You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep
because the reality is better than your dreams.
-Dr. Seuss
The time had come. Morticia's stomach quivered with the soft flutter of bat wings as her beloved – her husband! – carried her across the threshold of what was now their bedroom door. Gomez hadn't stopped smiling at her with that adoring gaze all evening.
"I'm sorry for dropping you as we came up the stairs, cara mia," Gomez said for what must have been the tenth time.
Morticia caressed his cheek, her eyes never leaving his as her hand trailed down to affectionately fidget with his bow tie. "It was so chivalrous of you, darling, to break my fall down all thirteen steps," she cooed. "How's your head?"
Gomez winced as Morticia chanced a light touch over the back of his head. "Barely feel that at all," he said through gritted teeth.
Morticia apologetically pulled back her hand and resumed playing with his tie. "It's been such an eventful day."
"The best day of our lives!" Gomez said brightly, the pain forgotten.
"It was almost the worst," Morticia murmured with a sigh, momentarily distracted by her husband's chiseled jawline. When she arose that morning, she hadn't an inkling she'd be finishing her day a married woman. Today, her sister Ophelia was to be wed to Gomez. Morticia was to be her bridesmaid. Though Gomez and Morticia had unexpectedly and irrevocably fallen deeply in love in such a short time, they had made a pact to not dishonor Ophelia.
"Thank goodness Cousin Itt is more your sister's type," Gomez observed. "He was so taken with her, he got pretty carried away."
"Yes," Morticia said, maintaining her deceptively cool veneer despite her sudden case of nerves. "Ophelia has strong arms from all her judo lessons." Was she babbling? "She wouldn't have any trouble at all lifting someone of Cousin Itt's stature."
When Gomez had brought the wedding to a halt, Ophelia did not put up much of a protest. Instead, she ran off with Cousin Itt – quite literally – leaving Gomez and Morticia free to marry after their secret three-day courtship.
And now, here they were. And Morticia could barely keep from trembling.
Oblivious, Gomez pressed his forehead to hers as he gently pushed the door closed behind him with his foot. "Querida," he purred, dropping a kiss on her cheek before gently lowering her to her feet. Morticia lingered in his embrace largely as an expression of her joy, but also in no small part due to fear of her knees weakening under pressure from her nerves. It would take some time to adjust, she supposed, to the idea that this was now her room, which she would share with her new husband. It was a lovely space, dark and dreary with cobwebs adorning every corner and black curtains on the windows. The room was dominated by a large four-poster bed. On seeing it, Morticia tensed as her entire being was pulled sharply to her core. It was difficult to relax. It was difficult to even breathe.
Perhaps she'd feel less disconcerted once her belongings had been moved in, she reasoned. Somewhere in the shuffle, Morticia's mother had found time to send for her overnight bag, which Lurch had left waiting for her on the velvet-cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. Tomorrow they would send the butler for the rest of her things.
The day had indeed been a dizzying funnel cloud of activity. No sooner had Gomez and Morticia said their vows, family began arriving for the reception in the grand ballroom of the Addams mansion. Lurch and Mamá Addams had done a wonderful job making the last-minute preparations for the party. The ballroom was decorated in blood-red bunting and hundreds of candles giving off a delightfully eerie glow. Morticia never imagined she'd have such a beautiful wedding.
The receiving line had been nearly exhausting, what with clearing up everyone's confusion as to the identity of the bride. Eventually, a lovely meal of roast yak and braised toadstool with a delicate pond scum coulis was served. After, Gomez and Morticia waltzed, tangoed and even jitterbugged the night away, barely taking notice of anyone else. The tightness of her black dress and the tentacles radiating from its hem had made movement problematic, but Morticia adapted. While moving her feet was a challenging proposition, the snug material accentuated every shake of her body and sway of her hips. It had pleased her that Gomez seemed to memorize her every curve and contour, his gaze hugging her as tightly as her dress. Just yesterday, he had been expressing interest in her dolls. Today, for the first time, Gomez had looked at her as though she was a woman. That revelation gave her an intoxicating sense of empowerment.
Morticia had never been happier.
Now that they were alone, however, her anxieties were bubbling to the surface like the contents of a cauldron left on too high a flame, and she feared her love potion would scorch. Gomez was a man of wealth and taste – and certainly some experience! Morticia adored him and so wanted to be a good wife. What if she failed already on the first night?
Spotting a candelabra in the now-dim room, Morticia finally disengaged herself from her groom and moved toward the small table on which it rested. With a barely-steady hand, she dotted the wick of each candle with an extended finger, leaving behind a flame.
Gomez's eyes widened. He stepped behind her for a closer look. "How...how did you do that?"
"I don't know," Morticia answered, turning back toward him. "It's something I've always been able to do."
Gomez's face lit up in excitement and joyful discovery. That was one of the things she had loved about him immediately. Morticia had had suitors before, even a fiancé. None, however, had looked upon everything she did and said with such genuine interest and delighted enthusiasm as Gomez had done, from her dolls to her favorite foods, and now this. None had stayed interested in her for very long, though none had held her attention over time, either. Gomez, however, had instantly captivated her.
"It seems we still have much to learn about each other," Morticia said breathlessly. The bat wings in her stomach became an overpopulation of electric eels squirming around and shocking her insides as her nerves threatened to overtake her.
The truth was, she was woefully unprepared for this moment. Until Gomez, Morticia hadn't met a man with whom she felt she had much in common, so she had always been content sticking with her dolls and her African strangler, and caring for Kitty Cat. And fiancé notwithstanding, she had never given much thought to becoming a wife. Mother and Ophelia had made it perfectly clear that Ophelia was to be the first Frump sister to get married – or else.
Growing up, Morticia had always felt this was because she was inadequate compared to Ophelia; Ophelia got all the music lessons and charm schools and karate instruction, while Morticia got boarding school in Paris. Ophelia was erratic and extraverted while Morticia was calm and reserved. Morticia had thought herself the ugly vultureling of the family while their mother doted on Ophelia because she was clearly the smarter and prettier sister who was unlucky in love.
The last few days, however, had done much to change Morticia's perception to the contrary – particularly from seeing not just Ophelia through Gomez's eyes, but herself as well – and Morticia realized that Mother had not been favoring Ophelia, but protecting her. That epiphany did much to change Morticia's understanding of her relationship with Ophelia, as well as herself as a woman.
Still, Ophelia had gotten all the attention and preparation and advice, while Morticia received two scant minutes with her mother in a quiet corner of the conservatory when everyone else was busy.
"When the lights go out tonight," Mother had said in her no-nonsense way, "be still and don't say a word. Don't encourage him."
"Mother!" Flabbergasted, Morticia couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"That boy doesn't need any encouraging!" Mother had insisted. "I'd even suggest keeping a rolling pin under your pillow – just in case."
In case of...what? Morticia thought she had a pretty good idea, but... "Mother, I – "
"He may wear the pants in the family," Mother continued, "but remind him that you're the one who controls how much starch gets put into them."
Morticia's head had been swimming with all the connotations of what Mother was saying. Morticia had hoped for some pearl of wisdom, but this was most unhelpful. She gave a sullen and somewhat piqued "Yes, Mother," for the sake of bringing the awkward conversation to a close.
Mother then hugged Morticia around the shoulders and kissed her cheek. "You're a smart girl, Morticia. You'll figure it out when the time comes."
And that was the extent of her preparation for married life.
Through Morticia's reverie, Gomez had taken her hand and begun kissing her fingers one by one, praising each for the magic and alchemy it was capable of producing. As his lips worked their way along her wrist, Morticia knew that nothing her mother said could be right, at least not about Gomez.
...at least not about everything.
When Gomez's lips reached her neck, he suddenly stopped. Pulling back, he looked awkwardly at the floor.
"Gomez, darling, what's the matter?"
After a moment, Gomez raised his eyes bashfully. Squeezing her hand, he said, "I guess I'm a little nervous." He tried to laugh it off. "Wedding night jitters."
Of course! Morticia had been so consumed with fretting about her own naïveté, it hadn't occurred to her that perhaps Gomez was equally uncertain in the ways of the marriage bed. She had been, after all, the first woman to successfully come between him and his vaporizer; none before could warm his bronchial tubes the way she had. Did Gomez's attentions so excite her that she was led to an incorrect conclusion about his experience and expectations?
Gomez apparently mistook her delay in answering for disappointment. "I'm sorry, Tish. You deserve a better wedding night than this."
Morticia drew him into a comforting embrace. "Au contraire, mon cher."
Gomez drew a deep breath. "Tish! When you speak French, it drives me wild!" He began kissing her up the other arm. "Say something else...Moulin Rouge...Treaty of Versailles...French fries...French toast..."
Inspired, Morticia smiled seductively. "Mais oui!" Morticia dropped phrase after phrase in French, magnifying her groom's ardor, each sentence eliciting a kiss, a word, a caress to express his passion and reverence for her.
"Je ne sais pas."
Morticia became bolder, enjoying the power she wielded over Gomez with her words. In turn, each impassioned response she coaxed from him crumbled her customarily reserved demeanor.
"Don't stop, Tish!"
"Excusez-moi!"
What was happening? Morticia was frightened by the erosion of her self-control – was this what Mother had so clumsily warned her about? - but when Gomez called her querida and cara mia as he held her, she also felt strangely anchored and adventurous.
"More, Tish!"
"Je préfère du gecko dans ma quiche!"
Morticia practically panted with desire as she pushed Gomez's tuxedo jacket from his shoulders. Gomez reached behind her, sweeping aside her hair in search of the zipper on her tight black dress, the touch of his fingers sending an electric craving up her spine. As his arms encircled her, his mouth met hers for the first time since they exchanged their vows. Morticia distantly wondered why he kissed other parts of her so comparatively freely. With her last cogent thought, she decided it was perhaps a good idea to save such kisses for when they were completely alone, given the way her body quivered at the sudden feeling of weightlessness when their lips touched. Gomez's kisses made even her formidable self-control nearly impossible to maintain.
"Keep going, querida!"
For a moment, Morticia thought gravity had returned to the room; rather, it was Gomez lowering her to the bed.
This was it. In moments, she and Gomez would be wed in every way possible. Morticia was humbled and awed by his unyielding love for her. Her heart threatened to beat through her chest as she sank into the plush black duvet. She struggled to find her voice, her words part squeak, part hoarse whisper.
"Pourriez-vous s'il vous plaît m'indiquer où se trouve l'usine de traitement des eaux usées?"
And on it escalated, until their wedding clothes were a heap on the Oriental rug and the room was upside-down, culminating in a phrase Morticia had heard often during her time in Paris but never understood until this moment.
"La petite mort!"
Hours later, Morticia lay awake in her dozing husband's arms, too happy to sleep despite her emotional and seemingly endless day. The candles had long since melted down to nubs and gone dark, and the only sound was Gomez's light snoring.
She wondered briefly if it was this way for all newlyweds, then recalled her mother's advice and thought not, particularly if new brides were to actually follow that kind of wisdom. Morticia supposed Mother meant well enough. In retrospect, though, Morticia was somewhat thankful for the lack of preparation. If anything, it had allowed her to see she and Gomez were even better-matched than she had been aware. Her insecurities had been for naught, and Gomez had made it perfectly clear that there was nothing she could ever do to disappoint him.
Secure now in all realms of their relationship, Morticia excitedly imagined the life she and Gomez were about to build together. It would begin with their honeymoon in Death Valley, but what next? More travel? Children? Cultural pursuits? How many breakfasts would they eat together? How many of those smiles would he lavish on her as he called her cara?
Careful not to wake Gomez, Morticia traced a finger along his jaw, of which she had become so enamored. She knew now that only he could help her navigate her journey as Mrs. Gomez Addams. He may have dropped her coming up the stairs, but he would never let her fall.
Morticia shivered. The bat wings were returning, but this time as a sign of anticipation of things to come.
Finis
(snap-snap)