Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single (33 page)

The waiter brings out a large silver cart and starts serving us tea. Little white pots and three-tier trays of tiny tea sandwiches and itty-bitty desserts. I just love it.

“These are the cucumber sandwiches,” our waiter says, “and these are watercress. The egg salad and chopped ham sandwiches are on the second tier, and you'll find fruit tarts and éclairs on the last.”

When he's gone Hailey picks up a triangular sandwich and says, “What's a watercress? This is like the weird stuff Mrs. Keller eats. You're turning into her!”

“Hailey's Swedish,” I say. “She's adopted.”

“Well, I'm glad I'm not Danish,” she says. “I wouldn't want my country of origin to be named after a breakfast pastry.”

She's really tap-dancing on my last nerve.

“My biological family is from the upper province of Kierkegaard,” Hailey says.

“Oh, nobody knows where you're from,” I snap. “They probably found you wedged inside a shrimp party tray at Sam's Club!”

“Jen!” Christopher says. “That's mean!”

“I actually prefer Jennifer,” I say. “Could you call me Jennifer?”

Christopher looks completely confused, like he doesn't know if I'm being horrible-ironic or just horrible-horrible.

I know I'm being horrible-horrible.

I excuse myself and go to the ladies' room, where I run my wrists under cold water. I wonder if the queen of England has to put up with this.

When I come out of the bathroom, I run right into Ted.

He's standing there in the hallway under a pair of antique lacrosse sticks. His face is unusually pale. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says nervously.

“Hey, what are you doing here? I'm having my bachelorette party.”

“I know, Christopher told me. Nice place.”

“What's going on?”

“Look,” he says, tugging me down the hall, “I know this isn't the best timing, but I have to tell you something. I've wanted to tell you for, well, for years now, but I've been scared. Terrified actually.”

He grabs my hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Just listen,” he says. “This isn't easy for me, but now I'm out of time.”

“Ted, quit it. This is weird.”

“You can't marry Brad,” he says.

“I can't?”

“No, because he doesn't know you, not really. I know you and I know the real stuff, the good stuff. I know you swear like a merchant marine at old ladies when you drive and that no matter what you order at a restaurant you'll end up eating my food. I know you'll knock over any glass of liquid left on your desk for more than an hour and you'd give up your health insurance to keep the Lifetime channel on.”

“That only happened once,” I say.

“I know you hate lingerie, you sleep in old boxers and wife-beater T-shirts. I know you never, and I mean never, have cash. You only use plastic. If you park at a meter you have to borrow quarters from people walking by. I know you routinely forget where your car keys are, but you can remember what I said at a company picnic five years ago.”

“You told me not to eat any more cake.”

“I know you think you're fat, but you're not, you're gorgeous. The most gorgeous woman I've ever seen and you're perfect just
the way you are. You're kind and generous and you're strong. You won't watch documentaries about endangered animals because they make you cry. I don't have a lot of money, but you'd be happy with me. You would. I know all the things about you Brad doesn't and I love you for them. He's a pudgy douchebag mama's boy. Plus, I have Mrs. Biggles.”

“What?”

“Lana got that job. She couldn't keep her. She felt terrible. She called me the next morning and I went over to get her.”

“Mrs.
Biggles
? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because it would have made you feel awful,” he says, “because you couldn't do anything about it anyway. But you can do something now, Jen. Come with me. You don't love Brad, you just love the security you think he can give you, but he can't give you any security because he doesn't even know who you are. I know who you are, and I love you. You'll be miserable being Mrs. Brad Keller and you know it. You'll have to be domestic and cook and clean and you hate cooking. You're dangerous when you deep-fry things.”

I can't believe I'm hearing this. My bachelorette party is in the next room. I'm getting married tomorrow. Ted smiles. He looks just like a little boy confessing some terrible thing he did, but maybe it really isn't terrible at all.

Maybe it's wonderful.

“I love you,” he says. “I've always loved you and I think you love me. Do you?”

 

I look deeply into his eyes. “Yes,” I say and smile, but he isn't smiling back. Why isn't he smiling back? Didn't I just say “yes” out loud and in a clear voice? Did I do it wrong?

Pastor Mike clears his throat. “I think we're looking for an ‘I do,'” he says.

Brad rolls his eyes.

“Oh, I do!”

“Then by the power vested in me,” the minister says, and I can't hear the rest because the sound drains out of the room and the color too, like one of those old TV sets where the image gets smaller and smaller until it's just a blue dot, a star in another light system far, far away. I'm dizzy. The pastor is mumbling slow speed and I am moving through taffy or tar or thick vanilla pudding. My arms are concrete and my lips can't move. A hot, heavy ring is wedged onto my finger and my heart slows down, beating more and more heavily until I wonder if it will just stop altogether.

Then the scene comes racing at me full tilt and all the sound in the room, which had been drained and pale before, rushes in with vivid clarity. People clapping, bells ringing, Brad laughing. I take a sharp, hard breath, like I just came up for air after a deep dive. “What's going on now?” Brad whispers. These were his first wedded words to me.

What's going on now?

I catch myself as I stumble after him and we rush down the aisle, the applause clapping in our ears, and we tumble breathless into a waiting limousine, where Brad starts complaining about something, and the whole world outside seems like one big blurry mistake.

At the reception I run for the bathroom with three bridesmaids trailing behind me. They cluck and fret as I lock myself inside the small peach airless space, where I stand with my back to the door, my fingers on the silver lock, staring at myself in the mirror.

Shellacked hair, severe jaw, tight mouth.

I'm looking at Mrs. Keller.

I am Mrs. Keller.

A rapid knocking on the door. My heart racing. “One minute!” I cry out, and actually look around the room for an escape window, but there are no windows, only the door, which I eventually open. I let myself be led to the reception tent where the band starts up.

I smile.

Here comes the bride.

It's funny because I'll remember the whole event—my wedding, that is—the same way hostages and victims of violent crime do. In scattered snapshots, incongruent and without explanation. A piece here and a chunk there.

I'll remember someone shouting, “Here they come!” as we swept down the church steps and how the light sprinkling of rain felt like heaven. I'll remember Lenny dancing by himself and my mother kissing Abbygael, who wore a purple wizard's hat. I'll remember meeting Brad's ex-girlfriend, Hannah, who was inexplicably invited to the wedding.

I'll remember Hailey laughing like a horse and wishing I could stop her.

I'll remember the small violet flowers floating in silver bowls on every table and the hot, scratchy blanket of beard stubble that grazed my cheeks all night. I'll remember my mother telling me how beautiful I am and Ted giving me a kiss. God, I love Ted. I really, really love Ted. He looks good in a suit even though he isn't smiling. Dashing even.

I never saw him in a suit before.

I will not be able to remember my father. Not at any point. He was there, I know, as the photos will show, but I did not see him. Not once. I also won't remember Christopher very clearly or that he held my hair back in the bathroom, where apparently I was sick.

It's a dream wedding! Not my dream, but somebody's. I
know because I'm told how lucky I am all day and night by countless happy, smiling, reassuring people. The gifts table drifts past me at some point, white cards perching like moths on a mountain of satin bows and white paper. Toasters and china and stemware. So fragile! Things that can break and chip and shatter.

It's all here. Everything I ever wanted.

Brad and I even have thrones at the reception table. They're spray-painted and covered with gold glitter, which will rub off on my dress. There's a banner over them that says,
THE LUCKIEST COUPLE IN THE WORLD
! There are also crowns on the table and brass scepters with little Jesus fish on them. As God is my witness I'm going to find out who makes those little Jesus fish and I'm going to stop them.

Brad appears and offers me his hand for our first dance together. Everyone applauds. He smiles and I recognize him, maybe for the first time.

He's the doofy parking lot guy in the red parka.

It comes crashing down on me like Kennebunkport cobblestone. I let Ted go and I married Brad, who thinks I actually like wearing thongs to bed. Why would I marry Baby Huey? He farts while downloading porn. He wears printed T-shirts under dress shirts and thinks no one notices. He occasionally hires hookers. He sold my Scout and made me give my cat away.

This is who I married.

This is Prince Charming.

This is the fairy tale rewritten in the real world.

People are cheering and clinking their champagne glasses with forks. Why are these lunatics always clapping at everything? Who gave them forks? Cameras explode in silver spider
webs across the room and the music swells. I'm smiling so hard it hurts.

“Let's roll,” Brad says, and I distinctly suppress the urge to scream as I take his hand and step forward.

Just breathe. Relax.

I can do this.

T
hanks to the eternal patience and steady editing of Jeanette Perez. This book would not exist without her. Also thanks to Carrie Kania for her endless vision and Christmas Kringles, to Jen Hart for crucial input and boundless energy, and to Alison Callahan who is/will be/can't-not-be terribly missed. Many thanks to my elegant agent, Elizabeth Sheinkman, and the fearless Felicity Blunt, along with all the good eggs at the London offices of Curtis Brown.

Thanks to Billy Collins for writing me little poems, to MPR and Ira Glass for supporting me, to Pete Turchi and the Warren Wilson MFA program for teaching me, and especially to Mac, as always, for changing everything. Breadloaf 2000 kittens, you are always with me. You know who you are.

Marcy Russ edited, Harry Drabnik found blue sea glass, Jason Shapiro sang heavy metal, Thompat Beene lurked mysteriously, Lance Reynalds kept the faith, Chris Romeo gave me wheels, Jodi Ohlsen-Read checked in, Rick Bursky inspired, Adam 2B called from distant lands, R. D. Zimmerman advised, Geoff Herbach commiserated, Carrie Andersen read everything, Joel Switzer delivered gold, My Lee Xiong brought good spirits, Andrew Peterson, Bart Regehr, David
Sunderland, and Tim Peterson are the best bees a girl could ask for.

Many thanks to my family, especially my very funny mother, as well as Colin and Jenna, who watched Walter during the roughest patches. So, too, James Larkin must be commended, a fine man who has a tougher constitution now, and a new and abiding appreciation for my Lunesta prescription. I couldn't have done it without you.