Chapter 7
Now
You can cut the tension with a knife as Michael hands the mic back to the MC.
Three sounds echo in this reception hall.
The soft ah.
The whispers of He really shouldn’t be doing this here.
And my heart banging against my ribcage.
Scott’s face is angry, and I’m too shocked to say anything.
“Well, that was a bunch of horse shit,”
Dad says, making no bones of his feelings.
Mom again sends me her apologetic look, pressing her lips and rubbing Dad’s arm.
“Oh, how much could you have heard, Arthur? You don’t even have your hearing aids in.”
“Well, I heard enough, and what I did hear was a bunch of horse shit.”
“Dad’s right, Jill.
It sounded like bullshit to me.
I’m heading to the bar,”
Scott says, throwing his napkin on the table.
Jen shakes her head with pity and swallows a smile at me as she follows him.
She gestures that she will handle Scott.
Through all the commotion, I missed the toast from the best man and maid-of-honor and wrap my head around all the chaos.
I need to get to Monica and see if she’s okay.
Maybe what Michael said and did was too much to take.
Though maybe his speech lasted a minute, I feel hours and years have passed.
And I’ve already lost too many.
Dad returns to his plate after Mom cuts his meat, and I stand to get myself a glass of wine.
I will make it a double.
I look at Monica and see that she is laughing and talking with her party at the table, and she seems okay.
I move to the bar on shaky legs.
Scott and Jen are still in line, and I delay my destination.
“Jill, the wedding was just beautiful.”
Mom’s noisiest neighbor, Barb, has purposely run into me to ask about Michael.
And to tell you the truth, I don’t even know why she’s here.
Barb gave Monica piano lessons, like forever ago.
She insisted to my mother for an invite.
“Now, that man. Is he…?”
“Yes, he’s Monica’s father.
Excuse me,”
I say and continue to the bar.
The line has only grown, so I cut to the front when I see Chelsea’s dad ordering a bourbon.
“Hey, can you make it two for the bride’s mother?”
I toss my hair and throw a begging smile.
“Hey, Jill.
Make it two,”
he says to the bartender.
“Thanks, Jerry.”
“You got it.
Now, you’re mine on the dance floor.”
My insides cringe, but not as much as when I rehash what occurred a few minutes ago.
I will dance with Jerry till the cows come home if it means avoiding my family.
And…Michael.
“You got it, Jerry,”
I say, reaching for the bourbon the bartender sets before me.
Taking my first sip, I invite the burn down to my empty stomach and say a prayer I don’t fall while walking over to Monica. “Thanks,”
I say and attempt the journey across the room.
“Don’t forget about that dance,”
I hear him holler.
Without looking back, I hold up my drink as my sure won’t gesture.
I only make it halfway when I’m stopped by…Michael.
Quick.
Game on, Jill.
“Jill, are you okay? I wanted to talk to you before the toast, but you hurriedly walked away.”
How dare he ask if I’m okay! Of course, I’m not OK.
I want to scream and say, what the hell was all that? I want to take this glass of bourbon and throw it in his face.
But I’m going to need every drop to get through this reception.
“Yeah, I’m fine.
Just mother-of-the-bride jitters.
Nothing you would understand.”
Yes.
First jab.
Now, walk away, Jill.
“Jill…
“I’m needed at the bridal table, Michael.
So, if you don’t mind.”
His eyes search my face and then softly relent.
“Sure.
Okay.
Talk later?”
“Ah,”
I breathe, sounding more annoyed and exhausted. “Maybe.”
I walk away, trembling more than ever, and it’s a struggle to keep the bourbon from splashing out.
I take a hefty swallow once I reach my destination, which seems to have been a journey.
I need to calm down.
Monica looks up and recognizes the apprehension on my face.
The bourbon has yet to kick in.
She tells Chelsea to excuse her and walks around the table.
“Mom, are you okay?”
she asks, and I watch her eyes move to the glass in my hand.
“Did…did Dad upset you?”
For her to see me with hard liquor is probably alarming.
“Ah…well, I wanted to make sure you’re okay…after Michael’s speech.”
I still struggle with your father.
“Wasn’t it moving? I mean, to think after all these years, he’s regretful.”
And that’s Monica.
The ever-forgiving daughter that I raised.
I think I bestowed all the forgiveness I wanted to believe I was capable of onto her.
Yet, my inner self was anything but.
Internally, I was a hypocrite.
“Yes, it was moving all right.
I just wanted to make sure you weren’t upset.”
“Of course not, Mom.
Unless it upsets you.”
Her eyes alter from pleased to anxious.
What can I say? It did upset me.
But I don’t want her to feel bad.
“No.
Although, it was a shock.
Wasn’t quite expecting that.”
She relaxes with a sigh, and I rub her cheek.
“Okay then, I won’t take up any more of your day.
Enjoy yourself, Baby,”
I say, hoping my smile is genuine.
Then, I kiss her on the cheek.
She takes both my hands in hers.
“Thanks, Mom.
You’ve made my day perfect.”
Her words assure me that I have done my best to keep the past suppressed, almost non-existent to her.
I will always be the wall that protects her from the hell Michael put us through all those years ago.
That is why she has no problem with him being here—another one of Michael’s bullets.
She returns to her wedding party, and I take another cleansing breath before returning to the family table.
Scott and Jen returned with their drinks, and Mom cleared Dad’s plate.
I know she will get up to get Dad’s after-dinner coffee, so I head over to the coffee bar area and wait.
Just like clockwork, she gets up and leads this way.
I don’t think Dad has poured himself a cup of coffee in fifty years.
“Mom, how’s Dad?” I ask.
“He’s okay.
He needs to say his peace, and then after that…”
She swishes her hands, not finishing her sentence, and reaches for a cup and saucer.
“Don’t worry about your father, Jill.
I got him covered.
Jen’s doing her best with Scott.
You focus on Monica and yourself,”
she says.
Like I haven’t been doing that for the last twenty-four years.
“Thanks, Mom.
Apologize to Dad for me, will you?”
“Jill, you have nothing to apologize for.
Besides, he’s probably forgotten the last twenty minutes.
He just wants his coffee now.”
She lays her hand over mine and smiles before taking Dad his coffee.
I know it also had to be hard for her back then, dealing with Dad and all.
Sometimes, I don’t know what would have been worse.
Her marriage to Dad and keeping him content and anchored while working and raising Scott and me? Or, my horrible marriage to Michael.
Feeling it’s safe to return, I walk back when Jerry, Chelsea’s dad, stops me.
“The DJ is playing one of my favorites.”
Don’t Stop til You Get Enough? “Time to return the favor.”
“Ah, what the hell,”
I say and down the last of my bourbon.
Setting the glass on the nearest table, I burst for the dance floor.
Apparently, the song must be a favorite for all the forty-and-over as the crowd closes in.
By the song’s end, the bourbon has kicked in and is doing its job.
I am no longer on pins and needles and dancing away with Jerry.
Or, it could be a false sense of security from the alcohol.
For safe measure, I thank him for the dance and make a beeline for the table.
As I sit, the lights dim, and the DJ begins announcing.
“At this time, I would like all married couples on the dance floor.”
That leaves me out.
Jen pulls Scott out to the floor, and Dad argues when Mom tugs on his arm.
“Oh, come on, Arthur.
You must work off some of that bread you should have avoided.”
He huffs and gives in to Mom.
Together, the two slowly make their way to the dance floor.
I watch and then feel the smile press on my lips when they dance to Alan Jackson’s “Remember When.”
“If you were just married today, please take your seat,”
the DJ says.
Of course, Monica and Jordan are the only couple to leave the dance floor, and the song continues for a few more choruses.
“If you have been married for five years or less, please take your seat.”
About two-thirds of the couples leave the floor.
Alan Jackson sings on.
“If you have been married ten or less, please take your seat.”
The only couples left are the late thirty and forty-year-olds—and Mom and Dad.
A few more reductions and Mom and Dad are the only ones left.
The crowd applauds as my parents steal the dance floor, moving small circles in each other’s arms.
I wonder how it could have all worked for us—Michael and me.
Even through all their pesky little fights, I watch the two of them look into each other’s eyes and know it was all worth it—something I will never have.
Across the room, I spot Michael looking over at me, and I turn away.
What did he need to talk about? Feeling that uneasiness rounding itself back, I get up and walk to the bar for wine.
I order a glass of cabernet and then attempt to mingle and vanish in the crowd.
“Jill,”
a husky, low voice says from behind.
Turning around, Michael stands only inches from me.
“Yes, Michael? What is it?”
I say and take a sip from my wine.
“I would love to dance with the mother of the bride.”
What? Hasn’t he done enough damage just by being here? My family will have a cow if they see us dancing.
That was one topic they drew the line on—the father and daughter dance.
Monica agreed to dance with her grandfather.
Also, she couldn’t think of a song representing her and Michael’s relationship. “Really,”
I state, “you’re here for Monica, not me.”
His eyes relentlessly take my verbal punch.
“Please.
And we could talk?”
“What is it you want to talk about?”
He doesn’t seem to have an answer, so I use this time to get in a few of my own words.
“Sure, Michael, just let me finish my wine, and then we can dance and talk.”
“Thank you,”
he says and walks away.
What the hell? I laugh. “Fucker,”
I say under my breath and tip back the wine.
Typical Michael.
He was always disappearing.
The song ends, and the DJ announces that the next song has been requested.
I start to walk away when Shania Twain’s “You’re Still the One” begins.
Before I can convince my feet to move, Michael is back and holds out his hand.
He’s the one who requested this song? Setting my glass on the nearest table, I take his hand cautiously.
The wine hasn’t done its job, and the minute our hands touch, stimuli of the last twenty years invade every part of my being.
It’s good.
It isn’t good. It’s confusing. It’s…back. Like cancer, you thought you had beaten.
He moves us to the dance floor, and I hyperventilate when his arms wrap around me.
I tell myself it’s the thought of what everyone will think, what my family will remember, not how I feel in his arms.
I feel him looking right at me as I try to look past him and into the crowd.
“I thought this would be the perfect song for us,” he says.
My eyes slowly find their way to his, and I let the last twenty years come out.
“What! Have you ever listened to the words, Michael? ‘Looks like we’ve made it.’ We didn’t make shit.
It was hell and the last thing you ever wanted: marriage and me and Monica.
You couldn’t do this anymore.”
He listens to my chastisement and quietly says, “I know.
I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“I wanted to dance with you, and this was the first song we ever danced to.
Remember when you delivered my pizza?”
“Yes, Michael.
I do.
I remember everything.
It was painful.
It was exhausting. And I barely lived through it. Please, don’t remind me of those horrible days.”
“I know.
I cause you so much pain, Jill.”
The dam breaks, and it all comes flowing out.
“What the hell was that up there, Michael? All that talk about what a husband should do.
You hated all those things.
What? Did you compile a list of all the things I wanted to do? All the things you refused to do with me? All the things you did that broke my heart and made a speech out of it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? You’re the last person to be giving husband advice.
Oh my God, Michael.
You put me through hell, and after you left, the hell didn’t stop for me.
Oh no.
You went on your merry way while I got ridiculed, talked about, lectured on our failures. All everyone saw was how it was all my fault.”
“Nothing was ever your fault, Jill.
Nothing.
It was all me.”
“Well, it does no good now.
Twenty years later, and I’m still considered the community’s failure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.
That’s all you have to say? Sorry? You know what? This dance is over.”
I push back and break from his arms.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
The song fades as I walk away and dash to the bar.
The sound of scratchiness and mic squeal feedback quiets the room.
“Two bourbons, please.”
The bartender sets them down, and I throw one back and chase it down with the other.
Then, the sound of Michael talking into the mic.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
I turn around.
Oh no.
Michael has taken the DJ’s mic.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Michael Danforth, and I was married to Jill, mother of the bride.
Together, we made a beautiful daughter, Monica.”
I hold my breath.
Can this day get any worse? “And…and what happened in our marriage is my fault.”
The room is dead silent, and I turn back to the bartender.
“Make me another.”