What a Girl Wants (18 page)
“Make sure your Aunt Trudy didn’t give it to you for Christmas. She’ll be here. I’ve searched in my gift cabinet and I just don’t have anything appropriate.”
“I have so many gifts from men, it’s no problem, Mom.” Okay, I really do have a mental illness.
“I just can’t tell when you’re joking anymore. This sarcasm isn’t going to help you find a man.”
Ain’t it the truth?
I log off Mom and log onto my e-mail just to check if there are any urgent e-mails from Liberia asking for money. Nothin’ but some to-do lists from Purvi. But there is one from Seth.
From: [email protected]
Ash, know things are hectic, but must talk with you. Call me
when you get a chance. —Seth
Must talk with me.
Probably about the mercy date he asked me out on, and can he, um, take it back? Or do I know so and so? Well, if he needs to know the phone number of the new girl, he can find out for himself. I’d rather go to my brother’s wedding shower.
P
ease tell me that my name is not on this shower invitation!
I’m standing here in stunned awe. I cannot believe this is a representation of a shower I would throw. I’m looking at the purple and gold decorations—and when I say gold, I mean metallic, not classic brushed gold. Shiny, cheesy metallic—like glitter has thrown up all over my mother’s house. It’s a tribute to the ’80s in here, not to mention my brother’s days as a high school football star. But here we are, in a bad set of
Dance
Fever
waiting for the guest of honor and, of course, Deney Terrio could show at any moment.
My mother is a nervous wreck, certain that her aspic will fall or that one of her little finger sandwiches will don a piece of crust. Gone is my idea of grilled Portobello mushrooms and prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe. In its place, we have finger-food circa 1950 and my mother in an apron.
I am most certainly adopted.
“Ashley, get your coat off and help me wrap the plasticware.” Mom hands me a stack of dark purple napkins and gold curling ribbon.
Relax.
This is Mei Ling’s shower and if she likes Dave, chances are she’s going for the gold.
“I brought the gift for Mei Ling.” I hold it out to my mother. “From Dave,” I say sarcastically as she takes it from me.
Mom places it on the coffee table with some of the other gifts. I add my own purchased gift to the pile.
From Dave
, I found some perfume I received from my boss for Christmas. The stuff smells like Jasmine and Windex mixed together, so I figure Dave will think it’s divine. My boss left the price tag on it as though the financial burden would make me think the odor was actually a good thing.
Anyway, I left the price tag for Dave. Mei Ling most likely won’t notice, but my brother will know he owes me. And I never miss an opportunity for that. I bought a beautiful gift for my future sister-in-law in Union Square. I’m actually very excited to get a sister-in-law—if not in complete disbelief. I just hope we can communicate. Since my brother is prone to simple grunts, I don’t know what to expect of her and I’m quite nervous about meeting the poor woman.
I wrap the plasticware and set all of the snacks on the dining room table and, finally, fill the punch bowl with the standard sherbet, red dye #5 specialty of the house. I picked up the cake at the natural food store and it is a sight to behold. Luscious, out-of-season strawberries and ribbons of whipped cream give the image of an elaborate wedding dress, and “Welcome Mei Ling” is written in soft pink cursive.
I was fine about the event—this wedding—until I saw the cake. The cake sits there, almost taunting me in its virginal whiteness. Why do I feel so single this year? It’s like I turned thirty-one and I’m suddenly humiliated that I’m unmarried. And where in the heck is Brea? She’s supposed to be here with me, supporting me in my Dark Hour.
The prosciutto and cantaloupe didn’t happen because I’m not the princess for the day. I’m the hired help. My lower lip is trem-bling at the sight of my giddy mother running with her hands in the air. I think she’s thankful that there’s no mother of the bride to contend with—perhaps because this might be the only wedding she hopes to ever plan. My mom is walking toward me and I just close my eyes. I can’t handle it. Where is Brea?
“Please don’t say anything, Mom.” I hold up my palm.
She puts her arm around me. “Your day is coming, Ashley.” She pats my hand and goes on about her busyness, while I have what feels like a walnut stuck in my throat. She doesn’t reassure me that it’s okay to be single, only that my day is coming. Well, so is the apocalypse, and I’m not holding my breath.
Doorbell. Here comes the onslaught.
Prepare.
My mom opens the door and Dave is standing with his arm around an absolutely beautiful Asian girl. She’s petite, with flawless skin and a gorgeous thin nose that’s straight out of an “after” picture at the plastic surgeon’s office. Her eyes are large and deep brown, and dark hair falls around her shoulders in a modern, uneven bob. Mei Ling looks surprisingly American for someone my brother would date. She smiles at me and tentatively hugs me.
“You’re Ashley,” she says into my ear without an accent.
I nod. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mei Ling.” She is nothing like I imagined her. She looks like she could marry anyone she wanted, and I am completely thrown. I was expecting a downtrodden for-eigner in bad plaid who settled for a man like Dave because she needed a green card. Mei Ling, however, has a friendly smile and a warm manner
and
designer clothes. She has really tiny, elegant hands. I want to say more, but I cannot think of a thing, I’m so taken aback by my own misconceptions. Or should I say,
prejudices.
My mother has helped with Mei Ling’s coat and is explaining how the day will go, like Mei Ling is a half-wit. But Mei Ling’s English is perfect. I immediately visit the gift table and pick up the wretched bottle of cologne, which I wouldn’t allow my brother to give to his tiny bride. Dave is chaperoning Mei Ling about with this deep care and concern, actually protecting her from my mother’s rules.
The odds of a man treating me like this, with kid gloves, are um, shall we say, negative six or so? So now I’m thinking, am I just this practical chick who’s not meant for real romance? Maybe I’m the type a man marries and immediately denigrates to wearing sweatpants and becoming a laundry Nazi. Perhaps I’m not the type one cherishes, but the practical gal a guy gravitates toward when they have an excess of dirty shorts.
Where’s Brea?
She hasn’t shown, and most likely she won’t—because she is now part of a matched set—and like a sock in the dryer, if she gets separated, they’ll never see each other again. This isn’t the first time she’s been a No Show when she’s promised me she’ll be somewhere. Not since John came into our lives.
“Ash, you okay?” Dave asks.
I nod again. I study his face. He’s being nice to me. Mei Ling might be the antidote to his brotherly disease!
“You like her?”
“I do, Dave. She’s beautiful and she seems very sweet.”
“Thanks.” He kisses my cheek.
He actually kissed my cheek!
“I knew you’d like her. At least I’d hoped you would.”
Could my opinion actually matter to him?
“I’m sorry about what I said.” I shuffle my feet. “About you meeting her at the immigration department and everything. That was a stupid thing to say.”
He shrugs. “I knew you didn’t mean it. I’m outta here before all the biddies get here.” I watch him walk over to Mei Ling, a look of deep concern growing on his brow. He really and truly cares for her, and I’m just stunned that my brother has love residing any-where within him. It throws off all I know to be true. He speaks gently to her. “Mei Ling, if you need anything, just ask Ashley, okay? I’ve got my cell phone. Call if it gets to be too much. I’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Mei Ling nods. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. It’s only your family.”
Dave winks at me. “It’s only my family, she says. Stick with her, Ashley. I’m counting on you.”
Dave kisses Mei Ling and she returns the kiss with a fire not acceptable in my parents’ home. My mother purses her lips. Dave never sees Mom’s expression, and he’s out the door before she can make her annoyance known. Kissing in my family is saved for the bedroom. At least I assumed it’s saved for there. Since I’ve never seen it, and my brother and I exist, I figure it must reside in secret.
Ick. Bad visual
.
Doorbell again. The relatives have arrived. I open the door and three of my great-aunts are huddled together in an overweight sparkly rhinestone powwow. “Ashley!” they say in unison.
“Aunt Trudy, Aunt Val, Aunt Babe.” I hug them all and we are still on the porch when the first grenade is launched.
“Well?” Aunt Val says, as only a lifelong smoker can. She lifts up my left hand. “Look at this pretty gal still not married. What’s wrong with her?” she says to her sisters.
Aunt Babe shakes her head. “It’s criminal.”
“We’re not going to be around forever, you know.” Aunt Trudy says, sounding remarkably like Marge Simpson. I question that remark. I think they are going to be around forever, sopped in their old lady perfume, preserved better than King Tut himself.
“She’s no spring chicken,” Aunt Babe offers.
They look to one another, my mother’s same pursed lips in synchronized form, shaking their heads. It’s like a rehearsed ballet. Okay, my melancholy is gone. Extreme annoyance has taken its place.
I know my great-aunts are older. I know they deserve my respect, but Lord help me when those mustached mouths combine in raisined puckers, I’m like a cat with my back raised. I want to defend myself against this raging pit bull of judgment, yet I know it won’t do any good.
“Aunties, you’re all so funny. I just haven’t met Mr. Right yet, but I’m dating a Stanford doctor.”
Group squeal of approval.
“You’re
what?”
My mother comes out of nowhere.
“It’s nothing serious yet, Mom. Don’t get too excited.”
“We never thought we’d see the day that your brother was getting married before you, Ashley. You must be too good for the men around here,” Aunt Babe says.
“She’s not too fat,” Aunt Trudy surmises. “She’s got a nice rack on her.”
Have mercy on me.
“She’s quite a pretty girl too. Even with that awful haircut.”
“Speaking of pretty, why don’t you all come in and meet Mei Ling?” I open the door wider, and like three animals on their way to the trough, my aunts head to the table to check the spread. They’ll apparently get to the bride after this important bit of business is resolved.
It may sound odd, but I’m kind of rejoicing that they don’t see the obvious reason for my singleness. There was actually an argument about what my problem might be. Lord knows, if they did see it, I would be aware of it now. So that just goes to prove my reasons are well-hidden, and maybe that’s why I confuse the men of America. It’s definitely fixable. I just have to unearth it and put it in its proper place like a good Reason Archeologist.
My mother’s friends arrive, and the shower attendance is complete. Mei Ling is bowing as she meets the guests, each of them whispering their thoughts aloud. Although Mei Ling speaks perfect English, it does not occur to my great-aunts that she understands it as well.
“I doubt he could find an American girl.”
“He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“Let’s get started with some games,” I announce. I break the women up into small groups and we do the toilet-paper-wedding-dress gig. Hey, how creative do you expect me to be with two days notice? My aunts, as avid quilters, embellish with tissue rosettes and bows and, while it’s hard, I announce my aunts the winners with their streaming floor-length toilet paper veil.
Big exertion breath here. One game down. One to go. But the women are talking, and I can’t do anything to break apart their fun. “I have another game,” I say, but no one ceases talking.
Mei Ling shakes her head. “It’s all right, Ashley. I don’t think they want to play a game, and I got to meet everyone. That’s all that matters.”
“We have to do the gifts.”
“We will. You worry too much. Your brother said you worried too much.”
I can’t believe my brother talks about me at all.
“He said that?”
“Your brother told me you’re the smartest woman he knows and that I would love you.”
“My
brother
said that?”
Mei Ling laughs. “Why wouldn’t he? He’s your staunchest supporter, you know. He said that you go to Taiwan all the time and perhaps we could join you on an upcoming trip so I could locate some of my family relations.”
“Where did you meet my brother?” Now I’m really leery, like this is some elaborate joke for my benefit. My mother said they were getting married at a Chinese church, but this—
“A friend of mine brought him to our Bible church about six months ago. They didn’t stay together, but Dave stayed. He’s been coming ever since and even learning a bit of the Chinese language.”
Dave bumming a trip to Taiwan, I can handle, but him attending church? That’s just beyond Roswell, you know? A Raelian, I could believe. Even your garden variety Jehovah’s Witness, but a Bible-believing, Chinese-church-attending Christian? No way. There’s just no way.
“Your brother is a very sweet man, Ashley. I know you two have had your moments, but it’s time you both forgave.”
Did I not just get a sermon? From my brother’s Christian fiancée? Nothing is as I’ve seen it. God can turn my lazy brother into a Christian, but He can’t make Seth see I’m the woman for him. My eyes clamp shut.
Seth.
I meant Kevin, didn’t I? Dr. Kevin.
I
arrive home and find my answering machine is blinking. I’m embarrassed by the exhilaration this brings me. Yet, it’s only Sunday night. Not Wednesday, not even pathetic I-don’t-have-a-date- yet Thursday. It’s Sunday and I have a message; can I possibly help my elation?
I skip to the phone and press the red light of hope.
“Hey Ash, it’s me Brea. I know you’re ticked. But hear me out. John was—”