The Wedding March

         I toss my old-fashioned, lace veil across the row of stacked, child-sized chairs that line the walls of the tiny church classroom. Doreen, my soon to be mother-in law, has set up a makeshift vanity for me: a full-length mirror with a cheap, lacy lamp set next to it on the floor and my own Ulta make-up kit, a 19th birthday gift from Connor, arranged carefully on top of the clunky piano. Sunlight streams through the one window that is situated directly behind the mirror, framing me in the mirror’s black border. My eyes stare back at me, their usual murky brown. Connor tells me they are like dark chocolate, the kind he likes best. I haven’t told him this, but I hate dark chocolate. The flavor is much too rich; I prefer milk.
         The rims of my eyes are slightly pink, but eyeliner will easily fix that. I reach into my make-up kit and pull out a small stump of black eyeliner and circle my wide eyes, much too darkly for a wedding – my wedding, I correct myself. This is my wedding.

**

         The morning that I married Sarai was more than hectic. I rushed around all morning, calling the three-hours-late florist, directing caterers, neighbors, and greeting well-wishing members of our neighborhood chapel. “Congratulations!” and “You’ll be so happy!”s were still ringing in my ear, fishing a smile out of my set jaw. I opened my phone and my small smile grew into a grin as I looked at the picture of Sarai on my home screen. Her dark, chocolate-y brown eyes, her full, pomegranate-colored lips, her secretive smile – everything about Sarai drew me in, almost against my will at times, and kept me running straight into our bright future without looking back. Thinking about the future with Sarai always made me smile, even if I was as harassed and stressed as that moment.
         “Connor!”
         I looked up as my mother stampeded into the room, her crisp, recently curled ringlets flying away from her plump face.
         “What are you doing out here?” she yelled, “You need to get ready. Everyone will be arriving in the next thirty minutes.”
         “Sorry,” I said, gesturing around the now decorated chapel, “There was a mix up at the florist’s and I had to oversee the rest of the decorations.”
         “I’m sure someone else could have overseen that, but there’s no time to argue now,” she said, smiling at me in an exasperated way and tugging on my arm. “Let’s get you in your tux and back in this chapel.”
         She started leading me away, through a door to the left of the pews where the choir sat every Sunday. I glanced back over my shoulder at the violet orchids draped over the pulpit, the pure white calla lilies at the end of each pew – and I smiled to myself, thinking, at last, it’s our wedding day.

**

         Pulling on Doreen’s old-fashioned wedding dress, I turn to look in the mirror. The satin crinkles as I take a step forward, examining the color more closely. Thirty years in her attic has not been kind to the dress; the once white fabric is now nearly yellow with age and the lace details around the collar and wrists are threadbare in some spots. I pull my hands down the dress, smoothing the slightly wrinkled fabric, and rest them on my stomach. I slowly rub my hand up and down over my stomach, watching the permanent wrinkles disappear for a brief moment as my fingers pass over them and then reappear exactly as before.
         My reverie is broken by Doreen screaming “fifteen minutes, Sarai!” outside my door. I wait for her to burst through the door, exclaim at my bridal beauty and worriedly rearrange her dress and veil as if I’m a mannequin. I wait for her to tell me, tears blurring her eyes, how lucky she is to be getting a new daughter like me. I wait; my fingers gripping the slight bump on my abdomen.
         “I’ll send Mrs. Carver for you in three minutes,” her voice called as it moved away from me, down the hallway to Connor’s room.
         I glance back down at my fingers, and release my dress. Faint grease marks from my lotion stand out on the faded white. I turn back to the mirror and arrange the veil myself. As I stare into the mirror, I carefully pull the threadbare lace over my too dark eyes, hiding them from view.

**

         I quietly opened the door and glanced down the hallway towards the foyer. I could see the shadows of candles flickering faintly on the tables. “Canon in D” spun softly down the hall toward me, weaving warmth around my trembling body. I wasn’t scared or apprehensive about our marriage in any way; I knew from the day I met Sarai two months ago that I would marry her. I’d noticed her sitting quietly in one of the back pews from my position in the choir. Her head was bent quietly over her hymnal, and I watched her in rapture as she lifted her slight wrist to turn the page. I longed to cross my arm over her delicate body like a seatbelt; to hold her tightly in place and guard her from harm. Her darkness – black hair, dark eyes, beige skin – would stand out so well again my glaring whiteness. After the service, I noticed her waiting outside of the building after most people had left. She wasn’t scanning the parking lot as if waiting for a ride, so I offered her one, and she accepted, allowing me a small smile.
         Every day since then, I’d been afraid that she’d flit away like the shadows she so resembled. But after today, I thought, my hands shaking with excitement and expectation, there would be no need to worry. We would belong together, more permanently than we did now. No matter what, we would be a couple – a family.
         The door to my makeshift dressing room slowly creaked open, and my mom slowly appeared in the opening. She was smiling at me broadly, looking younger than usual in her new violet dress, but I noticed that her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes.
         “It’s time, Connor,” she said solemnly, stretching out her hand to me.
         I took her small, slightly wrinkled hand in mine.
         “Don’t worry, mom,” I said reassuringly, “We’ll be over so often you won’t even notice that I’m gone.”
         She nodded at me, smiling the same bland, wide smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”
         “Think of it this way,” I continued, “You’re getting your first daughter! You couldn’t ask for a more beautiful, sweet-hearted daughter, could you?”
         “No, I couldn’t,” she agreed.
         “And just think – I’m sure it won’t be long until your new daughter and I will give you some grandchildren,” I added, hoping to prompt a smile.
         “No,” she echoed, sounding hollow, “It won’t be long at all.”
         She was silent for a moment, staring out into the hallway. Then she turned to me, a new, more genuine smile on her face,
         “I’m sorry, Connor,” she said, “Just the mother’s usual sadness to lose her son. Don’t let me spoil your day.”
         “You couldn’t do that,” I said, pulling her into a firm hug.
         As I released her, she smiled at me, her eyes shining with un-shed tears.
         Silently, I took her hand in mine, feeling its smallness, and lead her from the room toward the chapel.

**

         I slide my slender fingers into the lace gloves Doreen laid out for me, and then sit in one of the tiny chairs next to the door to wait. My fingers twist restlessly in my lap. Finally, there’s a knock at the door. Before I can answer it with a “come in,” the door creaks open and Mrs. Carver’s face appears, beaming.
         “Why, my dear,” she says, “You look lovely!”
         “Thank you,” I smile slightly, and rearrange my veil.
         Still smiling, her kind, blue eyes focus on mine through the lace.
         “Ready?” she asks, handing me the bouquet of flowers Connor chose.
         My fingertips graze my stomach again as I take the flowers from her and grip them with both hands. I nod.
         As I follow her from the room, I can hear the quartet playing softly from the chapel. It sounds like the whole congregation has turned out to support Connor on his wedding day. I can hear a soft murmur of conversation over the prelude music. Mrs. Carver and I turn the corner and meet Doreen and two children I’ve never met, both dressed formally. Doreen doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach, but continues straightening the little girl’s flower headband. Mrs. Carver glances at Doreen and then back at me apologetically.
         “Better go get a seat,” she whispers, “Good luck!”
         She squeezes my hand briefly and gives me a warm smile before opening the wide doors slightly and slipping through.
         Her brief, warming touch makes me realize that my hands are freezing.
Rubbing my hands together slightly, I turn my attention back to Doreen and the little girl. The little girl looks like she might be three or four. Despite her young age, the little girl stands very quietly, holding her head completely still for Doreen as Doreen adds a final bobby pin to her hair.
         “All done,” Doreen announces. The little girl turns around, and smiles at Doreen expectantly.
         “My goodness, you look beautiful Halle!” Doreen says, feigning surprise.
         Halle blushes, and smiles more widely.
         “Thank you, Mrs. McCormick,” she says, inclining her head slightly.
         “You’re welcome, sweetie,” Doreen replies, handing her a basket of dark violet flower petals. Doreen gets to her feet slowly, and Halle turns to me, smiling in the same expectant way.
         Doreen notices Halle and looks at me for the first time all day. Her gaze is cautious, but intent.
         I try to ignore Doreen’s gaze, and turn to Halle.
         “You are the most beautiful flower girl I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, watching her pleased face.
         “Thank you, Miss Oliver,” she says, appraising me, “You look pretty, too. Just like one of my Barbies.”
         I pause for a moment, surprised.
         “Thank you,” I say shortly.
         Halle moves back into her position in front of the little boy, a large, pleased smile still plastered across her face. I glance at Doreen, but she is avoiding my gaze.
The doors open, and the music changes. Halle walks slowly into the room, soon followed by the little boy. Just before she enters the chapel, I catch a glimpse of Doreen’s face. Her face is pensive, her expression soft.
         I am alone in the foyer. I readjust my icy grip on the flowers, cradling my stomach slightly.
         It’s for the best, I reassure myself.
         Suddenly, the music changes. The first chords of “The Wedding March” are still vibrating on the quartet’s strings when the doors open. Connor is framed in the doorway, beaming at me.
         My stoic face hidden beneath my lacy veil, I take a step towards him.

**

         Waiting off to the side of the chapel with Father Stephens, I heard the prelude music beginning to die away. An expectant silence fell over the congregation.
         Father Stephens turned to me, smiling broadly.
         “Ready?” he asked, gripping my shoulder.
         “Absolutely,” I replied. My hands were almost shaking with excitement. Finally, finally, finally – the words repeated in my head as the two of us stepped through the small doorway to face the awaiting crowd.
         We took our places in front of the pulpit. I scanned the crowd, as I waited impatiently for the flower girl to spread her dark violet flower petals across the floor. I knew everyone. I realized that they were all my guests. Halle, of course, had no family to invite, but I thought she might have invited some friends I hadn’t met. In a way, that made things easier. Halle would be welcomed into my large communal family automatically, and there wouldn’t be any previous family to feel offended or replaced.
         The ring bearer, my neighbor’s son Charlie, walked down the aisle next. He walked stiffly and seriously, his back unnaturally straight. When he reached me, he handed me the rings solemnly, and then took a seat in the front pew.
         My mother followed Charlie, looking deep in thought. As she approached, her eyes focused on me and she seemed to come out of her reverie. She gripped my hands briefly, smiling at me with shiny eyes, and then turned to take her seat next to Charlie.
         I jiggled the rings impatiently in my hand, staring at the doors expectantly. Finally, the doors flew open, amid the strains of “The Wedding March” from the quartet. My hand fluttered near my heart, still clutching the rings.
         Sarai was breath-taking, almost completely enshrouded in antique lace and satin. Her lips, not quite visible through her veil, looked like they were curved in her most mysterious smile.
         I beamed back at her, urging her forward, and finally, she began to walk – toward me, toward our marriage, toward our bright future together.

**