Diary of a Mad Bride (12 page)

S
tephen didn't seem to mind the idea of having our wedding reception in my parents' backyard until I mentioned that it
meant swapping our cell phone–toting Father Anderson for his family minister, Reverend MacKenzie.

But what can we do? Nothing. Stephen will just have to get over his dislike of Reverend MacKenzie.

Trust me. In the “Who's More Upset About the Way This Wedding's Turning Out” contest, I'm ahead by a mile.

A
fter finally deciding to embrace my roots, to return to the homestead, to have my wedding reception in my parents' backyard…

They flat-out refused.

When I reminded them that they'd been more than happy to host Nicole's wedding, they reminded
me
that since then the house has been repainted and the backyard landscaped. My mom doesn't want dirty handprints all over the walls and my dad doesn't want people trampling the flower beds. Not to mention the reseeded lawn.

Just as I was about to start yelling I thought to myself—“What would Stephen do in this situation?” Logic. I calmly explained to my parents that their lovely backyard was the only choice Stephen and I had since we couldn't afford any place we liked in the city and because the Stewarts' acrimonious divorce currently precluded using their house. My mother mentioned that the local Lions Club had a very “pleasant” room, which was available for a reasonable fee. The image of a windowless basement crossed my mind. It took all my willpower not to cry.

Instead, I screamed. “Nicole got everyone's enthusiasm! Nicole got plenty of money! Nicole got to use the backyard!”

I was now
begging
to celebrate my wedding in my parents' backyard.

Oh, how the mighty fall.

M
y mother called to suggest we scale back to a post-wedding celebration of cake and champagne on the church lawn.

Forget it. There are Teamster meetings that are more substantial.

T
hanksgiving was one long series of epiphanies.

Maybe those Pilgrims should've just stayed home.

It started with an early dinner at my parents' house. As we sat down to eat I noticed that my mother seated Nicole between my father and herself. I was seated at the other end of the table, next to Stephen and Gram. It suddenly occurred to me that Nicole's been seated between our parents for every meal since 1973. They used to say it was because she needed help cutting her food. She's now twenty-seven years old. Trust me, she's mastered cutlery. But have the seating assignments been revised? NO. And who was it that got all that money for her wedding? And who got to use the backyard? And whom does my mother invite every summer to join her at the Tanglewood Crafts Fair? It was all beginning to make sense.

They liked Nicole better!

Sure they toasted my wedding and maybe they would have waxed sentimental a bit longer if Gram hadn't started
to choke on a piece of turkey fat—but it doesn't matter. It's just a drop in the bucket. Bud and Terry had chosen a favorite. No wonder I'd gotten the bottom bunk!
²¹

At least I know I'm Gram's favorite. She always pays special attention to me. And after we discussed the latest issue of
Round-Up
²²
I began to tell her about my wedding. I was telling her all the difficulties we'd been having because Mrs. Stewart didn't want Mr. Stewart to invite his girlfriend when Gram suddenly interrupted me. “You mean Stephen's parents are divorced?” I could have sworn she knew that. “Yeah. I told you that months ago.” Clearly disturbed, Gram leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones. “Call off the marriage.”

What?!

“Stephen seems like a nice man, even if he does look like Dan Quayle. But everyone knows that children of divorced families are not as committed to their own marriages.”

Sweet Gram, always thinking of my best interests, no matter how antiquated her ideas are.

“Don't worry, Gram. Stephen will take our marriage very seriously. Besides, they say almost half of all marriages end in divorce, so the chances of meeting someone whose parents are still married are pretty slim.”

“My point exactly. It's one of those cycles. Once you're in it, you're sucked up for good.” So charmingly old-fashioned.

“I appreciate your concern, Gram. But divorce isn't a contagious disease.” “Sure it is.
20/20
said most people whose parents are divorced will have marriages that fail.”
20/20
said that? “Hugh Downs or Barbara Walters?” “Barbara Walters, so you know it's true. And remember, we've never had any divorces in our family.” I was about to
remind her that she and Grandpa would have gotten a divorce if they each hadn't been so determined to collect the other one's life insurance—but I didn't. I just smiled.

Note to self: Have Kate verify Gram's sources.

After dinner Stephen and I drove an hour to his mom's house for dessert. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is. It makes me crazy to think that I'm begging to have my wedding reception in the dismal Americana of my parents' backyard when we could be celebrating in style at Mrs. Stewart's Shangri-la.

My parents' house is functional and clean. My mom's always decorated like she taught: quick and to the point. If you need a chair somewhere—boom, you've got a chair. So what if it doesn't match anything else in the room. It's got four legs and a seat. Now sit. But Mrs. Stewart treats her house like a showroom. Everything matches and shines and inspires a cozy sense of financial security and an endless supply of nourishing homemade meals. And the place is enormous. The three kids each had their own bed AND bathroom. Then there's the front lawn, the back lawn, and the clay tennis court. If only!

But no.

Mrs. Stewart served us homemade pecan pie and ice cream. Stephen's sister, Kimberly, was there, so we were four. But instead of sitting in the bright and happy breakfast nook, we sat in the dining room at the huge formal table for twelve. The only light in the entire room was a single candle. It was like dining at the haunted mansion at Walt Disney World.

I am beginning to understand Stephen's position about NOT having our reception at his mom's house. Mrs. Stewart is clearly experiencing post-divorce depression. Some days she's up, up, up—but most of the time she's
down and irritated. It's impossible to watch without feeling terribly sorry for her. Not to mention the fact that it's hardly a desirable temperament in the person whose personal space you're about to invade with caterers and ninety wedding guests—including the architect of her devastation and his perky young girlfriend. Yes, I was beginning to see Stephen's point.

As Mrs. Stewart listlessly continued to feed her pie to Chuffy, Kimberly talked a blue streak about the new sofa she bought for her living room. Despite her self-absorbed monologue Kimberly did manage to get a few digs in at me: A disparaging reference to
Round-Up
and a pointed comment about women who hit thirty and marry out of desperation. I've always politely suffered her vacuousness, but her aggressive behavior really pissed me off.

So I called her on it as we were getting ready to leave. “Is something wrong?”

Kimberly looked at me, surveyed the room for witnesses, then turned back with an expression I can only describe as what Amy Fisher must have looked like before shooting Mary Jo Buttafuoco in the head. “Yeah.” She pointed an accusatory finger at my engagement ring. “That's what's wrong. My grandmother must have been high on Citrucel to give it to you. That emerald belongs to me. It's been in our family for four generations. It's worth a
shitload
of money. And it should've been
mine.
”

I wanted to tell the Honda-driving brat to kiss my ass and then some, but just then Stephen appeared, forcing me to smile and end our conversation with a terse “Tough luck, Kim.”

After all, how dare she?

Then, waving good-bye to Stephen's depressed mother,
his bitter sister, and the sugar-high family pet, we drove across town to see his dad.

Mr. Stewart and Misty had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at a local restaurant with Tom. By the time we arrived at the condo, Mr. Stewart and Tom were splayed on the couch in food comas while Misty was in the tiny galley kitchen brewing coffee. Not surprisingly, Stephen opted to join his father on the couch and steer clear of Misty.

I'd only met Misty once, a few months ago when Stephen and I dropped something off at Mr. Stewart's apartment. But it was brief and we certainly didn't have a conversation. So all I knew about Misty was what Stephen had told me—she was a sick and manipulative woman in search of a father figure—and what I could tell by looking at her—she was pretty in a Jewel sort of way. Not much to go on.

After congratulating me on the engagement, Misty and I stood in the kitchen talking for the next half hour. Clearly she was in no hurry to join the Stewart men on the couch. And who could blame her? Tom's a pervert and Stephen's cold to her. She may not be a chess master but Misty isn't stupid. In fact, she's positively normal. Not exactly what you'd expect from a thirty-three-year-old woman who's romantically involved with a sixty-year-old man whose interests are limited to electrical wiring and golf.

Mr. Stewart himself does not play. He enjoys the sport from the comfort of his Ultrasuede recliner in a temperature-controlled environment.

Misty, on the other hand, can talk about everything from recent medical breakthroughs to Edith Wharton novels.
House of Mirth
is her favorite. Currently employed as a lab technician at a local hospital, she spent four years after college working on a cruise ship. They traveled ten months of
the year and almost always in Europe. She spent the next two years in Madrid as a secretary for the European branch of an American clothing company. She moved back to her hometown when her sister had a baby, her nephew's birth rekindling her desire to be close to family.

Currently considering becoming a veterinarian, she wasn't my type, but she would have made a nice friend for Nicole.

If it weren't for her bizarre relationship with my future father-in-law. A relationship that she FINALLY mentioned at the end of our conversation. And
thank God
, because I was
dying
to know. After all, how does something like that happen? Don't you ever stop and think, “Hey, this guy is old enough to be my father.” “He's got kids my age.” “He's got gray pubic hair!” But Misty's story was short and sweet and void of salacious details—

They have the same auto mechanic and eight months ago they met at his garage.

That was it. No apologies and no explanations. Remorse is not what Misty is about.

When the coffee was ready I followed her out to the living room, where she lovingly patted Mr. Stewart's bulging belly as she handed him a cup. Stephen cringed at her affectionate gesture. And Tom misunderstood it. Slapping his father's gut, he shouted, “Yeah, Dad, you really packed it in tonight!” Mr. Stewart just shook his head. Then, thanking Misty for the coffee, he made space for her alongside him on the sofa.

As I watched Mr. Stewart and Misty together, snuggling on the sofa, I was surprised by how natural it all seemed. Sure, at first it looked like Misty was abnormally affectionate with her dad. And that her head should have been on Tom or Stephen's shoulder. But aside from the age
disparity, they seemed to be well suited and extremely content. And even though I felt guilty about not hating Misty on Mrs. Stewart's behalf, the fact remains that I had seen the Stewarts' relationship, and it wasn't half as loving as this one.

Besides, isn't love what matters most? And who's to say what's appropriate? Jon and Mandy are the same age, but I'd never say their relationship was appropriate. It's not even comprehensible.

M
y insomnia's getting worse. They say sleep deprivation can destroy your health with headaches, high blood pressure, and dementia—not to mention what it can do to your appearance.

And when I do manage to sleep it's generally accompanied by some horrible anxiety dream where I get married in an army bunker, or I walk down the aisle naked, or worse, halfway through the wedding reception I realize I've forgotten to invite someone I love, like my great-aunt Lucy or my mother. In my dream I run to a pay phone and call her. I try desperately to come up with some plausible, forgivable explanation as to why my wedding reception's in full swing and this is the first she's heard about it. I generally don't wake up before experiencing a torturous period of guilt and devastation. How will I ever make it up to her? How will I ever explain why I forgot to invite her to my wedding?

Clearly this wedding is getting the best of me. I'm
allowing
it to get the best of me. But no more! I'm bigger than this. I'm stronger than this. I can control this!

Breathe. I must remember to breathe.

M
y plan of action is set. I must lure Nicole over to my side, ally her with my cause, then send her into the enemy camp to negotiate on my behalf. After all, if my parents have decided to make Nicole their favorite, I should, at the very least, be allowed to manipulate this fact to my advantage.

A
fter reminding Nicole that I taught her how to feign illness in order to skip school, that I convinced our mother to allow her to wear a miniskirt to her junior prom, and that I helped her avoid punishment in 1987 when she got caught sneaking out to a Debbie Gibson concert (like that wasn't punishment enough), Nicole agreed to speak with our parents about letting me use their backyard.