Getting Lei'd (14 page)

“And he loves me,” I add quietly, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and letting this amazing knowledge and pure euphoria wash over me as I actually allow myself to accept it as truth.

I’m surprised that Kai didn’t ask Baggy and Ruthie about how to find me, but maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision to follow me, just like mine was to return to him. It seems that spontaneity is in the air, I decide, thinking about Baggy’s impending wedding.

I try calling Kai’s cell phone, but he doesn’t answer. I decide that this conversation is too important to have via voice mail, so I don’t leave him a message. He and I will find each other, and when we do, it will be earth-shattering, but for now, I need to focus on Baggy’s upcoming nuptials.

I decide to track down Baggy and Ruthie, so we can make arrangements for the food. We also need to decide on dresses and flowers and music and seating. The more I think about it, the more I start to sweat. We have lots of work to do—but fun work.

I want this day to be perfect for Baggy. I didn’t get to go to her wedding to my late grandfather—it was way before my time. Although the rumor is that my mother attended in Baggy’s belly, which was quite the scandal at the time. I am guessing circumstances made Baggy’s first wedding stressful and less than ideal, so she deserves the wedding of her dreams this time around. I am just the person to make sure all of the details are covered for the big day.

It shouldn’t be a huge surprise to find Baggy and Ruthie sunning themselves by the pool, but it shocks me nonetheless. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice an octave higher than normal.

Baggy lowers her oversize black sunglasses to peer at me. “Getting some color so people can tell where my white dress ends and I begin,” she tells me as if it should be obvious. I don’t bother to point out to her that she has been in Hawaii for more than a week and her leathery skin is already a deep shade of brown or the fact that, since she is a grandmother, virginal white probably isn’t the most appropriate dress color choice.

“Oh, good.” I plop down in the empty reclining chair adjacent to them. “You already have the dress. I was afraid you hadn’t taken care of that yet.”

Baggy and Ruthie gave each other a meaningful look before turning wide eyes on me. “We’ll go pick one out this evening.” Baggy waves me off as if finding the perfect wedding dress isn’t her most pressing chore today.

“Isn’t the rehearsal this evening?” I’m starting to feel a ball of nerves churn in the pit of my stomach.

“Rehearsal?” Baggy looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “What do we need to rehearse?” She asks the question like I have insulted her in some way. She leans her head toward me as if she is sharing a great secret. “We’ve both done this before, you know. All we need to do is swap rings, say ‘I do,’ and give each other some tongue.” Ruthie and I both cringe a little at the mental image of them French kissing, but we try not to let it show.

I decide she probably does have a point about the rehearsal. Besides, if there’s one thing I know about Baggy, she is a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of lady. If we ran through a full rehearsal tonight, she would probably just use the time to come up with some kind of crazy stunt to pull at the ceremony.

I draw the line at waiting until the very last minute to find a dress, though. Knowing Baggy and Ruthie as well as I do, I appeal to their girly sides. “It’s time for you to stop lounging around and get busy,” I start, which earns me glares from both of them. “We need to go shopping!” These magical words get their attention and I bustle them back to the room.

Before long, we are standing in a boutique, and I am rolling my eyes at Baggy’s dress selections.
It’s her wedding.
I keep repeating this mantra to myself over and over as I scan the hot pink, neon green, and fire engine red ensembles Baggy has chosen to take to the dressing room. When Ruthie takes her a black mini-dress with white polka dots to try on, I resign myself to the inevitable uniqueness that is sure to surround every detail of these nuptials.

One thing is for sure. Like everything Baggy is involved in, this wedding is destined to be unforgettable.

We stay busy the rest of the day, choosing outfits and flowers, getting mani-pedis, tasting cakes, and laughing. We laugh so much that my face hurts. Baggy is crazy, I decide as I watch her smear chocolate frosting all over her front tooth and smile at us with what looks to be a gaping hole in her teeth. The appalled look Victoria, the prim wedding cake lady, gives her only serves to make the whole situation funnier.

When Baggy says that she would like to have wedding cupcakes, the uptight woman splutters, “Cupcakes are not appropriate for such a solemn occasion.” Baggy shows no sign of backing down, so the woman turns to me for backup. I must look like the most reasonable—or stuffy—one. When I steadily stare back at her, she adds, “This is a wedding, not a six-year-old’s birthday party.”

“It’s Baggy’s wedding.” I state the obvious.

“Baggy?” the woman inquires, pursing her face as if she has just smelled something distasteful.

“Yes, it came from a shortening of Bad Grandma.” Seeing Victoria bug her eyes out, Ruthie lets her voice trail off without finishing her story.

“Mmmm,” the woman responds noncommittally. Obviously she is not amused by our humor. I wonder if I seem like this much of a fuddy-duddy to my wild sister and grandmother.

Baggy has had enough of this standoffish, judgmental treatment and stands to leave. “Cupcakes or die!” she announces loudly to the room at large.

I can’t help but snicker at her dramatics. She truly lives in the moment and enjoys every second of her life. It might be a struggle for me to ever whoop it up like she does, but she sets a great example of how to live happy. I am going to strive to do the same going forward—in my own way, of course.

I am shocked to see the bakery lady actually crack a smile at Baggy’s antics. “Cupcakes it is then,” she acquiesces, and from that moment on, we get along famously.

It seems that Baggy’s quirky charm is irresistible to even the staunchest traditionalists. By the time we leave the bakery, we have a plan in place for red velvet cupcakes (gasp!) with cream cheese frosting, and Victoria (whom I have now dubbed in my mind the cupcake lady) actually admits that she might consider adding cupcakes to her wedding selection lineup.

“Thanks,Vicky!” Baggy yells over her shoulder as we bustle out the door. I turn just in time to see the shock register on Victoria’s face before the door closes. We mellowed her out somewhat, but clearly she’s not quite ready to hang-loose as Vicky.

We spend the evening telling stories and giggling in our room, just the three of us, and it is one of the most memorable and fun nights of my life. I don’t want it to ever end, but eventually our eyelids begin to droop, and Ruthie announces that she is going to get some beauty sleep before Baggy’s big day.

It seems like my head barely hits the pillow before sunlight is streaming through our window, and there is an incessant banging on our door. I sit up and look around. Baggy is snoring peacefully, apparently not hearing the rapping, which is getting louder by the moment. Ruthie has a pillow over her head, which tells me she hears the knocking but has no intention of answering the door.

“Here, let me get it,” I say sarcastically as I shuffle over to see what all of the ruckus is about. I look through the peephole and see one of my mother’s huge eyes staring back at me.

“Let me in,” she demands. “I can see your shadow through the looking-glass, and I know you are in there.”

I stand there for a moment, debating what to do. I really don’t want to deal with her before having my morning tea, but I don’t see any viable option besides letting her in. If we ignore her, it will only be that much worse when we eventually have to face her.

Finally, I give in and unlock the door. Before I even have a chance to open it fully, my mother takes charge and barges into the room. It’s all I can do to back out of the way to keep her from plowing right over me. She is definitely in a tizzy.

“Why are you still sleeping?” she demands. “It’s a good thing I’m here.” She shoves Ruthie’s feet aside and plops down on the fold-out couch. “If this ridiculous wedding is going to happen, we have a lot to do.”

Giving up on feigning sleep, Ruthie sits up. Her hair is poking out in impossible directions. “Hello, Mother.”

Rather than answer her, our mother turns to me and says in a serious tone, “How can you let this happen? You know that Baggy is irresponsible and reckless. Do you really think this spur-of-the-moment wedding fiasco is wise?”

I am stunned by her accusatory tone and blame-Roxy-for-everything attitude. Although by this point in my life I should probably be used to it, it just doesn’t make sense.
How can I be held responsible for what Baggy decides to do? I wasn’t even here until yesterday.
My thoughts are whirling, and I feel like screaming.

For once, Ruthie jumps in. “It’s not Roxy’s fault. Besides, Howie is a wonderful man. He and Baggy are perfect for each other.” Ruthie’s sleepy face has taken on a dreamy expression.

Mother rolls her eyes in my direction as if to say Ruthie is an idealist whose opinions can’t be trusted. “Let’s try to stay focused on reality,” she admonishes, her eyes focused on me. “How do we know this man isn’t after Baggy’s money? He could be trying to use her in some way.” She is sitting primly on the sofa with her spine perfectly straight.

I wonder if she might be jealous of Baggy’s spontaneity and happiness. It’s not like she and Daddy are madly in love. It’s more like they tolerate each other. When I don’t respond to her suspicions, she adds, “I don’t trust this man.” She spits out the words “this man” like they leave a foul flavor on her tongue.

“You don’t even know him, Mother,” I tell her calmly. Even as I say the words, I know that having her meet Howie with all of his delusional spy stories is not going to help the situation. That is not the point, though. He could be a totally sane, rational human being, but she still doesn’t like him, sight unseen.

“None of you know him,” she bursts out. “Not even her.” She points a finger at her still-sleeping mother.

My eyes travel to Baggy. She is sleeping peacefully, letting out tiny whistling puffs of air with each exhalation. She looks so sweet and fragile. No one would guess by her sleeping form what a spitfire she is. Watching her, I am overwhelmed with love for this wildly irreverent, tiny woman. I want to protect her from my mother’s harsh judgment. If she wants to have a rushed wedding with a crazy man who believes himself to be a spy, then I will do anything in my power to make sure her day is perfect—even stand up to my mother, which I have never really done before.

“Stop it.” I hiss firmly. “Just stop it,” I add for extra emphasis. She bugs her eyes out in surprise, but I can’t stop now. “Baggy has every right to marry whoever she pleases, and she doesn’t need your judgmental looks and comments about it.”

I’m surprised that Mother hasn’t interrupted me. Years of frustration over her hoity-toity attitude and condescending treatment of all three of us bubbles up inside me and demands to be released. “You need to let us live our own lives—even if that means we make mistakes along the way. A kind mother would be there to help us pick up the pieces when we do have errors in judgment, rather than admonishing us with an ‘I told you so.’ ”

I pause and look at the others for the first time since my tirade started. Ruthie has her arms wrapped around her bent knees, looking at me with a mixture of shock and awe. Mother is looking at the floor with her lips stiffly pursed. Baggy is still sleeping soundly.

Mother stands up, stretching her long limbs to her full height in an attempt to look down her glasses at me. This intimidation tactic is very effective with most people, but since I am just a hair taller than her, it isn’t as dramatic. “I’m surprised by you,” Mother finally says. Although her voice isn’t as stern as I would have expected, I sense that she is very disappointed in me.

I refuse to back down in the slightest. My back is rigid, and I keep my face a blank mask, refusing to allow the concern I have over her disappointment to show on my face. She has never before experienced me standing up to her, so the fact that she is surprised is not news to anyone. When she sees that her words haven’t caused any type of reaction, she goes for the jugular. “I expected better from you, Roxy.”

Her verbal darts miss their mark because rather than making me swing around to her way of thinking, they infuriate me. “Why? Why do you expect more from me than anyone else? I’m always held to some higher standard, but that standard is unachievable, Mother. I’m not perfect, and I never will be.”

“I hold you to a higher standard because you are smart, rational, and you have your feet planted on solid ground—well, usually. I do expect more out of you,” she admits, “but it’s only because I know you are capable of so much more.”

Her words surprise me because it is the first time she has ever openly admitted that she treats me differently. I look to Ruthie to make sure Mother’s comparative words haven’t hurt her feelings, but she seems to be perfectly fine.

I’m too shocked by our mother’s revelations to respond. I hadn’t realized that she was aware of the disparities in the way she treats her daughters. On the one hand, I am flattered and relieved that she believes in me. On the other hand, I realize it’s not fair to have placed me on a pedestal for all these years with higher expectations than I have any hope of ever achieving.

“Perhaps my faith in you was unfounded.” With these cutting words, Mother whirls around and leaves our room, calmly closing the door behind her.

Once the door has clicked into place, Baggy, never opening her eyes, says, “Nice job standing up to her.” She lets out another little puff snore for good measure, which makes us start giggling.

“You were faking being asleep?” I ask her disdainfully. When she gives me a shit-eating, toothless grin—her false teeth are still in the glass on the bedside table—I lob a throw pillow at her.