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His mother is beaming.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hastings," I say, leaning to kiss her cheek.
"You look so beautiful in that dress. Pink really is your color," she says. "And you must call me Ginger. Especiallyunder the circumstances."
What circumstances, I want to ask. But don't. Because I'm too confused. And scared. Perspiration blooms under my arms even though my dress is sleeveless.
"Thanks." I glance at Damien, and his eyes widen. I can't tell if it's because he thinks I look hot in the dress or is trying to signal something else.
It's something else. There's an uncomfortable thickness in the air.
Mom sits opposite Mrs. Hastings and gestures to the one empty seat at our Formica top, red and white 1950s vintage table. I ease out a matching red chair and sit, feeling as though we're all a bit cramped.
This must be serious if Mom isn't offering everyone coffee.
"Ginger and I wanted to talk with you and Damien." Mom adjusts her purple headscarf. She's been losing hair because of the chemo and finally shaved it the other day.
I lean in.
"Dear, I found the marriage license yesterday in your room. I wasn't snooping, but was looking for that insurance card and stumbled on your paperwork." Mom smiles tightly.
Oh, no. I'd left a copy of the license in my nightstand drawer. Like a fool.
"I found it while you were at work last night. And so I called Ginger. I adore Damien, and Ginger adores you. Why didn't you tell us?"
Ginger reaches and squeezes my arm. There are tears in her eyes, and she nods. "I'd be honored to have you as a daughter-in-law."
ShitShitShit
Mom squeezes Damien's bicep. "We wanted to talk about your plans for a wedding and hope you're not thinking of eloping."
damien
. . .
This hasn't snowballedout of control. This has careened off a cliff into a canyon, and we're in a free fall, plunging toward some sort of black-hole wedding planning vortex.
Mrs. Cooper is clutching my left arm, Ma is grasping Kate's right hand, and Kate's left hand is on my knee, which is jiggling up and down like a spring. The air in this little kitchen is suddenly ten degrees warmer.
Kate digs her nails into my leg, and I suck in a breath.
"We're closing the resort at the beginning of February to finish the final repairs, but I think we could host the wedding there. In the garden." Ma's eyes are positively glittering with excitement in a way I haven't seen since I've been home.
"That garden of yours is gorgeous," Mrs. Cooper says, equally enthusiastic.
"Uh..." Kate's voice comes out as a croak. "We kind of wanted a simple, um..." She looks to me, helplessly, as her voice fades.
"We wanted a simple ceremony." I can feel beads of perspiration at my temples. The last time I broke a sweat I wastrying to decide if a paper bag on a roadside in Mosul was actually a bomb.
"Honey, this doesn't have to be a big deal. We can invite family and a few friends. It can be so very laid-back. We're not a formal bunch. And it would give me the little boost I need." Ma's expression is so hopeful that my chest seizes up.
Oh, shit. Ma hasn't been well. I glance at Mrs. Cooper and her purple head scarf. She has breast cancer. How can we say no to them?
Wait. Do I want to say no?
"Please don't get married today in Tampa," Mrs. Cooper pleads softly. "Let's have a party."
My eyes meet Kate's. She looks shell-shocked. I suspect she's thinking the same thing I am. Someone's got to regain control here, or we'll sit at this table all day, eventually deciding on flowers and invites and shit.
