Page 74 of Fathers of the Bride
“You don’t want the maid to know we’re back together? Because it will steal her thunder too?”
“You know she can’t keep a secret.”
“She barely speaks English.”
“Which makes her penchant for gossip all the more impressive.”
“Fine. She won’t see hide nor hair of me.”
As soon as he left, I got out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and walked down the hall to Kelly’s room. Knowing she wasn’t there, I simply walked in.
Yes, I know it’s wrong to snoop around your grown daughter’s room. But seriously, all parents do it. We just pretend we’ve stopped spying on our children once they’ve reached legal age and gone off to college. Honestly, it’s the only way we ever find out anything.
I needed to access her contacts. Naturally, she had her phone with her as well as her laptop. Her iPad was there, but as soon as I clicked it on, it brought up a numeric keypad. It wanted a numeric code. I had no idea what that might be. For a moment, I thought I was sunk. But then I realized, the information didn’t need to be recent. I looked into Kelly’s closet and then under her bed. I found what I was looking for behind a box of schoolwork from her college days—her old MacBook Air. I flipped it open and then hit the power key. After a suspenseful moment it came on.
After a while, the screen changed to daisies in a sunny field. In the center of the screen, it wanted my password. Or rather, Kelly’s password. I tried different possibilities with her name—KKettering, KKlane, KKL, KellyKL—none of them worked. What could it be? What could it be? I tried KellyandAvery, KellyLincoln, KellyL. Then I realized that was stupid. The laptop predated their relationship. He wouldn’t have anything to do with her password, as she didn’t know him yet.
Who did she know then? Who was she dating—how old was this laptop? I tried to remember. I had a vague memory of buying her the laptop her first year at UCLA. I don’t remember her dating anyone that first year. Celebrity crushes? Did she ‘like’ any celebrity enough to use him (or her) as a password. Who was even popular six years ago? I should be able to remember, but I couldn’t off the top of my head.
I was about to google teen heart throbs from that period when I had an idea. I tried My2Dads. It had been her password back in the day when we insisted she give it to us. In fact, we might have suggested it. And… voila, it still was—at least on this computer— because I was in. Sentimental, if perhaps a bit too trusting.
Just to demonstrate that I have a tiny bit of decency—though parenting knocks most of that out of a person—I didnotread Kelly’s email, nor her calendar, nor her search history—it would be rather old anyway. Instead, I went directly to her contacts. I skimmed through until I found some names I sort of recognized: Ashley Wong, Lauren Hagen, Helene Barker. They were all school friends of Kelly’s. I took their phone numbers down—yes, I was going old-school, I would not be asking these young women the kinds of things you ask in an email—and then, I closed down the laptop as carefully as possible. It wouldn’t do for her to know someone had been nosing around her old computer. I returned it to its spot under the bed and left the house.
I made my way to Bean There Donut That and ordered a latte with a ginger scone. Once I’d ensconced myself at a tiny table in the back corner, I drank part of the latte, ate half the scone and composed myself enough to make the first call.
A man answered. His accent was thick and hard for me to understand.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Ashley Wong.”
“She not here.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back? I’ll call again.”
“She not come back.”
“Ah. Do you a phone number for her?”
He hung up on me. I sensed trouble there. Well, not much of a ‘sense’ really. It was rather obvious. I hoped Ashley was okay. I only had the slightest memory of her from Harvard-Westlake. She was a black-haired charmer whose mother shooed her away from me as though I might be carrying a plague.
I supposed I could look for her on social media, but I suspected she wasn’t doing that well, probably not well enough to participate in a wedding. Being a bridesmaid wasn’t cheap. And maid of honor— I decided it was best to leave things as they were.
Next, I called Lauren Hagen. She answered the phone.
“Oh my God, I haven’t been Hagen for years.” She pronounced it as you would Häagen Dazs. I hadn’t even come close. As I began to explain that Kelly was getting married, I heard a child crying in the background.
Lauren interrupted me to ask, “When is the wedding?”
“December eighteenth.”
“Oh, I was hoping for next spring. I have an incompetent cervix. Isn’t that a ridiculous name for a condition? Makes it sound like I have a stupid twat. Anyway, my mother had it and my sister had it, but my doctor swears it’s not hereditary. Of course, I ignored him and went on bedrest anyway—and still my first was premature. Anyway, I’m having my second and bedrest starts in a week and goes until May.”
I wanted to yell “TMI!” But managed to restrain myself. Since Lauren was not Matron of Honor material I said, “We’ll be sure to send you an invitation. And if you can make it, that would be lovely.”
“Oh. would you? I apprec—Justin, donotput that in your mouth!”
I wished her the best and got off the phone as quickly as possible. That left just one option, Helene Barker.
Fearing I might not succeed and be left with no real options, I dialed her number. 323-555…
