Chapter 5 #2
“I’ve been on three dates this year, and no second dates yet.
The furthest I’ve gotten is second base because the minute they touch my breasts, they do it wrong.
Not that there is a right way to feel up silicone.
But there’s just something missing. And I don’t have the time or patience to educate them on how to” —I wave my hands around— “I don’t know, exist around a twenty-nine-year-old cancer survivor.
No one knows what to say. No one knows when I’m making a joke.
Or genuinely looking for someone to commiserate. ”
I pause but Louise’s eyes are sparkling their encouragement for me to continue my diatribe.
“And even my support group didn’t get it.
It was for ‘young women,’ but in cancer terms, that means under fifty.
They had kids or they had already decided not to have kids.
They’re married. They got to at least use their breasts before they lost them.
I’ll never breastfeed. I won’t get to see my own cleavage at my own wedding, if that ever happens.
I’m pissed off. Furious.” Steam is probably billowing out of my ears.
Louise sits back, satisfied. “Very good, Gem.”
“You think this is good?”
“I think you have every right to be pissed off. It’s a shit deal.”
“It is,” I confirm, planting my hands on my armrests. “I have a list—it’s very simple. Three things I need to do to be able to move on, figuratively speaking.”
“A bucket list?”
“More of a Be Yourself list.”
“My counselor keeps badgering me about my bucket list.”
I fidget with my collar. “My group talked a lot about bucket lists. I never could bring myself to write down something dumb like, oh pretty please let me see the ocean one last time.”
Louise’s eyes narrow like she can see right through me. “Maybe you’re just scared of what it means to have a bucket list.”
“Oh.” I laugh: a flimsy, nervous sound. “I’m not scared. It’s just, why do I need a bucket list? I’m not dying.” At least, right now I’m not.
“My counselor tells me it’s more about living with intentionality. Making the time you’re here meaningful. However long it lasts.”
The air is heavy, laden with all the things I painstakingly avoid, lest I have a panic attack in a stranger’s mansion. Though, this would be the ritziest panic attack locale yet, that’s for sure. I suck in a breath, resetting myself into something happy and palatable. “When were you diagnosed—”
“I’m here!” Penelope shouts from somewhere inside this cavernous mansion. “So sorry I’m late, Aunt Lou,” she effuses as she flits into the parlor, carrying a Saks shopping bag.
“It’s okay, hun.” Louise smiles as Penelope arranges herself on the chair opposite mine.
“I’m here, too,” Calliope mumbles, following her sister in, giving Louise a quick peck on the cheek.
“Your friend and I were just getting to know each other.”
“Ruby’s the best, isn’t she?” Penelope says, genuinely sounding like she means it. My chest opens, puffing up with the praise. “I hope you started without me.” Penelope takes a long sip from an iced Starbucks the size of her face.
I look between Pen and Louise for a minute. “Start…?”
“The presentation, silly! Well, no worries. You wanted to wait for me. You can start now!” Pen watches me expectantly.
I stare at her. Is she asking me to lead this meeting?
I was invited two hours ago! Is this actually a nightmare in which I have to lead a meeting I didn’t know existed (in my underwear)?
I play back our conversation, and can’t quite pinpoint a moment where she explicitly asked can you lead this wedding planning meeting for me?
But at the same time, she didn’t explicitly not ask.
Ruby’s the best echoes in my ears. I am the best. I’m a great friend. I’ll be the greatest friend she’s ever had.
“Uh.” I gulp like a background fish in Spongebob.
“Yeah…let’s see.” I pull my folded print out from my dress’s pocket and straighten the curling corners, flattening the sweaty crease.
Well, if I had known this was what she wanted, I would have printed two copies of this.
I slowly step toward Louise, half-heartedly handing her the document.
She takes it and perches a pair of magenta reading glasses on her nose that hang on a beaded lanyard around her neck.
“Today we’re deciding on the photographer, band, and florist,” I read over Louise’s shoulder. There’s a bulleted executive summary at the top. Miri really did plan this wonderfully.
Louise hums.
“The photographer—” I prompt, gently turning the first page to the other side, where there are two options for photographers.
“This first one…” Miri included three example photos for each and bullets on their specialties.
“Is classic. Strong in artificial lighting, posing, and composition.” The wedding party posed on the bed of the bridal suite, petals exploding all around the lens.
A perfectly staged extended family photo in front of the altar.
The bride and groom framed in profile with a setting sun illuminating the space between them.
“The second one is a more artistic choice.” The images are full of movement, shadow, and interesting composition choices.
A sly glance in a mirror while a bride gets ready.
A first dance that lets you feel the movement of the twirl.
A golden shadow dancing over the groom’s face as he sees his bride for the first time.
“Background in fine art photography, documentarian style, prefers natural lighting but can work with flash.”
Pen slurps on her iced coffee. “I’m really torn, Aunt Lou.” She widens her eyes theatrically. “I want someone who will be able to check all the boxes for the shots we want, but I like the artistic photos more. They feel more aligned with my personal brand.”
“What feels more true to you and Josh as a couple?” I ask.
“Oh, this is just my choice. Joshie doesn’t care about photos.” She waves away my question.
My cheeks burn. “What if you give the fine art photographer a list of must-have shots? Then you get all the photos you want in the style you prefer?”
“How’s that sound, Aunt Lou?”
Louise nods, the glasses wobbling on her nose. “Whatever you want is fine, hun. I just want an extended family photo to print for the piano.”
“Done!” Pen claps her hands. “So productive! What’s next?”
“Um.” I squint back at the print out, turning the page in Louise’s hand. “Band.” I skim Miri’s bullets. “There’s two options. She’s recommended the one that has more classics. Fourteen pieces, including a sax, an R&B flair, and confirmed experience with ‘Hava Nagila’ and ‘Siman Tov’.”
Pen stares blankly.
“The songs they play during the hora?”
“Oh,” Pen huffs, “right, yeah.” She catches Louise’s eye. “The chair dance, Aunt Lou.”
Louise scoffs. “Penelope Leigh Ainswright, I grew up in Hyde Park. I know what a hora is.”
Pen clears her throat, red creeping up her neck. “And the second option?”
“The second one looks to have a pop specialty. They actually…” I lean forward over Louise’s shoulder. She has a distinct miasma of Chanel No. 5 surrounding her. “Started as a Taylor Swift cover band.”
“That’s perfect,” Pen gushes. “Joshie and I both love country and pop. In that order.” She winks.
“Hmm.” I read further. “It looks like Miri specified an issue that they’ve never done a Jewish wedding.”
Calliope interjects for the first time since the meeting started. “The other band sounds like they have music that appeals to all ages.”
“But this is about what Josh and I want.”
“Where was that when you were picking the photographer?” Calliope mutters.
I recall my cousin Sammy’s wedding a few years ago.
They found out two days before the wedding that their DJ didn’t have the license to play “Hava Nagila.” We ended up doing a rather frenetic hora to “Sandstorm.” How could they not have checked about ‘Hava Nagila’?
My mom railed in the car on the way home. It’s the one must! A must!
“I’d be worried about a band that’s never done the hora before,” I speak up. “They can go on for a while, and you don’t want the band to cut it short because they’re not sure what to play.”
Penelope picks at something under her nail.
“I’m sure they can play Taylor Swift too,” I add.
“That sounds like it makes the most sense to me.” Calliope nudges Pen. “Given you’re having a Jewish wedding.”
Pen rolls her eyes. “Fine. Yes, let’s do that.”
“Great,” I say, though it doesn’t feel great. This feels like walking on eggshells, trying to corral a practical wedding out of the haze of Pen’s vision.
The florist is, thankfully, the easiest of the three. Penelope looks at bouquets, Louise looks at prices, and we go with the Baby’s Breath Bridal gilded package, which includes a budget of between $50,000 and $90,000 (I manage to keep a neutral expression when I read that figure out loud).
Once we’re done and the printout is back in my pocket, Pen reaches for my hand. Thank you, she mouths with a dazzling smile. I preen. It’s nice to feel needed. To be there for other people. Nothing makes you appreciate that like being unable to walk a mile for four months.
“Two gentlemen are here,” Alma enters the parlor to tell us.
“Joshie is here! And he’s brought his best man.”
Josh walks in, followed by a man with familiar fluffy hair clamped down by a crisp white backwards hat. His seaglass eyes glow in the diffused parlor light, competing with Lake Michigan herself.
It’s Mystery Man.