She woke up with a hint of a hangover to a familiar pounding on the bathroom door.  For a moment, the last several years of her life were nothing but an especially elaborate and vivid dream.  She was back in high school and her brother was bothering her to get out of the bathroom so he could get ready for school.  Hold on.  Hold on.  I just gotta finish my makeup.  Just hold on a sec. Then she looked down and saw her clothes, the too-tight jeans unbuttoned and half-zipped and the black sleeveless top flecked with vomit, and she remembered.

“Are you okay?  What are you doing in there?” her brother was saying as he knocked.

“Sorry, yeah, I’m fine.”  She stood up and looked at her face in the mirror.  Running makeup gave the impression that her whole face was melting off.  “Just give me a minute.”

She splashed water on her face and wiped off her smeared makeup and tried to scratch off a few more pronounced specks of vomit.

She opened the door and took her fifteen-foot walk of shame with a lowered head, wishing she’d at least had sense enough to drink until she couldn’t remember the events of the night before.  As Jake passed her, she turned her eyes to the benign beigeness of the wall.

After a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal, and a slow, arduous shower, she lay on her bed cuddled with Tiger, listening to the music of her high school years, staring at the wall, the ceiling, or nothing.  At four o’clock, someone knocked.

“What?”

“Michelle, are you all right?”

“Fine, just resting.”

“Do you want me to make you a doctor’s appointment?”

“No, Ma.  I’m fine.”

The door opened a crack.  “You aren’t acting fine.”

“Ma, I’m okay.  I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Jakey said you were sick this morning.”

Michelle groaned.  “I’m not sick, okay?  I’m just under a lot of stress.”

“Bartending?”

“Just leave me alone.”

Her mother paused.  “I actually came to ask for your help.”

Michelle shifted to look at her.  “Help with what?”

One of Mrs. Browne’s cost-saving ideas for the wedding involved making many of the reception menu items herself.  At the time, she didn’t realize how laborious crafting enough sugar-free, carob-bean dessert truffles to feed two hundred guests would be.  I could have told her, Michelle thought, rolling the sticky brown balls one after another.

“Does the frosting really need to be in the shape of a flower?” Michelle whined after painting tiny daisies on ten truffles with a small cake-decorator.

“Of course it does,” her mother said, squinting to apply a daisy of her own.  “That’s how I started making them.  They all have to be uniform or they’ll look homemade.”

“They are homemade.”

They sat in silence and did the work.  Michelle was quietly glad for the tedious occupation.

“What’s for dinner?” Michelle asked at six thirty.

“Your brother and father are picking up a pizza.”

“Pizza?”

“Yes.  We just don’t have time for anything else.  But it’s from a natural pizza parlor.  I ordered whole-wheat crust and said to hold the cheese.”  Michelle’s hangover returned, just a little.

The table was now covered with brown truffles painted with tiny white daisies.  Mrs. Browne sighed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.  “Whew!  I sure can’t wait till these are done with so we can get started on the hors d’oeuvres.”

Michelle grumbled.  The precise placement of each tiny flower was becoming a small obsession, and her hands were shaking as she drew the final petal on truffle number fifty-one.  She sighed with satisfaction when it was finished and reached for another.

“Maybe we could get one with cheese,” Michelle said absently as she prepared herself for the task of drawing another flower.

Her mother clicked her tongue.  “Michelle.  You know that’s not good for you.”

“It’s not that bad.  It’s just cheese.”

Mrs. Browne slapped her hands together dramatically to brush off chocolate crumbs.  “Are you okay, Michelle?  You’ve been acting strange since you’ve gotten here.”

“Ma, I’m fine.”  As she spoke, she didn’t take her gaze off of the intricate movements of her hand as she painted the fifty-second flower.  “I told you.  I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“Like… just decisions I’ve made.”  She hesitated, then continued.  “You know.  Just doubting myself.”

“Have you done something… irreparable?”

Michelle finished daisy fifty-two.  “I hope not,” she said.

Mrs. Browne clucked and frowned at her daughter, but Michelle was too busy starting another truffle to notice.

That night, her mother watched as she ate four slices of pizza and washed it down with beer.

“I thought you were on a diet,” she said as Michelle opened her second beer.

“Yeah, I am,” Michelle said.  “It’s called the ‘eat what you want’ diet.”

Mrs. Browne shot glances to the two men at the table.  Michelle swallowed half of her beer and didn’t look at Jake.

Rachel arrived on Tuesday.  She and Mrs. Browne managed to drag Michelle out of her den for the final fitting of the bridesmaid dress.  She had lost a few pounds, and the dress had to be taken in.  Michelle tried to bargain with the seamstress to draw in the billowing waist.

“That’s how it’s supposed to fit,” the seamstress said.  “It’s the style.”

“I know, I know.  It flatters every figure.”

“Look, honey, I don’t design the dresses.”

The next few days, she spent as much time as possible in her room, and she began eating compulsively.  Her mother watched her with an increasingly cocked eye, but Michelle barely noticed as she methodologically worked her way through her CD collection, first chronologically, then alphabetically, until Friday.

A wedding was a ceremony.  A wedding had pomp and circumstance.  It was easy to dismiss a wedding as a conceit of a materialistic culture or a façade of emotion from an egotistical bride and groom.  But on Friday, during the rehearsal, Jake and Rachel smiled at each other.  In the flowered park on the sunny afternoon, they made mistakes.  They made jokes.  She crinkled her nose in laughter and he nudged her with his elbow.  They were cute.

It was horrible.  Throughout the faux ceremony, Michelle groaned, sighed, rolled her eyes.  When the judge declared they were finished, Jake said, “Well, I’m not waiting till tomorrow for this,” and he kissed Rachel.  Michelle blew air through her lips.

“Michelle, what is wrong with you?” her mother asked from the front seat.  Jake and Rachel drove alone, with the remaining three Brownes riding family vacation style, Michelle in back.

“Ma, I told you!  Nothing is wrong!  I’m just not feeling well.”

“You’ve been not feeling well for quite a long time.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure.”

“Is that why you’ve been eating like a horse?”

“Mom!”  She crossed her arms and stared out the window.

“You eat like a pig but you lose weight,” Mrs. Browne said, eyeing her in the rearview.  “Michelle, do you have a disorder?”

“No, Mom!  Just leave me alone!”

“Why are you getting defensive?”

“I’m not.”

“I read about eating disorders, Michelle.  Defensiveness and secrecy are symptoms.”

“Symptoms?  What does that mean?”

“And you’re mopey and moody.”

“Mom, I don’t have a disorder.  I’m fine.  You’ll just have to trust me.”

Her mother sighed.  “Fine,” she said, and stared ahead.

Michelle sat back in her seat and watched the cars pass.  She hummed a song to distract herself from wanting to die.

As they pulled up to the restaurant, just as Mr. Browne stopped the car and the ignition quieted to nothing, Michelle’s mother turned to her and asked, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Mr. Browne coughed nervously.  Michelle wanted to step out of the car, walk to the street, and throw herself in front of moving traffic.  The silent tension that filled the car boiled up underneath her until she just.  couldn’t.  stand it.

“No Ma!  I’m not pregnant!” she shouted.  “I’m a fucking virgin!”

The air in the car went dead.

“Well,” Mrs. Browne said.  For a moment it seemed like she was going to say something else, but she didn’t.  Michelle’s parents opened their doors and stepped out into the parking lot.

In the Mexican restaurant under Corona posters and hanging ceramic birds of paradise, Michelle positioned herself as far away from Jake and her parents as possible, and so sat in between two bridesmaids named Jill and Lorna who talked incessantly about their own wedding aspirations.

“I personally believe it’s the most important day of your life,” Jill said, brown hair pinned up as she sipped her rum and diet coke.

“Oh, I completely agree.  I completely agree,” Lorna joined.  “When I get married, I want to look like a princess.”

“Oh definitely,” Jill concurred.  “I mean, Rachel’s dress is nice, but I want to go totally fairy tale.”

“You know they do weddings in Disney World?”

“No way!”

“Yes way.  You get to wear a Cinderella gown and tiara and ride in the pumpkin carriage and everything.”

“That is so precious!”

“Isn’t it?”

Michelle’s giant pink margarita was not being refilled quickly enough.

“What about you, Michelle,” Lorna asked.  “What’s your dream wedding?”

Michelle looked down at the empty glass and said the first thing that came into her head.  “Uh, I think I’d like to get married on a beach.”

“Oooh, sexy,” Jill said.

“The humidity would totally mess with your hair and makeup, though,” Lorna added.

“That’s true,” Jill said, and nodded.  “I dunno, the problem with the outdoors is nature is so unpredictable.  I just want mine to be perfect.  You know, exactly how I want it.”

“So true.”

Michelle held her empty glass up to the waiter and reached for the basket of tortilla chips in the center of the table.  She began to eat them absently.

Lorna and Jill exchanged looks.  “Remember girls,” Jill said.  “Don’t eat too much salt!  We don’t want to be bloated for the wedding tomorrow!”

Michelle grabbed a handful of chips, breaking several into sharp tortilla shards and salty dust, and shoved what remained in her palm into her mouth.

By the time desserts came, Michelle could barely make out the words of her dining companions, though after everything either Jill or Lorna said, she felt the impulse to laugh hysterically.

“Wow, Michelle, for such a small girl, you sure can hold your alcohol,” Lorna said.  Michelle bent over and cried with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Jill asked, eyes darting to Lorna whose eyes darted nervously back.

Michelle was laughing too hard to answer.  She just heaved and heaved in convulsive fits.  As her parents turned to look over at her, she threw her head back and let out a loud, strange groan.

“Michelle!” her mother called.  “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” she slurred.  She stood up with much leaning and bravado.  “I’m absholutely fine!  I just thing I haff to powder my noze.  Ha.  Powder my noze.”  As she stumbled past Lorna, who had placed her purse beneath her chair during dinner, Michelle’s foot caught on the handle of the bag and she fell.

“Ow!” she shouted, crouching, clutching her knee.

“I’m so sorry,” Lorna said as she moved her purse.

“You bitch!  You tripped me!”

Jake covered his face with his hand.  “Please, Michelle.  Please, not today.”

Michelle looked at her brother.  “She tripped me!  I saw her!”  She extended an accusatory finger at Lorna.  “She stuck out her foot so I’d have a big bruise tomorrow and look ugly!”

“I did not!” Lorna asserted.

“Yes she did!  You saw didn’t you?”  She looked at Jake, earnest and beseeching, but he only scowled.

“You know that’s not true, Michelle,” he said.  “Just go to the bathroom and come back.  We’ll all finish dinner.”

Michelle wobbled to her feet and began to walk toward the bathroom.  All these people just mindless idiots.  Just do anything fucking TV tells them.  TV says get married in a white dress they fucking do it.  Not even fucking in love and they do it and no one says anything because they all watch the same fucking shows.  Like fucking sheep just walking down the aisle thinking they’re all on TV.

As she passed where her parents and brother sat, she turned and nearly lost her balance, but stood with puffed chest and shouted, “Hey, I’m glad you guys all love America, because I hate it!” before continuing on to the bathroom.

The wedding party looked at each other.

“What did that mean?” Rachel’s mother asked, who sat to Rachel’s left and drank cream sherry.

“I… I don’t know,” Rachel said.

“I think she must be a feminist,” Jill offered.  “She was saying some weird stuff about marriage.”

“My dad always said you can’t trust a woman who doesn’t wear perfume,” Lorna said under her breath, and the guests resumed nervous eating.

By the time Michelle came out of the bathroom, the bill was paid, and the party was gone.  Only Michelle’s father waited behind to drive her home in silence.

After a few hours of taking slow sips of water and listening to Nine Inch Nails in her room, Michelle began to sober up.  With dead calm, what she had done settled into her awareness until it lay like a barren landscape, burned and hopeless.  She looked to her door, and wished she didn’t know what she had to do next.

Filed under: Marriage, Michelle, Michelle's family, alcohol, clothes, food, wedding by Jade