Page 51 of The Beachgoers
eighteen
— Then —
10 Years Ago
Saturday Afternoon, September 23
The Walk
THE BRIDE CAN’T GET A breath.
Wearing her gown and veil, she’s pacing in the bridal room off the church vestibule. Her satin pumps clip on the floor. Her hands are clenched together. Her white gown—one with a satin bodice over tiered organza layers—hangs perfectly on her thin frame. A glittery beaded belt wraps around her waist; her fingertip veil is light and airy.
“Lauren!” a woman with her says. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, Mom.” Lauren toys with the gown’s organza, lifting one layer and dropping it, then another. “I really need some air.”
“Here.” The mother, wearing a pale beige sequined-top gown, opens a window in the church’s small bridal room. Her matching sequined beige jacket hangs on a nearby hook. “Come over here.” She motions her daughter across the room. “Breathe,” she says, waiting for Lauren to move.
Move she does, hurrying to the window and leaning close. In a second, the bride desperately pushes up the screen, too, and pokes her veiled head outside into the warm afternoon air. And takes a few deep breaths.
“That’s better, hon.You’ll be all right,” her mother whispers, standing behind her and touching her shoulder.
Lauren pulls her head in and straightens her veil. “This should’ve been private, this wedding. It’s too much after everything that’s happened this past month. Losing Neil. Getting back with Kyle. Poor Jason in a wheelchair.” After managing a peek out the door, she quickly shuts it tight. “Why are we even doing this with so many guests here?”
“Shh.” Her mother lightly reapplies Lauren’s lipstick then. “It’s so everyone can gather for somethinggood. Your wedding is actually a beautiful silver lining in all of this.”
Lauren leans back against a paneled wall. She presses a tissue to her mouth, blotting the lipstick. Outside the tiny room where she’s been getting ready with her mother, guests’ footsteps shuffle past the closed door. There are muffled voices, too. Occasionally one of the groomsmen asks, “Friend of the bride? Or the groom?”
Lauren must be listening to it all. And must be realizing something. Realizing that it’sreallyhappening. It’s all coming together on this late-September day, with the sun shining warm and the sea breeze gentle. Yes, the wedding she’d recently backed out of is about to begin. Why else would perspiration bead down her temple? When her mother dabs at it, Lauren pushes away from the wall.
“I can’t do this, Mom.”
“Oh, yes you can.”
“It’s toomuch, I’m telling you.” Lauren’s voice is quiet, yet insistent. It’s obvious that every single doubt she’s had about getting married these past few weeks is crowded right there in the closet-sized room with her. She drags her fingers along her gown’s satin neckline. “I should’ve cancelled everything, like I’d first planned.”
“It’ll beokay. Kyle will help you through, you’ll see. You can’t live alone with all this sadness.”
“Iwon’tlive alone. I’ll live with you and Dad for now,” Lauren reasons. Or pleads. Or begs, depending.
“No, honey. Kyle’s a good man.” Her mother turns Lauren, clasps on a pearl necklace and pats the stringed beads in place. “Youbothneed each other right now. Trust me.”
Lauren touches the pearls, crosses the small room, then turns back to her mother. “I miss Neil so much, itstillhurts. And this today?” she asks, tossing up an arm toward the vestibule outside the door. “This feels like abetrayal.”
“Stopthat now. It’s not a betrayal, and you know it. It’s how things happened. Yes, Neil’s life was very sadly taken.” Her mother walks closer; her eyes fill with tears. “But I need you to reallyhearwhat I’m saying now. Okay?”
Her mother’s serious voice quiets Lauren, and she gives a slow nod.
“Okay. So let’s picture it… There’s no wedding. We’re going to call it off. I can tell Dad to send everyone away. You come back home to Eastfield. Unpack your things in your childhood bedroom. Never talk to Kyle again. You quit your job at the bookstore—because it’s too close to Stony Point. Stirs up too many memories. You stop collecting driftwood, so you stop painting. You get a mundane job in town. Go to work. Come home. Help with dinner. Watch TV. Go to bed, wake up and do it again. And why—to punish yourself? Is that the life you want?”
“Mom—”
“No. You need to face things. You and Kyle can have a good lifetogether, Lauren. He loves you so much. Always has.”
Lauren walks around the perimeter of the room. Her small train swishes behind her, the fabric folding every time she turns a corner in the tiny space. “Maybe you just don’t get it, Mom. I’m not worthy of this.” She lifts an organza layer of her pretty gown and lets it fall. “All this white, and pureness. I should be dressed in black, for God’s sake. Look at how much IhurtKyle. Crushed his heart. And now he’s standing at the altarwaitingfor me?” Struggling with tears, she drops her head. “I can’t face him. Can’t face my guests,” she whispers through some knot in her throat. “Can’t face myself.”
A crucifix hangs in the sparse room. There’s a full-length mirror on the wall. To the side, a small table can hold makeup, and a bouquet, and hair things. All of it is meant to be a spot to prep. To primp. To say a little prayer before walking out the door.
