— Why doesn’t the flower friend have a name?
— That’s another story. We haven’t spoken for a few years.
— Why not? What did she do?
— Why would you assume it was something she did?
— Okay, what did you do?
— Mom, it’s too long a story. I wasn’t completely honest with her.
— About what?
— Lots of things. I spent years telling her things I thought she wanted to hear so she’d stay my friend. I mean, not lies. Agreeing with her when I didn’t. That kind of thing.
— Why would you do that?
—. .
— I just don’t see what this has to do with me.
— I know.
— You can tell me.
— The shortest possible version is that one day, after many years of friendship, I came to feel that I was dealing with her in a way that was not unlike how I had dealt with you.
— Well, I’m sure it was her fault.
— I’m trying to take responsibility for my part, Mom. There were two people involved, yes. That’s all I’ll say.
— I knew it.
— Mom, it’s just a whole other extremely complicated, unresolved story.
— So maybe you should cut her out of this scene altogether.
— I probably should. I was trying to keep the day as real as I could under the circumstances.
— YOU SAID THIS WASN’T A MEMOIR.
Two of Ben’s friends from Michigan, Anne and Chafe, have a ridiculously awesome four-year-old, Ruby; she’s the flower girl — I made her dress too (on the big side, I learned that from you, told myself this way she could wear it again) — and my stepbrother Rob’s boys Matt and Tom are the ring bearers. Ben’s at the altar with his brother Fritz, Chafe, and his other old friends from Kalamazoo, Dann and Tim. Victor walks me down the stairs, because Dad’s too wobbly with Parkinson’s now, though he’s able to take over for the short walk from there to the tree we’ve decorated to stand under, and he got a new suit and a bright blue tie for the occasion. His joyful smile could light the tree at Rockefeller Center; he’s found a bit of a kindred spirit in Ben. Dad has always been proud of his artier side, and he’s tickled to have a son-in-law who is genuinely interested in his old woodcuts. Our friends play music as we walk down the aisle; from the altar, Ben and I look on as Anne sings a Nick Drake song, “Northern Sky” (“Been a long time that I’m waiting. .”), with Chafe on guitar, they chose it themselves, it makes me cry; it’s a perfect day. We’ve asked our friends and family to speak as the spirit moves them. Jeannie reads a poem; Ben’s sister gives a tribute to their parents, sure they would have been so happy to see this day. Bob talks about the old days when we were friends and we were both miserable and single and how happy he is to see what my life has become.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the house, you’ve started reading my book. You skim the first story after a couple of pages, confused by the style, and flip through looking for “Mom” or “Mother” until you land on the one that’s about the year after your death. You’ve lost track of time and missed half the ceremony because you’ve been reading the story about you, and just as Bob is wrapping up, you poke your head out the window waving the book in your hand and yell Mood-oriented? Mood-oriented?
Everyone turns to look up at the window. Three people faint: two of our pregnant friends and your sister. I give you a dead stare, which is, no surprise, entirely ineffective, and a wave back into the window doesn’t help either. Quite a few of the guests have no idea who you are, which I thank god for — friends we met after you were already gone, Ben’s family. Many of the guests have seen pictures, of course, but nobody seems to be going straight to Mother of the bride, returned from the dead. Nina whispers to me I’ve got this, hurries back upstairs to pull you inside the window. What does that mean, “mood-oriented”? That I have moods? That I’m moody? The whole world thinks I’m moody now? Nina gently pulls you back inside. Nobody thinks that, Lois, everyone loves you and misses you. Come on inside now.
At this point, after the guests recover from their fainting spells, there’s a pause, a pause so literal and long it’s almost like a freeze-frame. All remaining heads are staring up at the window, even though you’re now inside. Finally Ben’s sister stands up, because no one else has and someone has to. Okay, everyone. Here’s what’s going on. Amy calmly explains the deal about the day pass. Everyone listens silently; it seems impossible to believe, but Amy adds You saw her. If it weren’t true, what would the alternative be? Betsy and Ben decided to have some weird lookalike of her mom show up to freak everyone out? She further explains that the reason she knows this is that her own mother had come to her wedding. What? Ben says. Mom came to your wedding but not to mine? I was there, Amy, I didn’t see her. She stayed inside. Didn’t she want to talk to me? No, it wasn’t that, I’m sure. . Ben looks thoroughly crushed. I was the first one to get married, and I was her daughter, and. . it’s possible she thought better of it after the last time. Mom loved you so much, Ben. You know that. Let’s try to have a good day. I’m sure there are plenty of people here who are happy to see Lois. I know I’m glad to get the chance to meet her. Ben and I look at each other. I whisper I’m sorry.
But a chain of events has been set in motion, and now every single guest who got married after the death of a parent is wondering why theirs hadn’t shown up for their wedding. Several guests immediately get out their cell phones to call siblings. Was Dad at your wedding? Yes. Why did he come to your wedding and not mine? I was her favorite. That’s not the right answer! Was Mom at your wedding? Yes. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t want you to feel bad. But I feel bad now! Was Mom at your wedding? Are you insane? Was she? Was she? Dad was at your wedding, wasn’t he? What are you talking about? I just found out that dead parents of brides and grooms get to come to their wedding. You’re off your meds again. It’s true! Don’t try to tell me Dad didn’t come to your wedding! It would have been just like him, Daddy’s girl. Did Mom come to your wedding? Mom was dead when I got married. What are you talking about? I’m at a wedding, there’s a dead mom here. Can you hear yourself? Don’t lie to me! You’ve always been a liar! I’m not lying! You dated my ex-boyfriend for a year behind my back! That was eighteen years ago! I’m just saying you’re a liar! Fine, she came! I knew it! Did Mom come to your wedding? Yeah. What? Did Dad come to your wedding? Yes. Mom mom mom dad dad dad wedding wedding wedding yes yes yes yes yes yes why didn’t you tell me I hate you I hate you I hate you!