Chapter 5
Now
The low hum of chatter fills the reception hall, and I listen for any word: Who was that man who walked Monica down the aisle? Everything seems to be performing flawlessly, and I pray that when the bar opens, so does this reception.
I spot Michael hanging around alone in a corner across the room, and I’m surprised he’s here.
Nobody said he had to stay after the wedding, and he has fulfilled his daughter’s request to walk her down the aisle.
His eyes cast to me, and I’m not sure how to respond.
In a way, I wished he would never have come because this day should be all about Monica and Jordan, not Michael.
But she is his daughter, too.
Maybe I shouldn’t give him such ownership—since he never stuck around and bailed by the time she was three.
Then that voice whispers: This is what your daughter wanted.
The low hum quiets when the officiator grabs the mic and announces the wedding party’s arrival.
“Ladies and gentlemen: please welcome Mr.
and Mrs.
Jordan York and their groomsmen and bridesmaids.”
The music begins with a catchy beat as each groomsman carries a bridesmaid to the wedding party table.
After each is seated, Jordan carries in his bride, Monica, as the crowd whoops, hollers, and cheers.
Goosebumps invade every inch of my body as the tears sting the back of my eyes.
She is happy.
I am delighted. And I look at Michael and see happiness in his eyes for once. He genuinely wants to be here.
I walk over to our family’s table, where Mom and Dad, Scott, and now wife, Jen, have already been seated.
I look to Scott for any rebuttal and force a smile.
I then say thank you, and he presses his eyes open and shut, showing his tolerance level.
“Wasn’t Monica just beautiful?”
I say, breaking the ice and avoiding the white elephant in the room.
“Lovely,”
Mom replies.
“I hope this cost him an arm and a leg,”
Dad says, jabbing at the white elephant.
I inhale a deep breath, grab the rolled-up napkin on the table, and squeeze it as my only means of therapy.
“Dad, let’s not get into this now.
It’s Monica’s day, and this is what she wanted.”
“You’re her mother, Jill.
You were supposed to sit her down and tell her no.”
“Dad, she is an adult.
This is her wedding—her day. Please…”
“Arthur, let’s not make a fuss,”
Mom defends me.
For how long, I don’t know.
She has always let Dad have the upper hand.
“Well, it’s not right,”
Dad says, turning to Mom.
Mom wraps her arm around his—a gentle touch that calms him whenever Dad voices his status quo.
“I’m just making my opinion known.
I’m allowed to, at least.”
“Yes, dear.
We all know how you feel—there’s no denying that.”
Mom rubs Dad’s shoulder, letting him have his moment, then switches topics for a quick save.
“Don’t forget.
I’ve changed your cardiology appointment to Tuesday instead of Monday.”
I’m sure it’s to remind Dad of his still delicate situation.
I let out a cleansing breath and repeat with another.
Dad turns back and says under his breath, “It’s bad enough what we all had to go through back then.”
And there it is.
The shame of how their seventeen-year-old daughter got herself pregnant and disgraced the family.
Though, it’s impossible to get yourself pregnant.
However, as I took on the responsibility of motherhood, Michael got to go on with his life as a successful person with all his priorities in order.
What a big sack of shit.
“Dad...”
I stop, remembering his heart condition, and excuse myself from the table before causing him to have a third heart attack.
And I’m sure in his eyes, and I was probably the cause of his heart disease in the first place.
And not the pork rinds and five pounds of bacon he ate weekly.
Or the twenty years he used to smoke.
“I’m going for some fresh air.”
Grabbing my purse, I walk out of the reception hall, forcing composure in my steps.
I look for the nearest restroom and throw myself in before the heavy sob that’s been building in my chest releases.
Opening a stall, I lock the door and let it out as silently as possible. Fuck!
After having my silent pity party, I tear off a piece of toilet paper, wipe it under my eyes, and discard the mascara-soiled tissue down the toilet.
My shoulders lift with another refreshing cleanse before stepping out of the stall and assessing my sorry-ass state in the mirror.
Now red-eyed and puffy, I pull out my compact and attempt to cover the sadness of the last twenty years.
God, Stop it.
You and Monica have had a great life.
And there’s still more to come.
When thinking of Michael, two things always correspond with the thought.
One, he ruined my life, and two, if he hadn’t come into my life, I wouldn’t have Monica. What a twisted way to live for the last twenty years. And I must admit, my life with him out of the picture improved. No more ‘Oh god, what will I find going through his pockets?’ Or phone calls from a woman who enlightened me about how she was taking care of my husband. The weeks he went on business trips, instead of spending those times relaxing with my baby daughter, planning trips to the zoo or walks to the park, my mind was consumed with what I knew he was doing and physically searching for the next clue in his infidelity. It was exhausting being his wife. I should have praised the day he said goodbye. No more consuming my thoughts and controlling whether I was to have a good day or not. And here I am, giving him the power again. Damn it.
Breathe.
Exhale.
Smile.
‘Show Michael how him walking out, did you a favor,’ I say to myself and walk out of the restroom.
“Michael,”
I say, shocked.
“Are you okay, Jill?”
“Ah, sure.
Just an emotional time for me.
My daughter is getting married and all.”
Please don’t let him think he has anything to do with my state.
“I told myself, over and over, no crying at Monica’s wedding.”
“I think that’s what you’re supposed to do,”
he says, wiping under my eye with the pad of his thumb.
“Cry…at your daughter’s wedding.”
His touch alone puts me on high alert, and I pull out all defenses to walk away.
“That’s right, Michael.
My daughter.”
I push past him and focus on the music thumping down the hall.
I will not let him destroy this one day for me.
And maybe Dad and Scott were right; Michael has no right to be here.
He made that clear many years ago.
The staff is now serving the food, and Monica gives me a desperate look as I walk in.
Get it together, Jill, for your daughter’s sake.
I put on my best motherly, prideful smile and walk to her.
“Mom? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No, Baby.
I just had to freshen up my face.
Can’t hold the tears back.”
She relaxes with a smile, and I kiss her on the cheek.
“Well, we were waiting for your return.
We are going to toast, and I want you here.”
“Oh, good.
Now, keep that smile on and enjoy this day.
I love you, Monica.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
I tap her on the hand and return to the family table.
Dad is now engrossed in his food, and Mom looks up with an apologetic look in her eyes.
Scott has that ‘I told you so’ look in his.
The sound of clinking as the best man stands and makes his announcement.
“At this time, the bride’s father would like to make the first toast.”
Oh.
Shit.
What the hell would he even have to say?
Michael walks to the wedding party table, and the best man hands him the mic.
Through the soft background piano music and the clinking of silverware, I hear my heart pounding and watch Michael pull a piece of paper from his suit.
He begins to speak, and his voice cracks.
“Monica, let me start by saying,”
he chokes and breathes to start again.
“I’m sorry for being absent from your and your mother’s lives.”
The silverware clinking stops, and now only the soft piano music fills the room.
“It’s a regret in my life daily.
I have missed out on so much, and there’s no excuse I can give.
Despite what you feel, there wasn’t a day when I didn’t think of you.
What did you look like, and if you had a boyfriend? If he treated you well.”
Scott clears her throat.
“And…I know I don’t deserve to be here on your special day.
Because I never had any hand in any of it.
When you contacted me to walk you down the aisle.”
He chokes up and presses his hand to his mouth.
“It was a second chance.
A chance I know I don’t deserve.
But I will tell you one thing: I will never miss out on any chance you give me to be with you.”
A hushed sorrow echoes throughout the room, and even though I want to hear every painful word that is coming out of Michael’s mouth, I wish he’d stop.
“Monica, you are as beautiful as I knew you would be.
And when I look at you, I can’t believe the life I missed with you and your mother,”
he says, looking over at me.
Where’s this coming from? This man is not Michael, as far as I remember.
Michael was incapable of emotions.
And to be adding me into his apologetic-toast-speech? Do I want this? I mean, I do.
Just, maybe not here.
He hasn’t even looked at the note in his hand.
“I…I’m sorry for everything.
And though you may not think so, I love you, Monica.”
Monica stands, now in a full-on cry, and goes to hug her father.
“Thank you.
Thank you for coming today and wanting to be a part of this,”
she says but doesn’t tell him she loves him back.
How could she?
He asks her to remain beside him and looks at his note.
“I would also like to make a toast to your husband.”
She nods and wipes her eyes.
“Jordan,”
he says—his voice choked, “Jordan, make sure that wherever you go, hold your wife’s hand.
Show everyone that you are her man.
And not because she’s incapable, but because she’s your wife, always open her car door.
Take her on long weekends, even camping on the beach.
Sit by the fire and look into her eyes. Tell her everything you love and appreciate about her. Surprise her with small gifts for no reason. Let her know that, one day, while mowing the yard, you looked over and saw her tending her flowers and felt how lucky you must be.”
He’s speaking in past tense and looking right at me.
My mouth is agape, and I feel lost in a tunnel.
No, this is not the Michael I remember.
All these things are what I wanted him to do.
And even on a simple request, he ridiculed and rolled his eyes when I suggested them.
Michael continues and watches me with glassy eyes.
“When you look out the window and see the first snow, grab your wife, bundle up, and make a snowman together.
Do this every year as your tradition.
Make every day a new celebration for you and your wife.
Save every champagne cork and write the occasion. Go back each year and read them to each other.”
I’m shaking, and I’m not sure how to feel.
On the one hand, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted to hear from Michael.
But on the other…, it’s Michael.
The Michael who hated all those things.
The Michael who made me feel guilty for getting pregnant. The Michael who looked at me one day, a day I will never forget, told me he couldn’t do this anymore. And when he said this, he meant Monica and me. We weren’t a family to him. We were reduced to pronouns—this.