"Carriage?" I repeat, feeling faint. "I drive a Volvo. It has a five-star safety rating."
"You will arrive in a gold-leaf barouche drawn by six white stallions," Mother declares. "And Jackson, you will not be wearing sixty-dollar jeans. You will be wearing a morning suit with tails. I have already commissioned Giovanni. He is flying in silk from Milan."
Jax looks at me. His eyes are wide, reflecting the sheer, unmitigated horror of our reality.
"Horses?" Jax whispers. "She wants me in a carriage? Max, do you know how many crush injuries I see from equestrian accidents? I am not arriving at my wedding in a nineteenth-century trauma statistic."
"And the guest list," Mother continues, flipping a page with lethal precision. "We kept it intimate. Just the immediate circle."
"How many?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.
"Twelve hundred," she says. "Give or take the diplomatic corps. And the Symphony Orchestra."
Jax drops his head onto the table with a soft thud.
"I don't even know twelve hundred people," Jax mumbles into the tablecloth. "I don't even like twelve people."
"It is not about liking them, Jackson," Mother says sharply. "It is about the brand. Which reminds me."
She flips to the final tab of the binder. She taps a piece of heavy, cream-coloured cardstock.
"I have sent the proofs to the stationer. ‘The Marriage of Dr. Maxwell York and Dr. Jackson York.’"
Jax freezes. He lifts his head slowly.
"Excuse me?" Jax says. "Jackson York? I didn't agree to change my name. I’m Dr. O’Connell. It’s on my board certification. It’s on my parking spot. It’s on my favourite mug."
Mother looks at him. Her expression is pitying, as if he has just asked if he can wear a clown nose to a funeral.
"You are marrying a York, Jackson," she says simply. "You are becoming a York. And now that you are officially part of the family, this is what you are going to have to do."
She leans forward, her eyes steel.
"We do not hyphenate. We absorb. You will be taking the name. Maxwell will certainly not be becoming an ‘O’Connell.’ We are securing a legacy, not acquiring a pub in Boston."
Jax gapes at her. He looks at me.
"Max?" Jax pleads. "You can’t be serious. I’m O’Connell. I’m the chaos element! You can’t sanitize me with a ‘York’!"
I look at my mother. I look at the binder. I look at the prosecco bottle.
"I fear for my life, Jax," I whisper.
"And as for entertainment, I regret to inform you that Elvis truly is dead dear," Mother says, closing the binder with a final snap. "But I did manage to book Elton John for the reception. He owes your father a favour from the 80s involving a yacht and some questionable investments."
She smiles. It is a terrifying, shark-like smile. It is the smile of a woman who has never heard the word 'no' in her life.
"Buckle up, boys. It’s going to be the event of the century."
I reach for the prosecco bottle. I don't bother with the glass. I am about to tip it directly into my mouth when a sound cuts through the brunch like a scalpel.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
It isn't a phone. It is the synchronized, shrill cry of two St. Jude’s pagers going off simultaneously.
Jax and I move before the sound has even finished registering. The shift is instantaneous. The "Ice King" and the “Trauma Cowboy” vanish, replaced by two attending surgeons.
"Code Blue," Jax says, unclipping the pager from his hip. "VIP Wing. Room 402. That’s Senator Hampton.”
