Chapter 31 #2
Instantly, I’m brought back in time as memories flood me.
There’s a scatter of old bridal magazine clippings, edges curled and yellowed.
There’s a page with “10 Hairstyles that Say ‘I Do’” in hot-pink font.
A printed-out picture of the Disney castle, annotated in gel pen—“honeymoon here??” At the bottom, a folded napkin from Linney’s Atlanta wedding.
I remember putting each of these items in here at various times, adding to the excitement of my one-day fairy tale coming true.
I sort through the box now, searching for the item I came up here for—but pause on a crayon drawing.
I always loved coloring as a kid. Mom would set me up beside her watercolor easel, and I’d just draw and draw, without caring one bit if the pictures turned out “good” or not.
The beauty of art is in the making, Mom would say.
This particular drawing is of two stick figures, both smiling so wide their faces nearly split.
One in a triangle white dress, the other with a crooked bow tie.
Between them, a sun the color of orange sherbet beams over a lopsided heart.
At the bottom, in my messy childhood handwriting: “My wedding. Me and ???”
I laugh under my breath, but it catches halfway out. The innocence of it is almost painful. The paper trembles a little in my hands, and I press it flat again, smoothing the crumples.
This is what I want. Not the fantasy. Not the shiny TV version.
Nate’s right—all that stuff is just for show.
Somewhere along the way, getting married became just another thing for me to win.
But looking at this drawing, it’s clear that what I really wanted all along was a love like my parents have.
Like my siblings—even Cooper—have been lucky enough to find.
For a long moment, I just sit there, squatting carefully on the attic floor so as not to ruin my bridesmaid dress, surrounded by bins of childhood detritus. The heat presses down, and the air smells like dust and cedar and something faintly sweet—maybe old perfume leaking from one of Mom’s boxes.
“Nikki?”
I turn to see Mom climbing up the ladder to the attic.
“What are you doing, Nikki-Belle?”
“Oh, Mom, careful of your dress. You shouldn’t have come up here.”
But she ducks under the eaves and makes her way over to me anyway, careful not to get cobwebs in her perfectly styled updo.
I dig through the box and produce the vintage white veil with hand-crafted lace.
“Getting this,” I tell her. As I hold up the veil, I can almost feel the presence of Meema in the room with us.
I still remember when Mom gave it to me.
Linney had worn it at her wedding, too, and one day it would be my turn.
I’ve seen the pictures of Meema in this same veil—all black-and-white elegance with her off-the-shoulder satin gown.
Mom’s eyes crinkle. “Oh, Nikki-Belle. That’s so sweet—but—” She pauses and sighs. “You should be the next one to wear Meema’s veil.”
“But it’s just sitting here in a box… And I actually think it would look really good with Cara’s dress.”
Call it Meema’s truly timeless sense of taste, but I really do think the veil has an almost magical ability to complement any style of wedding dress, from Meema’s own structured number to my mother’s ’80s-style puff-sleeved princess dress, to Linney’s mermaid-style dress, to Cara’s easeful, minimalist one.
Mom hesitates, her expression softening.
“You know, I think you’re right. I think it would.
” Something catches in her throat. She’s been so emotional about Cara and Cooper’s wedding, it’s almost a little strange.
I hadn’t really thought about it until this moment, but it’s kind of the way a mother-in-law might feel if she didn’t have her own daughter to fawn over.
But she does. She had Linney, and she still has me to fawn over again one day when it’s my turn.
“I didn’t realize you were keeping it stored up here with all this… what else is in here?” Mom crouches beside a nearby stack of tubs and squints at the labels. “Oh my goodness,” she murmurs, pulling the plastic lid off one of them.
Inside is a tangle of trophies and ribbons. I jiggle one loose. It’s the first-place trophy for a dance competition from middle school.
“Oh, I loved that one,” Mom says. “You were an autumn leaf, remember? You practiced that beautiful windstorm routine all through the house.”
“Ha,” I say. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
In truth, the details of all my dance competitions have blended in my mind—there were so many Saturdays spent in auditoriums that smelled like hairspray and sweat.
What I do remember clearly is sitting in Mom’s Volvo with this trophy on my lap, doing our debrief on the drive home.
What had worked for the other girls? What could I change for next time?
The happiness of winning all those trophies had been so fleeting and so sharp, a rush of sweet victory like cotton candy that quickly dissolved, leaving me an upset stomach and the knowledge that the next time, I’d need to be even better.
“Of course I remember!” Mom says, looking affronted. “I cherish those memories, Nikki.” Her smile returns, watery this time. “They were some of the happiest days of my life.”
I look at her—really look. The updo, the wedding makeup, the pride shimmering in her eyes.
“Mom,” I say gently, “they weren’t always the happiest days of my life.”
There’s a silence, as she turns to face me.
She blinks. “What do you mean?”
I swallow. “I mean I liked dancing, and I liked pageants. And yeah—I liked winning. But I felt so much pressure.” My voice thins.
“You were always stressed out. You put a lot of pressure on yourself. I know that, Nikki. But you were such a talented performer.”
“I felt like I had to though. Does that make sense? I didn’t know there was any other way to be.”
Mom’s hand pauses over the bin. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything.
Then, softly, she says, “I just wanted to give you the thing I didn’t have.
” She sits back on her heels, her expression distant in a way that’s suddenly vulnerable.
“Meema was a great mother, but she wasn’t around for me like I tried to be for you. ”
“Really?” I stare at my mother, surprised by this turn. Mom has always spoken so fondly of Meema—we both adored her so much—that I had no idea she ever felt anything other than pure admiration for her mother.
“Yes, I mean, she was amazing. You know that. Meema was the coolest. Such a socialite. You should’ve seen the way she hosted a party.
She could make anyone laugh. Make anyone comfortable.
Everyone worshipped her, sugar, not just our family.
Everyone who met her. I loved watching her sashay through a crowd, taking people by the hand and looking into their eyes and listening to them, telling them a funny story, finding a way to connect,” Mom says.
“She had a gift. And I think you have that gift too, Nikki.”
I flush with warmth. Meema’s always been such a legend in our family, it’s hard to imagine ever living up to that.
“But I always just savored it so much when I got her full attention. It was always when she was dressing me for one of her parties.” She sighs, eyes glistening. “I thought that’s what I was giving you. That time. That closeness I loved.” Her voice catches again.