I wanted it to be over.
That’s the worst thing to remember. Worse than anything that happened with Zeus. Worse than last night. Or was it two nights ago? Nothing matters except that I get married in ninety minutes. The worst thing to remember is that I wanted it to be over. She couldn’t get enough air. Her body was shutting down. And a pit opened up in my stomach. An endless void of fear and pain. I held her hand. I wanted it to be over, for both our sakes.
“It’s okay, Mama.” Chemo had taken her hair but it was growing back in a thin fuzz, and I stroked it while I talked to her. Her eyelids fluttered. My stomach lurched. If she woke up, if the process started all over again, I didn’t know how I would bear it. “You can go. It’s all right. I love you, and I’m right here.” My throat ached around the words.
A wedding, then, my father said. I’ll give her away myself. The relief in his voice.
I knew what he was talking about.
I knew, because he hadn’t bothered to hide it. My mother had access to her family’s trust. He didn’t. And my uncle was willing to trade for it. He’d spent enough time at family gatherings leering at me. He pretended to be such an upstanding citizen. I saw the rot underneath. How could anyone else miss it?
At least she’s not here to see this.
“Blink,” says the makeup artist. The fake eyelashes pick up a tear and she dabs it away without ruining the rest of the makeup. “You look beautiful,” she murmurs. “Your fiancé is going to be stunned.”
I snort a laugh. “Do you think?”
“I do.” Either she’s not paying attention or she really believes this.
Again. French swordsman. That’s my first choice. But my heart is a spiteful bitch. It keeps hoping that Zeus is going to come through the door now and spirit me away.
He’s not. The swordsman would be more likely.
When my mother finally died, I didn’t realize it at first. I was too busy waiting to see if she would take her next breath.
I didn’t know I’d become so fixated on it, so consumed with it, until that next breath didn’t come. A silence lingered in the air, broken only by my father’s phone call promising me in marriage to my uncle.
Debt, he was saying. Significant debt.
I waited for the grief to come. For the crying, screaming fit that I’d seen in the movies. Instead, there was only a blank space tinged with disbelief. I rubbed my thumb across the back of her hand for a few more minutes. How awkward would it be if I stopped and she popped up from where she lay on the pillow and said Brigit why did you stop? I’m not done dying. The image made me laugh, which made me feel worse, which reminded me that I was supposed to be paying attention.
To the time. To the moment. Someone was supposed to be watching.
I picked up my phone. It was 2:13 in the afternoon on a rainy day, so rainy that the light had the same dull quality all day. I dialed the nurse. “Oh, honey,” she said. “I’ll be right there. I’ll call the funeral home. Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not worried about it,” I told her, and then I spent the next forty minutes wondering if it was the wrong thing to say. It was the truth. I wasn’t worried about the funeral home.
“Did it happen?” My father said, poking his head in.
“Yes.”
“She’s gone,” he said.
“Yes, she is.” He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to my uncle. His voice retreated down the hall.
I’ve lost half an hour thinking about it. The next time I resurface from my memories the makeup artist is almost done styling my hair. It turns out she’s a triple threat. She can do makeup and hair and on a person who is barely existing. Her fingers fly over my hair as she surveys her work in the mirror. “Perfect,” she says. “Let’s get you into that dress.”
There is going to be a photographer, I know that, but not here. You can’t exist in the world without seeing bridal photos. There will be no photos of me with my mother buttoning the back of the dress. Of the two of us clasping arms, smiling at each other with happy tears in our eyes. Of her putting on a necklace for me, carefully fastening it behind my neck. Those won’t ever exist, because she is dead and because it’s the makeup artist slash hair stylist slash dressing room attendant.
She’s the one to drop the princess gown over my head and tug it into place. She’s the one to do up the sixteen buttons in the back. She’s the one to settle the veil into my hair and lead me to the mirror.
“I’m going to throw up,” I tell her.
“Don’t do that.” She grabs a trash bin anyway. I don’t throw up. I only feel like it. This—this is not how I want to look on my wedding day, like my uncle’s idea of an innocent bride. Why did we have to do my hair this way? Right. He specified every detail. He paid for the dress and the makeup artist. He paid my father for the privilege. And my father traded me away.
“The ceremony is going to start soon,” she soothes. “And then you’re going to feel so much better.”
Now that I’ve had a chance to assess both situations I can confidently say that selling myself to a stranger was the better option.
If only it hadn’t resulted in such a wretched, broken heart.
I lean over the bin, my heartbeat counting out the seconds. My ankles feel unstable, like I might not be able to get down the aisle by myself. I’ll have to hold my father’s arm. My stomach turns at the thought of it.
But what else am I going to do? Stumble down the aisle like I’m drunk? The least they could do is actually get me drunk. Drug me. Something. Anything.
“Do you think you might have, in your purse—”
A knock at the door interrupts me.
4
Brigit
The sound freezes us both in our little tableau, the makeup artist with her trash bin and me with a turning stomach, about to ask her if she has any Xanax or honestly any other drug, anything to take me away from here.
Lock the door, I want to say.
“Come in,” she calls, lowering the bin. Her voice is so cheery and bright. In the mirror behind her I’m as pale as the moon. I’d be slightly green if the makeup wasn’t so good. I hope my father gives her a good tip. Maybe that’s what he’s here to do—tip her. A laugh strangles itself in my throat. He wouldn’t bother. He wants money, needs it, and so he’s not going to come down here and fold a bill into this woman’s hand.
The door opens.
I’m not facing him. All I can see is his reflection. But bile sears the back of my throat, thick and acid. My kingdom for a French swordsman. Let him be here now.
“I want to see my bride.” My uncle’s voice is rough, so different from Zeus’s cultured smoothness. Everything Zeus says has been dipped in gold. Everything my uncle says is rotted clear through to its underbelly. “Give us a moment, would you?”
I reach for her wrist. “We’re not done.”
Disgust flickers in the makeup artist’s eyes. Not even fake lashes can hide that. “We’re good, hon.” She gently detaches my hand from her wrist and puts down the bin. “If you need a touch-up before you walk down the aisle, I’ll be waiting in the Sunday school room.”