the word, the thought, the man, she wonders. She wonders for the millionth time what’s wrong with her, why can’t she just be happy. As she resumes her cleanup, she tells herself that it doesn’t matter, that there’s no use thinking about it now. She is married. Her stomach clenches at the thought.

At that moment, someone turns on a floor lamp in the corner to fight off the darkness created by the overcast skies, and the room’s center of gravity shifts ever so slightly, snapping her out of her thoughts and back to awareness of her own presence in the room. Her body feels heavy and slow as she stands to throw away the plastic cup and the soaked paper towels, which have made her hands slightly sticky. As she makes her way toward the trashcan, she considers grabbing a drink herself, but she knows she wants to stay clear-headed today, she must remain alert. For what, she isn’t sure. She feels a familiar fluttering and churning deep in her stomach - excitement, nervousness, and the oh-so-familiar dread that she has felt every day of her life. She hears her boyfriend (oops, husband - ouch!) laughing irreverently down the hall with his brothers.

After she tosses the trash into the mostly empty trash bin, she wonders what she should do next. With a start she remembers the dreams she had had of a beautiful candlelit evening wedding, marrying her lover, her best friend, feeling cherished and alive. She had imagined dancing the night away together, feeling light and airy and in love. And yet, here she stands with her sticky hands on her wedding day mostly alone in this too-dark kitchen. She knows that something is wrong, the feeling of dread temporarily threatening to overtake her. Her knees buckle ever so slightly and panic wells in her throat as the aloneness threatens to overtake her. She must pull herself together. She straightens and snaps herself out of her daydream, wondering where everybody went.

As she starts to make her way out of the kitchen, her sister's husband waltzes in, a little boozy and laughing a little too hard. He is closely followed by her cousin from out of state, who reaches for him, grabbing his upper arm, whispering something in his ear. He touches her hand lightly and leans in, listening eagerly, laughing. He grabs the woman’s empty cup and finishes his own drink with a gulp, turning to refresh them both. Startling when he sees her, his wife's sister, he persists in making his way to the refrigerator for some ice. Pushing away the memory of his own wedding in this same small ski town only the year before and the emptiness that has filled the months since then, he revels in this cousin's easy laugh and sparkling eyes focused on him. He can’t remember the last time he’s been paid so much attention, felt so important. He knows that if his wife sees him there will be consequences, but at the moment, the risk is worth the reward.

The bride wonders whether she should tell her sister what she has just witnessed, but where is her sister anyway? Where is everyone? She tries one of the first doors down the hallway from the kitchen. It opens easily to a darkened, empty room, unmade bed and clothes scattered on the floor.

The next door she tries reveals a closet filled with mismatched linens and a smattering of random kitchen appliances - toaster, blender, Cuisinart mixer, some large casserole dishes. She hadn’t seen this closet before, so makes a mental note to let others know about the supplies she’s found.

As she reaches out to turn the knob on the next door, she finds it locked. Instinctively, she knocks, the beginnings of fear and anger welling up ever so slightly in her body. From behind the closed bedroom door, she hears shushing and quick movement and then a faint, “Who is it?”

“It’s me. What are you doing in there?”

A few whispers and suppressed giggles, followed by slow, padded footsteps approaching the door. She can picture socked feet on the lush gray carpet, leaving footprints behind them. Then she hears the click, followed by the quick pattering of receding footsteps. But the door remains closed. Hesitantly she tries the knob again, and this time it turns, so she slowly pushes open the door. Inside, roughly a dozen people sit around the room, some uncomfortably on the floor, others on the bed, still others on chairs against the wall. She takes in the grouping of people - her mom, her mom's sisters, her grandmother, some cousins and one of her own sisters.

At nearly 90-years-old, her grandma, here from a distant state only out of sheer obligation, has scored the rocking chair in the corner of the room. As her newly-married young granddaughter enters the room, she is struck with worry for her, this sweet, awkward, sad young woman that she hardly knows. Despite being hard of hearing, she has taken in smatterings of what was being said about the woman - that she is difficult and neurotic, that she is challenging and will likely not be a good wife, that they hope she will not have children anytime soon. But if there’s one thing she has learned from her almost nine decades of life, it is that disagreeing is useless. She tried in the early years of her own marriage to speak up, and quickly learned to keep her mouth shut. All it took was a few fat lips and one loose tooth. Since then, she has been loath to verbalize her dissent in any situation. But she watches and she sees. As her granddaughter enters the room, the elderly woman feels the tension of the room rise. She knows that the bride is unpopular in this group, but she is unsure if she is aware of this. Fixing a small, if fake, smile on her face, she remains quiet. She is weary of the gossiping, the silence, the secrets, the hiding, the chatter, the insults, the snickers. But she will not rock the boat. She often dreams of simply disappearing, but until the good Lord comes to take her, she will simply smile and stay out of it.

The mother of the bride sits awkwardly on the bed, jaw set, eyes full of annoyance and disdain, watching her daughter, preparing herself to be embarrassed. She has long ago given up on teaching this daughter any manners. This daughter has been utterly hopeless since she was a toddler. They had moved cities around that time, and it seemed to have ruined the girl. In fact, her mom is more than a little elated to be marrying her off. Even though her new husband hardly seems like a man who can support a family, he’s likely the best her daughter could hope for. She believes she is almost in the clear - all she has to do is get through this one weekend, and she hopes she will be free.

But now her daughter is here. Why can’t she just leave them alone? Steeling herself to be chastised, as usual, she readies her defense, her reasoning for hiding in the bedroom instead of sitting out in the living room with the others. Unsurprisingly her daughter has few friends and the friends she does have are barely tolerable. In fact, this has always been the case. And her new son-in-law’s low-class, uneducated family is pathetic and embarrassing. She would far prefer to hide in here with her own family. As her daughter approaches her, she finds herself longing for a drink, for the relief that the fuzziness brings. She so looks forward to what will no doubt be the lukewarm Chardonnay she has hidden behind the plush towels in her bathroom on the second floor of this house. No need for a glass, she will just drink from the bottle behind the closed door. Imagining the sweet relief of this distracts her temporarily from the approaching girl.

Now she stands in front of her. She has always thought the girl was ugly and rude, so much like her father. Needy, pathetic, weak, utterly disgusting. Looking her up and down today, on her wedding day, she can barely conceal a snarl of disapproval. Her daughter’s appearance is not fit for a wedding day. Her clothing, her hair, her makeup, her jewelry, none of it. Her jaw clenches imperceptibly tighter and she braces herself.

A hush has come over the room and everyone looks slightly afraid.

“Hey, why are you all in here with the door closed?” the bride asks, directly addressing her mother, her irritation showing in her clenched hand and equally tight jaw and her slightly higher than normal pitch.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it. We want to be able to hear each other. Also we don’t approve of all the drinking.” is the quick reply.

As if on cue, the bride’s sister, always excited by some drama, especially drama that revolves around her sister, rises eagerly from the chair where she had been sitting in the corner of the room.

“Hey, what’s going on?” she asks with a glint in her eye and a barely suppressed grin. She has to be honest that she loves it when her mom and her sister fight. Nothing makes her happier. Nothing makes her mom nicer to her than for them to be fighting against somebody else, often her sister. Just last week, her mother had become so enraged with this sister that she had splurged on a trip to the mall to talk about her. This sister had scored an expensive perfume out of the shopping trip. “That’ll show her,” she heard her mutter utter as she paid for her sister’s perfume. She knows her mom can be punitive, choosing to exact cruel and penetrating punishments. Even more reason to get on her good side. Honestly, she despises her sisters and her mom equally, and pitting them against each other keeps her entertained.

“Don’t talk to Mom like that,” she asserts, physically blocking access to her mother and excitedly anticipating an angry retort from her sister. She absolutely loves a good verbal banter, and her sister usually takes the bait easily and completely. She knows the routine - she will push buttons quietly, discretely until her sister erupts in an emotional rage. Sometimes she finds it too easy, too predictable. “Don’t you see how upset you’re making our mother? Maybe you need to think about how you look right now,” she adds, feeling a familiar thrill of excitement. This pattern is practically rehearsed, so predictable is it. She waits for the familiar outburst from her sister as she stares her down, but something seems different.

Instead of reacting, her sister, this new bride, turns and walks back through the now open door, neglecting to close it behind her. As the bride walks away from the room, she hears the scamper of feet and the door shutting behind her with the familiar click of the lock. Barely contained laughter erupts from the other side of the closed door.

This new bride hurriedly walks out the front door, sinks to the ground and sits with her head on her bent knees, hugging her legs. The tears flow. So much for the carefully applied makeup. But the tears won’t stop. She wonders how she got here, what to do next. Her head is spinning. The familiar thought again, “What’s wrong with me?”

But this time, something is different. This time, the question has an answer. Suddenly she knows. Nothing is wrong with her. Nothing at all is wrong with her. Being outside the house, things look different and she knows that she doesn’t belong here.

And then she knows - she knows what she will do. With inexplicable and unprecedented clarity, she rises and reenters the house, not creeping, not tiptoeing, but walking confidently, a small smile on her face. Upstairs, she enters the bedroom that she had slept in the night before, the bedroom to which she was not planning to return tonight now that she was a married woman. They had made reservations at a nearby inn for the night. In that bedroom now, she carefully changes into her comfy sweatpants and her favorite soft sweatshirt. Then she unhurriedly packs her bag, knowing that nobody will be looking for her. With her belongings safely packed, she heads back down the stairs and pauses to take one last look around. She hears the voices in the distant hot tub, sees the door to the bedroom still closed.

Reaching to grab her car keys off the entryway table, she slows to consider if she has everything. Her mom had taught her to simply check for the basics and not to worry about the rest. Make sure you have the irreplaceable items, but most things you can get wherever you’re going. So she does that now.

Driver’s license - check.

Keys - check.

Self-respect - check.

Self-compassion - check.

Resolve - check.

Determination - check.

The rest she would simply have to find along the way.

With that, she opens the door and steps outside, not bothering to close the door behind her. She smells the rain but the skies are still only threatening. With a quick glance at the horizon, she throws her bags in the backseat, jumps into the driver’s seat and closes the door just in time for the sky to stop holding its breath. As the rain pours down, she looks up again, takes a deep breath of her own. As the tears start to fall, she starts the engine, turns the lights and the windshield wipers on. She takes a right at the end of the driveway with a smile on her face.