Chapter 36
36
I’m hurrying toward the tayatron hallway, worried I’m going to be late for the processional lineup, when someone grabs me by the wrist. My pulse quickens. I whirl around and see that the person confronting me is my sister.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
Rosie’s question instantly puts me on guard. I eye her warily. She looks beautiful, with her dewy makeup, golden chignon, and elegant long-sleeved white-lace eyelet wedding dress. But she’s still just Rosie.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Aren’t you about to get married?”
“That’s the plan, yeah,” Rosie says. “I just... Before the ceremony, I just want to say... I really want today to be special. I really need today to be special.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering what this has to do with me.
“You know how much family means to me.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I find her words trite. Rosie’s the one always gushing about “chosen family,” making sure we all know how important her friends are to her. Since when has she prioritized her biological family? I’m feeling impatient, wanting this conversation to be over with, wanting the wedding to be over with, wanting to crawl back under the covers with my golem and never emerge again.
“I know you don’t want to be here,” Rosie says softly. “But if you could pretend, at least for Mom’s sake...I’d appreciate it.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I want to be here,” I say, since that’s what I’m supposed to say.
“No, you don’t,” says Rosie. “You never call me back—not about wedding stuff, not about anything. You skipped the bachelorette party—”
“I had a work conference that week—” I protest, but Rosie just keeps going.
“You bitched and moaned about the pantsuits. You didn’t come get mani-pedis with us, even though Layla picked a spot in your neighborhood. You’ve made very, very clear that you don’t give a shit about my wedding. And it really sucks, especially because...especially because since Dad can’t be here, it would be nice if my sister tried a little harder.”
The mention of our father lands like a punch in the chest. Rosie almost never references Dad, and just hearing her say the word forces me to actually hear everything else she just said, too. To take it in, and let it hurt the way it should. Realizing how disappointed Dad would be to see this widening chasm between his daughters genuinely guts me. But I don’t know how to acknowledge that. I feel cornered, and instead of contrite, my response is curt.
“I’m here,” I say. “And I didn’t mean to make it seem like I don’t care. I care, okay?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”
She’s making me feel so selfish, and it’s not fair. I want to point out all the ways that she’s been selfish, too. But it’s her wedding day, and we’re three minutes from walking down the aisle. So I should keep my damn mouth shut.
Instead, I surprise us both by asking, “Why isn’t Mom walking you down the aisle?”
“What?” Rosie asks, blinking.
“Why is she just sitting in the front row?”
“Because that’s what she wanted,” Rosie says.
“What are you talking about?” I say, because that can’t be right. Mom loves the spotlight. Loves weddings. Loves Rosie. Why would she request to be sidelined?
“I asked her to walk me down the aisle,” Rosie says, voice wobbling a little. “But she said that was something Dad always wanted to do, and she...she didn’t feel right doing it. She’d do it if I wanted her to, but she’d prefer to just...to just get to watch me walk. When Ana’s parents heard that, they offered to sit with her, too. So none of the parents are in the ceremony. No ‘giving the brides away.’ Stupid archaic old tradition anyway. Back from when women were property. Kind of gross, if you think about it.”
But the tears in her eyes tell me she doesn’t really feel that way, at least not completely. Maybe she really wanted someone to walk her down the aisle. Dad. Mom. Someone. But since our father couldn’t, and our mother wouldn’t, she found herself without any parental escort. And instead of pressuring Mom into it, Rosie decided to do what made our mother comfortable.
I never would have predicted that. Which makes me feel proud of my little sister, and shitty about myself. I’m also incredibly envious that Rosie and Mom were able to have a conversation like that at all. One where they directly referenced our absent family.
“You two...talk about Dad?” I ask, voice tight. “You and Mom, you...you talk about him?”
“We’re figuring out how to,” my sister says. “She’s really angry, you know. At God, at the doctors, at everyone. She doesn’t want to be sad. So she’s mad. But she’s also really good at hiding it, most of the time.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I remember my mother cursing when the cop pulled us over—and remembering, just as clearly, her picture-perfect smile by the time we arrived at camp half an hour later.
“Oh,” I say.
“Anyway,” Rosie says, dabbing her hand lightly across her nose, trying not to smear her makeup. “I don’t know why I even tried to say anything right now, I just... I just felt like I had to try to... I don’t know...”
I want to tell her I know .
I want to tell her I’m sorry .
I want to tell her I love you .
But there seems to be a wall between me and those words. I can’t get over it, can’t get around it. I just stand there on the other side of the wall, resenting everything and everyone, myself included.
Then the moment is over, and my sister lowers her head and turns away from me.