The History of Great Things (21 page)

O
kay, so here's my real wedding, with you thrown in. You're not my sister in this scenario, you're the plain old mother of the bride, as it should be. Not that there's anything plain or old about you. Are you back from the dead? Okay, yes. You're back from the dead. But not in a zombie way. You've just risen. But not in a Jesus way either. Let's say it's like you went on a death vacation and then came back.

You show up at my house the night before, because in the afterlife when people get married there's a notification system for dead parents, who are then given a day pass to come back. Most of the time, the parents opt not to totally freak out their kids and possibly all of the guests as well. After I recover from this shock myself, I introduce you to Ben. We sit down with a cup of tea; he's now wondering where
his
mom is, but we can probably assume that his mom was one of the many who opted not to freak people out. You look around the room, and seeing all the traces of you—afghans, photos, furniture, little needlepoints—you get misty. Ben says
I've heard a lot about you
, and you laugh,
I can only imagine
, you say, and he says he can see now where Betsy gets her beauty from, and you smile at me, you can tell he's a good one. He thinks I'm beautiful. Maybe all you need to know. We catch
you up on some of the other major developments. I've published my first book.
Am I in it? Yes, Mom, you're in it.
Ben says
The common response to news like this is “Congratulations.” Oh, well, yes, that goes without saying. No it doesn't
, he says.
You're actually supposed to say it. It's okay, honey
, I say.
How were the reviews?
you ask.
Seriously?
Ben says.
The reviews were good
, I say.
Well, that's wonderful
, you say.
What if they were bad?
Ben asks.
There's usually a grain of truth in them
, you say
. Honey, don't
, I say.
There's no point
.
No, I want to know, what if they were bad? I'll tell you what if
, you say.
I only ever got one really bad one in my entire career: the Kansas City paper said I overshadowed the tenor in my death scene in
Bohème
, but Christ, what a bunch of bullshit that was. I took it down, I'm supposed to be dying of consumption, but that guy couldn't have sung his way out of his own ball sack. But what if, Mom, what if, I felt confident enough about the work that I wasn't concerned about the reviews? You may have thought that, but if you didn't get any bad reviews you wouldn't know what it would be like. Most people get bad reviews at one time or another. So I shouldn't be a writer because I might get a bad review? If someone told you before you started that you might get a bad review someday, would you not have become a singer? That makes no sense, Betsy. Right, Mom, it makes no sense.

You may end up being just as surprised as everyone else tomorrow
, I say.
I suppose
that's true
.
Victor's remarried. I knew he would be. That's as it should be. Okay, good.
I go to fix up the guest room, and while I'm gone, you tell Ben you had your doubts about whether I'd ever get over my issues with my dad enough to have a healthy relationship. He laughs; he's not going to take that bait, even though he's heard another side of that story a few times.
She's good at it
, is all Ben says, but when he says it, you get it, and you guys have a little moment.

In theory, you don't want to upstage my wedding day, you just want to be there like any mother of the bride. But you're
you, and there's no way around the fact that you're you
and
you're dead, and that's likely now to be what everyone remembers about this day. So you agree to watch the ceremony from the bedroom window so that Ben and I can at least have our ceremony be about us. When I come back from the hairdresser's ready to lose it about the overly fancy updo they've given me, you help me loosen it up a bit, make it more daytime-y; it's a big improvement. Your eyes start to fill up.
Cut that out, Mom! You'll make me mess up my makeup. I can't help it. My little girl.
You can be a big fat pain in my ass, Mom, but I'm glad you're here
, I say.
Better than a pain in your big fat ass, ha! I wouldn't have missed it.

The ceremony is in our backyard on Noble Street in Chicago. The trees are decorated with garlands I made from paper and string; I sewed the skirts for the bridesmaids and the ring pillow myself. My dress . . . you made my dress. It's the bridesmaid's dress you made me when I was a bridesmaid in that all-white wedding in the eighties. We got that brocade fabric on Thirty-Seventh Street; you left the seams extra wide in case I ever needed to let it out and wear it again. I had a designer help me update it by taking off the sleeves and making straps and a kind of a mini-train; I'd kept the leftover fabric. You, for reasons that shouldn't mystify me as they do, are wearing a heavily sequined Bob Mackie gown you got at the afterlife Loehmann's.
It was a bit much. I had to take off some of the sequins
, you say. I try to picture this dress before you worked on it, because it's still as flashy as a fireworks display.
I was never a big Loehmann's fan, but my other option was Forever 21
.
Did you come from hell?
I ask.
No one really says
, you say. My stepbrothers walk my bridesmaids down the aisle: Nina, my sister Susan, and another friend who did all the flowers. We got them from Trader Joe's and she arranged them in mismatched thrift-store vases I picked up for a quarter or fifty cents each, wrapped with tulle.

—Why doesn't the flower friend have a name?

—That's another story. We haven't spoken for a few years.

—Why not? What did she do?

—Why would you assume it was something she did?

—Okay, what did you do?

—Mom, it's too long a story. I wasn't completely honest with her.

—About what?

—Lots of things. I spent years telling her things I thought she wanted to hear so she'd stay my friend. I mean, not lies. Agreeing with her when I didn't. That kind of thing.

—Why would you do that?

— . . .

—I just don't see what this has to do with me.

—I know.

—You can tell me.

—The shortest possible version is that one day, after many years of friendship, I came to feel that I was dealing with her in a way that was not unlike how I had dealt with you.

—Well, I'm sure it was her fault.

—I'm trying to take responsibility for my part, Mom. There were two people involved, yes. That's all I'll say.

—I knew it.

—Mom, it's just a whole other extremely complicated, unresolved story.

—So maybe you should cut her out of this scene altogether.

—I probably should. I was trying to keep the day as real as I could under the circumstances.

—YOU SAID THIS WASN'T A MEMOIR.

Two of Ben's friends from Michigan, Anne and Chafe, have a ridiculously awesome four-year-old, Ruby; she's the flower
girl—I made her dress too (on the big side, I learned that from you, told myself this way she could wear it again)—and my stepbrother Rob's boys Matt and Tom are the ring bearers. Ben's at the altar with his brother Fritz, Chafe, and his other old friends from Kalamazoo, Dann and Tim. Victor walks me down the stairs, because Dad's too wobbly with Parkinson's now, though he's able to take over for the short walk from there to the tree we've decorated to stand under, and he got a new suit and a bright blue tie for the occasion. His joyful smile could light the tree at Rockefeller Center; he's found a bit of a kindred spirit in Ben. Dad has always been proud of his artier side, and he's tickled to have a son-in-law who is genuinely interested in his old woodcuts. Our friends play music as we walk down the aisle; from the altar, Ben and I look on as Anne sings a Nick Drake song, “Northern Sky” (
“Been a long time that I'm waiting . . .”
), with Chafe on guitar, they chose it themselves, it makes me cry; it's a perfect day. We've asked our friends and family to speak as the spirit moves them. Jeannie reads a poem; Ben's sister gives a tribute to their parents, sure they would have been so happy to see this day. Bob talks about the old days when we were friends and we were both miserable and single and how happy he is to see what my life has become.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the house, you've started reading my book. You skim the first story after a couple of pages, confused by the style, and flip through looking for “Mom” or “Mother” until you land on the one that's about the year after your death. You've lost track of time and missed half the ceremony because you've been reading the story about you, and just as Bob is wrapping up, you poke your head out the window waving the book in your hand and yell
Mood-oriented? Mood-oriented?

Everyone turns to look up at the window. Three people faint: two of our pregnant friends and your sister. I give you a dead stare, which is, no surprise, entirely ineffective, and a wave back into the window doesn't help either. Quite a few of the guests have no idea who you are, which I thank god for—friends we met after you were already gone, Ben's family. Many of the guests have seen pictures, of course, but nobody seems to be going straight to
Mother of the bride, returned from the dead
. Nina whispers to me
I've got this
, hurries back upstairs to pull you inside the window.
What does that mean, “mood-oriented”? That I have moods? That I'm moody? The whole world thinks I'm moody now?
Nina gently pulls you back inside.
Nobody thinks that, Lois, everyone loves you and misses you
.
Come on inside now.

At this point, after the guests recover from their fainting spells, there's a pause, a pause so literal and long it's almost like a freeze-frame. All remaining heads are staring up at the window, even though you're now inside. Finally Ben's sister stands up, because no one else has and someone has to.
Okay, everyone. Here's what's going on.
Amy calmly explains the deal about the day pass. Everyone listens silently; it seems impossible to believe, but Amy adds
You saw her
.
If it weren't true, what would the alternative be? Betsy and Ben decided to have some weird lookalike of her mom show up to freak everyone out?
She further explains that the reason she knows this is that her own mother had come to her wedding.
What?
Ben says.
Mom came to your wedding but not to mine? I was there, Amy, I didn't see her. She stayed inside. Didn't she want to talk to me? No, it wasn't that, I'm sure. . . .
Ben looks thoroughly crushed.
I was the first one to get married, and I was her daughter, and . . . it's possible she thought better of it after the last time. Mom loved you so much, Ben. You know that. Let's try to have a good day. I'm sure there are plenty of people here who are happy to see Lois.
I know I'm glad to get the chance to meet her.
Ben and I look at each other. I whisper
I'm sorry.

But a chain of events has been set in motion, and now every single guest who got married after the death of a parent is wondering why theirs hadn't shown up for their wedding. Several guests immediately get out their cell phones to call siblings.
Was Dad at your wedding? Yes. Why did he come to your wedding and not mine? I was her favorite. That's not the right answer! Was Mom at your wedding? Yes. Why didn't you tell me? I didn't want you to feel bad. But I feel bad now! Was Mom at your wedding? Are you insane? Was she? Was she? Dad was at your wedding, wasn't he? What are you talking about? I just found out that dead parents of brides and grooms get to come to their wedding. You're off your meds again. It's true! Don't try to tell me Dad didn't come to your wedding! It would have been just like him, Daddy's girl. Did Mom come to your wedding? Mom was dead when I got married. What are you talking about? I'm at a wedding, there's a dead mom here. Can you hear yourself? Don't lie to me! You've always been a liar! I'm not lying! You dated my ex-boyfriend for a year behind my back! That was eighteen years ago! I'm just saying you're a liar! Fine, she came! I knew it! Did Mom come to your wedding? Yeah. What? Did Dad come to your wedding? Yes. Mom mom mom dad dad dad wedding wedding wedding yes yes yes yes yes yes why didn't you tell me I hate you I hate you I hate you!

Seventeen guests depart without saying good-bye, before the actual vows have been taken.

I remain standing there with my eyes open wide and my jaw locked shut for fear of what might escape. This is when Ben steps up to the plate.

Hey!
he yells.
Everyone stop! Hey! Everyone! Everyone shut up!

The remaining guests fall silent and look toward the altar. The groom is yelling.

Betsy and I are getting married right now. Who wants to stay and see that happen?

All who aren't seated return to their seats.

You and Nina peek back out the window.
I authorize you to cover her mouth if you have to!
I yell up. The guests laugh loudly, a welcome break in the tension.

Ben and I say the vows we wrote for each other. Our friend the minister asks everyone who approves of this union to shout
Yes!
and a resounding and enthusiastic
Yes!
comes forth.

The reception is down the block in Pulaski Park; you walk there with your sister, who's still crying. Marjorie was never a weepy one, but she's beyond overwhelmed to have a chance to see you again. She asks if you're back for good; you explain again about the wedding deal, that this is pretty much it.
So, not even if there are grandkids?
Marjorie asks; you say you hadn't asked about that, but that you were told this was a one-time thing.
And Betsy's too old to have kids now
.
People have other options
, Marjorie says dryly.
What about if she gets divorced and remarried?
Marjorie asks, and you say
Jesus, Marjorie
,
I don't want to think about that, if she waited until she was forty to get married, hopefully she's learned a thing or two,
and Marjorie says
Okay, touchy
, and the old pull to get into it with her comes up, but just as you're about respond, you both crack up.
I know you didn't kill Whitey
, you say, feeling an opening.
I'm a lot of things, Lois, but I'm not a dog killer.
I know, Marjorie. It was that nasty Mrs. Snatchface down the street. Mrs. Stackchase! I should have known
, Marjorie says
. She's paying now
, you say.
But I always knew it wasn't you anyway.