Part XVIII A minor mystery!
My little girl is getting married today. Married. Oh lord. I swore to myself I wouldn't get like this. Women cry at weddings. Men get drunk. Seriously drunk. And then the Father of the bride can have a little man-to-man talk with the groom. The way my father-in-law had a chat with me at our reception. And after all, who in this community is going to arrest me for threats or drunk and disorderly conduct?
The church is a positive hotbed of activity. My wife and daughter have been planning this thing for close to a year. They bought dresses; they booked a church and a reception hall. They found caterers and florists. Together they made seating plans and a gift registry. They sent invitations and guest lists. They made a color scheme. And I did my part. I stayed out of the way, kept my son out of the way, and gave the groom advice every groom ought to follow—let your fiancé have her way.
Chances are she has been planning the wedding for twenty years or more. She does not actually need your input. If she asks you what color flowers you like, tell her you want anything that will make her happy. It might aggravate her, but that's better than her getting flowers so you'll like them (while she hates them) all for the sake of making you part of this wedding. You will not even NOTICE the flowers, while she will obsess over them, and bring it up multiple times over the next fifty years whenever you have a disagreement. Trust me, you will be involved in the wedding in all the important ways. My wife heard me offering this tidbit of wisdom that I gleaned after years of marriage. She was not pleased with my opinion.
I like to think my future son-in-law appreciated my wisdom. Chances are against it though. He seems to think that he and my daughter have such perfect communication skills that they have evolved beyond such trivial matters. I told him to make sure his best friend's couch always has a spot for him. He will be spending time on it. My daughter has a temper. I wouldn't put it past her to kick him out of his own bed for a night.
But that will be in the years to come.
I enter the little bride room at the back of the chapel. My wife is with her. My wife is normally an…excitable woman. She cries over burning a batch of pancakes. But when an actual tragedy occurs she is rock steady. Apparently it is her hour to be calm. She and my daughter have been alternating since this morning.
My little girl is hysterical (or nearly) over the fact that the florists sent the wrong colored roses. She wanted peach but they sent (Restrain gasps of horror please) salmon. Can you imagine? (I speak with great sarcasm. Personally I couldn't tell the difference between salmon and peach if my life depended on it. But now, according to my angel, the flowers clash with the bridesmaid's dresses.
Her mother has assured her twice since I came into the room that it isn't all that noticeable and that wrong-colored flowers will not stop the wedding.
To which my (ordinarily) calm child has replied, "It's an omen. It has to be."
"Omens are bigger than flowers. An omen would be a sand storm or a squall. Or a car crash. Or a fire in the church. The cake might've fallen over. That would be an omen. But you're here. And he's here. Nothing will stop this wedding." The sheer determination in the woman standing before me would be enough to stop an alien invasion or a terrorist/guerilla band. Enough to stop them and leave even the hardiest of them cowering until AFTER the wedding.
It's my turn. "You're beautiful." No, my voice did not tremble. Or crack. "I hope that husband of yours knows what a deal he's getting."
She sniffles and beams. "Thank you." She hugs me. I hold her tight. When I finally let her go, she smiles at me. She goes back to her mirror. I study the woman in front of me. I remember her first day of school. It was rougher on us than it was on her. I remember her graduations. (High school and college) I thought I would never be prouder. I remember her first date. I was so afraid that the boy might go to far, too fast, that she wouldn't be able to deal. I remember when she went to the prom. I never thought she could be that beautiful again.
I was wrong on every count.
Her hair is gold and shining. The veil on her hair is as delicate as snowflakes. I half expect it to melt in the glow of her hair. Her hair, the color of sunshine will surely dissolve the delicate lace. Her skin is glowing. Her eyes look like candles burn behind them. Her cheeks are pink. Her gown is white, overlaid with gold threads. When she walks she seems to float. Even though I know less than nothing about fashion I know that that dress is a work of art. And I know her well enough to tell that despite her anxiety and her perfection hang up she is happy.
She is happy. I must remember that. It must become my mantra. Otherwise I'll never be able to give up my little girl. It doesn't matter that on an intellectual level I know they're in love. Doesn't matter that he's vowed to cut out his own heart before she sheds a tear on him. It just matters that she's a precious gift that fell into my lap. And that it's my job to protect her.
I look at her, next to my wife. She is our daughter, really and truly. It doesn't matter that we didn't actually create her, or that she didn't come from my wife's body. She is the child of our souls.
I look at her, and don't know whether to be grateful or angry that someone gave her away. I will always be grateful that she came to us, with her brother. ALWAYS. But I have to wonder, how could they give up such glowing, glorious, creatures. Perhaps you value most what you don't have—for a long time we couldn't have children ourselves. Maybe that's one of the reasons we treasure the children we have now so much. But it makes me angry at the same time. It infuriates me that any one would dare to abandon a child as precious as these. It is utterly inconceivable that they would not want to watch her grow, to help her learn, and to see what she has become. But it is so.
She's getting nervous again. "Where is my maid-of-honor?" She asks. "What is taking her so long? I can't get married without her here to see. I've got to plant some ideas in my darling brother's thick head, and seeing a wedding might do the trick."
Her mother, my wife laughs. "Your brother moves at his own pace."
"I know." She pouts.
Just then, the maid of honor rushes in, resplendent in a peach dress. Her hair is golden too. I study the girls as they hug. Isabel is tall and dark eyed. Tess is petite with blue eyes. But there's a glow about both of them. What a pair they make, these two. Alike in some ways, they are. But they are profoundly different in others. But they've been friends no matter what. Even when Max and Tess's relationship hit some bumps in the road.
Diane's eyes glow every time she tells me about her growing brood. Isabel and Max. Michael and Tess. Through Tess, she feels she has claim to Kyle, and even Maria.
Speaking of that bunch, Maria just got engaged to a guy named Tony. He's from New York. They met at an audition. Both were pursuing fame and fortune in Broadway musicals. Elizabeth Parker is still in school for her PH.D. Molecular biology, as my daughter tells it. Jeff Parker brags about how smart his girl is without restraint. She had a good thing going for a while with Kyle, but that fizzled. Then she pursued Max. For all her brains, and I don't deny she has plenty, she couldn't see that he wasn't interested? After Max came Alex, but she drove him away with jealousy and insane allegations about trips to Sweden.
Last I heard Alex found a girl named Leena. Kyle is still alone. He says it's by choice. I don't know though. His sisters are so happy. He must feel lonely sometimes. He teaches English and PE at the high school. He claims Tess inspired him by forcing him to read. I'd like to have seen someone her size make someone his size read—but of course, I might've laughed myself into shock. Tess claims she's found the absolute perfect girl for him, but he's resisting. He pretends to be terrified of finding out what she thinks his taste in women is.
I tune in again, as my wife begins to weep, helplessly fingering the pillow case the veil, a family heirloom, traveled in. She's babbling about how her babies are all grown up and flying away and her nest is empty.
The girls, both laughing and crying simultaneously hug her. They make promises that the nest isn't empty, and the baby birds will stay close. Isabel is joining the law firm after she passes the bar. Michael is an artist. Apparently he can sell his artwork through the medium of galleries and the Internet. So they can stay here. Max is finishing up medical school. God knows where he'll go into practice. But Tess will follow him wherever he goes. And if her career as a children's counselor carries them somewhere else, he'll follow her.
But Diane really, really hopes they'll stay right here.
We all get into place. It's time for my baby's big entrance.
My wife is the first down the aisle. Our son is the one who escorts her. The two bridesmaids go after her. Then it is time for the maid of honor, who offers one more hug of encouragement.
My little girl and I are at the back of the church. It's the last time I will stand with Isabel Evans. We start down the aisle. It is long. Finally, at the altar we stop. I raise the veil, and I kiss my daughter's cheek. My last kiss to the girl who has carried my name. Tears are in my eyes but I don't care anymore. Damn. Max would have to play Butterfly Kisses last night during the rehearsal dinner!
She clings to me for a second. She holds to my hand with one of her own. Then, she reaches one out to her groom.
Her groom looks like he's at a funeral. Only because that's probably the only place he's ever had cause to wear a black suit before this. But when her hand touches his, a smile cracks that face of his. I've never seen him smile like that before. And that's when I know that it's right to let this ray of sunshine pass from my life to his. I pat her hand and sit in the pew next to my wife.
The minister begins. I tune out for a while. But I do hear the words "I do." In my son-in-law's strong voice.
I listen to my daughter's voice. Not a tremble, not a crack, not a doubt. "I, Isabel, take you Michael, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse for as long as we both shall live."
At the end, I kiss Isabel Guerin. My little girl is now somebody's wife.