Bright Before Us (27 page)

She'll be happy,
I said, pretty sure it was true. Knowing that even if it wasn't, she would keep her mouth shut. And she would be happy to see me, regardless of my news. I hadn't spoken to her in months.

We pulled into her cul-de-sac, at the end of a row of identical one-story subdivision houses. It was a Monday morning but she was home—to an Avon lady, a day of work means someone sitting on your couch applying used lipstick samples. I rolled down my window and let the engine idle, staring at the wide ass of her SUV.

How long are we going to sit here?
you said.

Through her open curtains I saw her enormous television. On the screen, the camera homed in on a guy with thick glasses. I could see text at the bottom of the screen—WITNESS CALLED BY THE DEFENSE, I guessed, or CROSS-EXAMINATION; all she watched were jury trials.

This is good news. It's not like we're telling her something bad,
you said, yawning.
God, we're running on no sleep. We should just go in and tell her. Quick like a Band-Aid.

Don't be,
you said quickly.

Frankie!
My head snapped toward the driveway, where my mom clomped toward us in her heels.
And you brought friends,
she said.

My mom was tall and mostly thin—she carried bulges in a few isolated places but had the appearance of a healthy, trim woman. She wore a pressed pantsuit and thick makeup, her lips stained a deep berry. Her hair was a cropped confection of boyish platinum blonde, teased high on top and sleek on the sides: the overall effect was a cross between David Bowie and Dolly Parton.

Hey Mom,
I said, stepping out of the car. You followed.
You're looking very corporate today.

I've got a client in fifteen,
she said, out of breath. She eyed you.
Is that little Nora? Give an old lady a hug.

You obeyed, her shoulder pressing into your neck.

I haven't seen you since Frankie's eighteenth at the Hungry Hunter.
She couldn't stop touching your hair.
God, you're pretty,
she said.

Ma,
I said.

She squinted at me.
Don't you have class?

Can we go inside?
I said.
I have to tell you something.

Her face slumped into a frown as she whipped out her cell phone.
I'm canceling.
She covered the phone with her palm.
She's cheap anyway. Joanne?
she said, bellowing into the mouthpiece, trotting toward the house, motioning for us to follow.

You leaned in, whispering.
Did she get along with Greta?

You grimaced.
In five years?

Done,
my mom said, clapping her phone shut. We positioned ourselves on the taupe leather sectional. She put the television on mute.
You have news. I can tell. Frankie, have you told her I'm clairvoyant?

Mom's clairvoyant,
I said.

She squinted.
What about—

I dumped her,
I said.

She looked at me sideways, smirking.

There's more,
you said.

Nora,
I blurted.
Don't.
I didn't want you to tell her what Greta had said—I couldn't bear hearing it aloud.

Oh, tell me,
Mom said.
Tell me.

That was when I noticed the tumbler—brown frosted glass, straight out of a seventies airport lounge. There was
no coaster, just a series of wet circles in a little Olympiclogo pattern beneath the drink that—at twenty to noon—she had nearly finished.

What?
you said.
We have to tell her if she's going to be a witness.
You turned toward my mom.
We're getting married. Today.

Oh, can I come?
Mom said.
You'll let me come, right?

I nodded toward her glass.
I'll drive.

Oh my God,
she said, rounding the coffee table, kissing me on the forehead and then settling next to you.
Oh, hi!
she said, like you had just walked in the room.
Did you already tell your dad?
she asked me.

Oh!
she said again, happy to have won.

 

I drove my mom's car to the freeway, heading for the county clerk's office on Texas Street. The two of you rode in the backseat so she could do your makeup. I glanced at you in the rearview, your eyes closed obediently as her brushes swept across your face. She explained each item as she used it, and I dreaded her inevitable sales pitch.

Where's Jess?
I said.
Does she still work at the cell phone place?

Oh, God no,
Mom said.
She works at the Chevy's in Emeryville.
She blew on your eyelids, your eyelashes fluttering.
Your sister comes home smelling like grilled beef, Francis. I have to wash her clothes separately.

We came to a stoplight.
You look pretty,
I told your reflection.

Of course she does,
Mom said. I waited for you to catch my eye in the mirror, but you just closed them again
as she commanded that you purse your lips.

Do you think Jess could make it here in time?
I said.

She's working a double,
Mom said, dusting silver powder across your eyelids.
What time are your parents getting here?
she said to you.

You began to answer, but I had taken a wrong turn and the GPS started to freak out:
Turn. Around. Turn. Around.

Recalculating,
it said, addled.
Recalculating.

She dug around in her bag, and I knew she was fishing for her thousand-dollar camera.
You look so gorgeous, little girl. Welcome to the happiest day of your life.

Her hand went still, the bag's contents no longer rattling.
Frankie,
she said distractedly,
did I know about this?

Don't call me Mrs. Mason,
Mom told you.
I'm Jill.

Recalculating,
the Aussie said.
Make a ... LEFT ... onto ... Texas Street.

She kissed your powdered forehead.
I'm sorry, kiddo. That's just too damn much.

We're here,
I said, parking.

We stepped into the searing air and it was hard to breathe; the atmosphere was suddenly inhospitable, like we had stepped onto some distant planet.

The woman in the glass booth slipped us our license application through a slot, and even through that tiny opening I smelled her bad breath. I filled in my name and address, putting down your house. My parents' names, the state where they were born—that was easy to remember, since they had never left it. I started to hand the form to you but pulled it back.

What?
you asked.

It's okay,
I said.
I'll just finish it up.

I wrote Sandra where it asked for your mother, Jack where it said “Father.” I didn't know their middle names, so I made some up. Sandra Ruth Lucas, I wrote. Jack Ray Lucas. I got to the bottom of the page and saw the fee: filing the application was $75. I looked over the other costs—$36 for the ceremony, $15 for an extra witness, since we needed two and only had one. I had negative $112 in my checking. You had paid for our coffee that morning, had covered the bridge toll when we left the city. You were giggling at a pamphlet:
Getting a Clue Before You Say I Do.
Your face was thick with cosmetics, like a topographic map.

I can't pay this,
I told Mom.

She peered at me, her breath sweet and sharp.
You're getting married and you don't have a spare hundred?

I'm getting married and I don't have a spare ten,
I said.

She pulled out her checkbook.

 

Technically, you have to do these things by appointment, so because there were two couples ahead of us, we had two hours to kill. The three of us drove to the twenty-fourhour taco place, installing ourselves in a red vinyl booth.

Are you going to call your dad?
you said.

I don't know,
I said nervously. I sopped up some grease with a tortilla.
He's probably on a conference call or something. We don't really need to call him, I think.

He's a consultant,
Mom said.
Or, wait ... no, that's right. A consultant.

He's not in sales?
I said.
I thought he was in sales.

Maybe we can all go out to dinner or something,
you said.

Yes!
Mom said.
You have to have a reception. He'll come to the reception.

No,
I said abruptly. Both of you stared at me. I made my voice as calm as possible.
We don't have to do that, Mom. It's not—

Mom took your hand.
Oh my God,
she said,
I just figured it out. You're pregnant.

Fuck me,
I said.

I'm not, Jill,
you said.

You threw me a look that nearly stopped my heart, because I knew Mom saw it—she looked between us rapidly, reading our faces. In honor of the occasion she gave me a grace period, but I prayed she wasn't keeping a tally of questions she would later lob my way.

 

That was how it started—
We'll need witnesses.
Maybe if we had never told my family, everything would have been okay. Another $15, and the two witnesses could have been total strangers. Another $15 and we could have gone home to our house that night, floated our livers in champagne. We might have awoken the next morning to say,
Good
morning, Mr. Mason and Good morning, Mrs. Mason,
giddy with a simple kind of hope.

 

On the last day of the last week I knew you, we bounded toward a 7-Eleven to find your Something New. My mom had you by the hand, head ducked as she traversed the empty aisles. You were wearing blue underwear, so that was done; she wiggled her emerald ring over her swollen knuckle and put it on your thumb—
There,
she had said,
something borrowed.

It was finally hitting me: you were going to marry me. All I had wanted, for almost a decade, was for you to like me back—I had aimed low and landed hugely, improbably high.
This is crazy,
I said, trying to catch up with you.

No,
my mom called over her shoulder.
It's tradition; you guys should start out with all your bases covered!

This,
you said.
I want this.
You held it out to me: a Dr. Pepper–flavored lip balm.

I took it to the counter and pulled out a card I knew would be declined.

It's a dollar twenty-nine,
the girl said.
You don't have any cash?
But she ran the card through, and I watched in disbelief as the receipt began to print. I signed it, knowing full well that, including fees, I had just bought you a thirtyseven-dollar chapstick. But we ran out of there beaming, headed toward the next thing.

 

Though all civil ceremonies were supposed to take place in the small antechamber off the main lobby, ours was the last of the day and Mom begged. So we stood facing each other beneath the grand, mammary dome of the building,
listening to the whir of the floor buffer down the hall. You wore jeans and a cable-knit sweater. I was in gray work pants and the faded black sweatshirt I had worn since high school—the same clothes I had worn the night before. Our sneakers matched. The official began her call-and-response routine, bowing toward each of us when it was our turn to speak.
Marriage is a promise that takes a lifetime to fulfill,
she said; I guess she was embellishing the boilerplate. She was smiling, and I knew it was because we looked young and giddy. She had a wedding ring of her own.

Who gives their blessings to this union?
she said.

I do,
my mom said.

I do,
said the witness we had paid for, smiling stiffly, hands clasped at his crotch.

Who has the rings?
the woman said.

There were none, so we mimed them, slipping nothing over each other's fingers.

Mazel tov,
she said, using my back to sign her name on the license.

 

We drove back to Mom's and she told us to go ahead of her to Chevy's—to include my sister in the festivities, she had set up an impromptu reception there without asking either of us. Mom said we should drive alone:
Pretend there's tin cans on the back,
she said, pointing to my car.

I can't believe we're going to Chevy's,
I said, after we dropped Mom off at home.

I pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket near the air force base.
Listen, Nora, I don't want to call him.

My wife, I thought, looking at you. That's my wife.

I struggled for the words.
He's an inconsistent man.

You frowned.
I'm confused.