Chapter 7
I’m going to be late.
I woke up early this morning, my mouth dry, a piece of hair sticking to my cheek.
I had all the classic symptoms of a hangover, an experience I haven’t had in more than five years.
But even though I was out of practice, I remembered to consume carbs, drink water, and take ibuprofen.
I drew the shades shut and turned off all the fluorescent lights, hoping that would minimize the pounding in my head.
I hadn’t expected to drift off again, but now it’s noon, the venue is nearly an hour away, and the ceremony is supposed to start at two sharp.
I jump into the shower, deciding I don’t have time to wash and style all my hair.
I just blow-dry my bangs, tossing the rest of it up in a bun.
I slip on my second navy-blue dress—another one that I frequently wear to weddings—and put on a pair of flats, thinking about all the uneven cobblestone streets.
I don’t know why my father couldn’t get married somewhere in the city.
Instead, they chose some small kirk in the countryside, one that required I either figure out a complicated bus system with multiple changes or book a rental car to get to.
Since I have experience driving on the other side of the road, thanks to the show and the international destinations we frequently visit, renting seemed like the easiest option.
And thankfully, the pickup spot is just down the street.
I hurry over there, get my keys and car, and soon, I’m behind the wheel, driving safely but quickly to the church.
My parents’ wedding took place in a church as well.
A cathedral back in India, with hundreds and hundreds of guests, nearly every Indian Christian family in Chennai in attendance.
I haven’t seen many pictures, but my mother’s told me about it.
Pomp and circumstance and flowers. Endless greetings from people she didn’t know, a reception filled with strangers.
As I park in front of the steepled stone building, I know this wedding will be entirely different. For one, I don’t think this church would be able to fit one hundred people. And second, I can hear the telltale sound of bagpipes, welcoming guests to the celebration.
I walk to the entrance, following a few women with fascinators clipped in their hair. I wish I’d thought to get one. I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to wear one or attend a wedding in the UK again, but it’s probably for the best. I need to draw as little attention to myself as possible.
That proves difficult, however, when I turn the corner and get my first glimpse of the bagpiper.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with familiar waves of pitch-black hair. His fingers move deftly over the pipes, his cheeks puff in and out, and he’s wearing a green-and-blue kilt. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes meet mine.
The music stutters for a moment, then continues.
Jacob plays the bagpipes?
I slow down as I walk in front of him, staring at him in confusion.
I guess we never did talk about his job, but I hadn’t realized that “bagpiper” was even an option.
“This is what you do for work?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond, his mouth occupied as he continues to play, but his gaze narrows, and I remember all the things he said last night. How the easy camaraderie between the two of us has disappeared. How, for some reason, he can’t stand me anymore.
He looks at me meaningfully, then shifts his focus to the church doors a few feet to the right.
“Yeah,” I say. “Fine. I’m going.”
I slip into the pew at the back. I’m definitely late per the time listed on the invitation, but it appears I haven’t missed anything yet.
“Is everything okay?” I hear someone a few rows in front of me say.
“Maggie’s just running late,” another person replies. “She’s taking a little longer to get ready.”
I shift in my seat. I drank more than I should have last night, but I didn’t reach the point of memory loss.
I recall everything I said to Maggie with perfect clarity.
I didn’t lie. I only spoke the truth, but it was a truth I’d never planned on sharing.
I hadn’t come here with any intention of making Maggie or my father uncomfortable.
I’d come for…myself, I suppose. To make sure I wouldn’t have any regrets about missing this one day.
But somehow, everything’s gone sideways.
Outside, the bagpiping comes to a stop, one long, droning note before it ends. A few straggling guests make their way inside, and then a lone violinist starts to play a familiar wedding processional.
My father enters first, walking down the aisle and stopping at the altar.
Then Jacob. He walks at a stately pace, his bagpipe put away somewhere, his kilt swinging around his legs. He shakes my father’s hand, then takes a seat at the front, on the bride’s side of the room.
The music switches, the tempo changing until it swells.
We all stand as the doors open to reveal Maggie.
A consummate bride, wearing a simple dress with lace cap sleeves, holding a bouquet in her hands, but…
she’s moving a bit slowly. She’s placing one foot in front of the other, but she’s off, not moving in time to the music.
And then she stops moving entirely. Time stands still, then doubles in speed as Maggie turns and runs back the way she came.
The violinist stops her bow, the note coming to a screeching halt, and the whole room is silent for a second.
And then there’s noise.
People in the pews gasp, turning to one another, asking what’s going on.
And my father calls out Maggie’s name as he runs after her up the aisle. His suit jacket flaps around him, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
He shouldn’t be exerting himself like this, I think. That can’t be good for his health.
But then I lose track of him. I’m jostled by the crowd, everyone twisting around, trying to watch the action. For a second, I can’t see anything, but then the crowd parts and through a gap I spy Jacob, close on my father’s heels.
When he rushes past the last row, his head swings, his eyes meeting mine. It’s a fleeting connection, and I’m not sure whether it was intentional or instinctive. But there’s a multitude of things his gaze conveys in this short amount of time.
Confusion. Concern. And above all, there’s accusation.
Guilt rises within me, and I’m not quite sure if he says the next words out loud, if he telepathically communicates them, or if I’m just hearing my own voice echoing in my head.
“This is your fault!”
I freeze, the guilt spreading, my limbs locking in place.
Then I rush into action. I push my way through the bystanders and follow him.
“Maggie!” Jacob cries at the same time as my father. “Wait!”
I get outside in time to hear an engine come to life, the crunch of tires over gravel. A gray hatchback peels out onto the street.
The chattering voices of the guests grow louder and louder, but my father is quiet. He’s looking in the direction Maggie went, his face drawn and distraught.
“She left,” he says. He’s panting, out of breath, and I step toward him, but Jacob beats me there.
“We’ll go get her,” Jacob says. He clasps a hand around my father’s upper arm.
My dad shakes his head. “She took the car.” He places a hand over his chest, and alarm spikes through me.
“Dad, maybe you should sit for a moment,” I say. “We can go back inside for just a second and regroup—”
“No,” he says. “We need to make sure Maggie’s okay.”
“We can take my car,” I say.
Jacob’s eyes snap to mine, his expression dark. Accusing.
I ignore him, unlocking the car and ushering my dad and Jacob toward it. “Just tell me where to go.”
They talk about it for a moment and decide we should check her house first. Maggie doesn’t have a smartphone, and she isn’t answering calls, so there’s no way to know exactly where she is.
But when we get back to Aberdeen, it’s clear she’s not there. There’s no car in the driveway, no sign that anyone’s home.
“I’m going to call the hotel in Inverness,” my dad says, climbing out of the car, lifting his phone to his ear.
Jacob and I look at each other.
“That’s where they were supposed to stay tonight,” he says.
“How far away is it?”
“By car? More than two hours.” He glances at my father. “Even if she’s heading there, the hotel won’t know anything. She wouldn’t have reached it by now.”
My father’s still talking into the phone, far enough away that the words are faint. I can’t make them out.
Jacob rubs a hand over his face. “What did you say to her?” he asks, his voice urgent and low. “Last night?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No, I just saw her looking upset. After she spoke with you.”
My throat feels dry. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything, really. I just—I told her the truth.”
Tell me something, he said to me that night. Anything. As long as it’s true.
A muscle jumps in his cheek, and I wonder if he’s remembering that too.
“The hotel said that they’ll call if she checks in,” my father says, getting back in the passenger seat.
“But I think we should still make our way over there.” He stops.
“I know you don’t know her very well, but this isn’t like her, Neelu.
She doesn’t do things like this. She…maybe she needed space, or changed her mind, but she wouldn’t do it like this. She wouldn’t.”
My gut churns, lingering guilt coming up to the surface.
“I know, Uncle,” Jacob says. His expression and tone are gentle with my father, entirely different from the way he’s been with me. “We’ll check the hotel next.”
“If we leave now, we might be able to make up some of the time,” my dad says.
“Okay,” I say. I put the car back in drive. “Then let’s go.”
“Don’t you have to fly back tomorrow?” Jacob asks, his brows knit.
My father looks at him, then me, curiously. “Don’t worry about that,” I tell both of them. A two-hour drive there and back is more than doable. My flight’s tomorrow afternoon.