Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (16 page)

“Quiz me?” I ask, repeating a refrain from our college days. Back then, we were the king and queen of mnemonic devices. Thanks to Lin, there are certain German verbs I'll never dislodge from my hippocampus. “
Verstehen,
” he'd intone from the bunk lofted over my study nook. Then his face would appear, upside down, over the edge of the bed as he awaited my translation.

“To understand,” I'd reply. “Because
verstanden
on solid ground.”

“Ya.
Sehr gut.
”

Now, muting the TV, he takes the study sheet from me and examines it. “ ‘Hindu Wedding Guide for Dummies LOL,' ” he reads from the top. He holds it up to his face, squinting. “Does this paper actually have glitter embedded in it?”

“Yup.”

“When's this gig again?”

“Two weeks. Aren't you jealous of how I'll be spending my Fourth of July weekend? I better rock the shit out of it, too, because I need the money before my next credit card billing cycle hits. Turns out, transmissions aren't cheap.”

He pats my head. “Well, now. Maybe it's good you won't be too distracted by a certain shifty sexpot.”

“Nothing like work to take your mind off things.”

“Right, then. Define
swaagatam
. Did I pronounce that right?”

“Beats me. I've been saying ‘swah-got-him.' That's when the groom's family arrives and the bride's family welcomes him.”

“Good. Use it in a sentence.”

“He almost got cold feet, but
swaa-gat-am
to come after all.”

My response is met with a swift
thwack
of a couch pillow to my head. The second our laughter dies down, I get a flash of the closet doors closing in my face.

But Lin has a word at the ready. “
Aarti
. Go.”

Nineteen

T
he morning of Stacey's Hindu wedding, I stumble into the kitchen in a caffeine-starved haze to find a strange man at the breakfast bar. At first I think I'm hallucinating—I stayed up until two
a.m.
chanting, “No shoes in the
mandap
.”

I blink, but he's still there, surrounded by the detritus of a debaucherous night: half-burned dragonfruit candles, wineglasses, and empty bottles labeled “Cheap Red Wine.”

In a pleasant, subtle Southern accent, he says, “Well, hello there.”

I break into a smile. “You must be Steve.”

He beams back at me and extends a hand, which I promptly shake. “Guilty.”

“The famous Steve,” I say in wonderment.

“And you must be Piper.”

“We meet at last,” I say, trying not to squeal.
Way to go, Lin. He's an absolute fox.
“Coffee?”

“Sure. And maybe some for Lin, too, though he's taking his sweet time getting up.”

I observe him in my peripheral vision while I brew the coffee and get Lin's favorite mug, a chipped black one he found at the thrift store and loves for no particular reason. I pull down a couple of George Mason University mugs for me and Steve, who sits on a bar stool with one of his bare feet grazing the black-and-white-checked floor.

He's drop-dead gorgeous but seems oblivious to it. Wearing a pair of worn jeans and a white undershirt, he looks stunning. Straight off the cover of
The Comely Culinarian.
Soft blond hair curls around his ears, flanking warm brown eyes. He is one stunning specimen of manness.

“So what are you up to today?” he asks.

“Oh, you know, just being a bridesmaid in a Hindu wedding. Well, not really a bridesmaid, I guess. Long story.”

Steve's eyes light up. “Oh yeah, Lin told me about that. A clever way to make money, if you ask me.”

“And you're a chef, right?”

“Yep. Well, sous chef. At the D.C. Hilton.”

“Cool. I'll have to come check it out sometime.”

“Do! I'll get you a good deal and a hell of a meal. Tell 'em I sent you,” he says, winking.

Mr. Coffee has quieted down, so I pour us all a cup as Lin walks in, looking sleepy-eyed and happy to see Steve.

“I see you two have met,” he says through a yawn. His hair sticks straight up in the back where he's slept on it.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” I hand him his coffee and slip out so they can have some morning-after bliss in private. Lin and Steve will apparently be celebrating the Fourth with their own kind of fireworks. The kind that don't require leaving the apartment. I might not know much about what I want out of life, but one thing I do know: I want the kind of simple happiness that just involves the other person being in the room. Where all you need is conversation and a chipped coffee mug.

Back in my room, I shove a few tampons in my purse. Even though Aunt Flo wasn't invited to the wedding, she's going to crash it anyway. I glance at the clock—it's almost time to get manicures with Stacey. I feel like I need some gearing-up music, or at least a good power ballad. I hum “Eye of the Tiger” as I leave the house for wedding number two. Wulfie will be my chariot, with his newfound lease on life.

Before I close the door behind me, Lin calls, “
Aarti,
then! See ya!”

The wedding venue
is an Indian restaurant with a large adjoining event hall in the northern suburbs. When I arrive, I'm immediately struck by the
mandap
, which looks even more beautiful than I imagined. It's decked in sheer white, gold, and crimson fabrics and crowned with roses. The priest and his wife sit nearby, arranging candles, brightly colored powders, and sweets on gold plates. As I watch in wonder, a stout brunette woman touches my arm.

“You must be Piper! I'm Deb,” she says in a thick English accent. I like her immediately. “Bless you for helping out with this.” She winks. “Stacey told me she hired you. Brilliant! In twenty years in the wedding industry, I've never heard of it. I might have to put you on my vendor list.”

“Please do! It's so nice to meet you. Stacey's been raving about you.”

Deb gives a mock bow. “Weddings are what I do best, dear. Now, I can't say I have much experience with Hindu weddings, but there's a first for everything.”

“It's my first, too. This is beautiful.”

Our gazes take another lap around the room. Deb nods approvingly. “This is sort of a double first for me,” she admits, leaning closer. “The first official client of my very own.”

“Congratulations!”

“Don't congratulate me yet, dear. When the whole thing's done—both ceremonies—that'll be the time to head to the pub for a proper celebration. Until then, I must admit I'm terrified. I'm afraid something's literally going to come crashing down. That . . . tent thing, for instance.” She points at the
mandap
. “Do we know that's secure?”

“Quite secure,” I say, nodding as convincingly as I can. “So did you start your own business? That's awesome.”

“ ‘Awesome' is one word for it. ‘Insane' is another. It's like jumping out of a plane without knowing if you have a functioning parachute. I'm still in the panicky cord-yanking stage. But I was at the point where I couldn't do anything else. I was working for an event-planning company, and it was hell in a handbag. Not being able to make my own calls. Dealing with the bitchiest slag clients you've ever met. Pardon my cockney.”

“In that case, Stacey's your dream client.”

“What a sweetheart. She's a family friend, and I've been hassling her to get hitched since she started menstruating. But enough about me. I want to know how you got into this business.”

I open my mouth, but we're interrupted by the sound of a desperate
psst
coming from the hallway that leads to the adjoining restaurant. Stacey's face is peeking out at me, her eyes imploring.

“Go on, looks like the bride needs you,” Deb says, shooing me away.

I walk over to find Stacey and the groom's sister, Priya, getting ready in the empty restaurant. Stacey blinks at me, her blue eyes lined in kohl. They look wider than before, like they've expanded to let in a hint of nervousness or fear.

“How do I look?” She spreads the folds of her sari to reveal intricate gold designs beaded across deep red fabric.

“Gorgeous!” I say. Priya smiles in assent.

Stacey smiles back, but she's shaking a little. “Are you okay?” I put a hand on her shoulder. She suddenly seems small, almost frail, swallowed up by the fabric.

“I just—” Stacey starts to put her hands over her face.

“Your makeup, dear,” Priya whispers, and Stacey pulls her hands away, not wanting to smear the kohl around her eyes, the red lipstick. Though the stoplight red is a shocking color against her delicate features, it gives her a fiercely beautiful look.

As Stacey frets with the folds of fabric, Priya turns to me. “She isn't sure if her mother is coming,” she offers, and we both look at Stacey, our hearts going out to her. I think for a second about what Lin would say. He's such a kind heart; he always has the right words. I crouch in front of Stacey, taking her hands in mine.

“Stacey.” I look into her eyes. “Remember what you were telling me the other day about knowing you and Raj were right together?”

She nods.

“You just have to think about that, okay? I don't know if your mom is going to come today. But even if she doesn't, as much as that might hurt, you're starting your own family with Raj. That's something to celebrate.”

She nods, and Priya reaches out with a handkerchief to dab a tear as it rolls down Stacey's cheek.

“Thank you,” Stacey whispers. I close my eyes, silently thanking Lin. It was like he was speaking through me. That, and maybe I'm developing a bit of a knack for this comforting-crying-brides thing.

“Has Raj seen you in your sari yet?”

She shakes her head, smiling.

A few minutes later, Deb joins us, followed by the priest's wife. “Hello, ladies,” Deb says in her thick accent, smile lines crinkling in the corners of her eyes. “We're almost ready to start. Priya, could you join the rest of the groom's family in the back of the hall?”

Priya nods. Before she turns to follow the priest's wife, she encircles Stacey carefully with her arms, leaning in to whisper in her ear. I can barely hear her say, “Welcome to the family,
bibi
.”

Crap, now I'm getting choked up. It doesn't help that when I'm PMSing, I'll cry at pretty much anything, including lone gloves on the pavement and commercials for laundry detergent. Of all people, I need to hold myself together. I'm just the hired help.

When the priest gives the signal, I lead Stacey to the
mandap
, carrying a small metal plate with an oil lamp on it. I focus on each step—
don't trip!—
until we reach the front. Stacey and Raj loop garlands of pink, red, and white roses around each other's necks. They look like they're about to burst into nervous giggles.

Midway through the ceremony, my attention is pulled away by a flash at the back of the hall. A silhouette passes behind the dimpled window glass. I don't want to leave the bride's side, but my bridesmaid Spidey Sense is tingling. I'm pretty sure they won't need me for a while. In the Hindu Wedding Guide, Stacey mentioned there'd be some flux during the ceremony with people getting up and taking little breaks—it's a marathon affair, after all. I take a risk and make my move, hoping I'm not committing any grave cultural sins.

A few people look up as I pass, but mostly their eyes are anchored on the rose-decked couple. When I open the door, I immediately recognize the foyer lurker, though I've never met her. Like Steve this morning, she's a familiar stranger. She has Stacey's features on a wider face. Her blond hair is streaked with gray and perfectly coiffed.

“It's true, then,” she says as I ease the door closed behind me. “My daughter hired a total stranger to be in her wedding.”

I nod.

“I don't understand,” she says, gesturing to the door leading into the restaurant. “I don't understand. We raise her up right for twenty-three years, then she decides to go against everything.”

“Everything?”

She nods.

I look at Stacey's mother and see my own parents. As angry as I've been after our long post-graduation talks, I know they only want the best for me. They see the jobs I've chosen and know I'm not happy. The disconnect is that they think a certain type of job would do the trick. If only the title were snazzier. If only I could manage other people. If only I could raise myself up above the middle-class clocking-in jobs they held their whole lives, the ones they worked hard at so I could be the first one in the family to go to college.

I look at Stacey's mother and see the “if only” all over her face, pushing down her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth. “You should go in there,” I blurt.

She gives me a sad but resigned stare. “Look,” she says. “I'm sure you mean well, but you don't know me. You don't know my family. And I don't know you or how you came to be here. None of this makes sense.”

Her words pinch at my gut. I don't know how I came to be here, either. Where
do
I belong?

“But Stacey loves you,” I insist. “I know I'm a stranger here, but that much is clear. And you love her.”

She looks past me, trying to see through the blue dimpled glass
.

“And,” I continue, “I'm guessing part of what you taught her for twenty-three years has something to do with values?”

She nods, still not meeting my eyes.

“Values like ‘Let us love one another, for love comes from God'?” It's like I've been hit by biblical lightning.

Now her eyes meet mine. Writer Piper begins scratching down impressions: “Even though we're total strangers, we have a moment of uncanny reconciliation. In looking at her, I see my parents. In looking at me, she sees her daughter.” And it's Writer Piper who prompts me with my next line.