I Now Pronounce You Someone Else (12 page)

Jared looked back at me.

“Now?”

I just shook my head.

Later, at dinner, one of the three cross-table conversations turned toward the turkey.

“Is this organic, Whitt?” Miriam asked. “Or just the regular old frozen kind?”

“Just ordinary old frozen,” Whitt said.

“It tastes kosher,” Gram said.

“Mother,” Miriam practically snapped, “you can’t taste kosher.”

“Maybe
you
can’t,” Gram returned.

“No one can,” Miriam insisted.

“Kosher turkeys have to be pure,” Gram said, “so they are raised on nothing but peanuts. I can taste that.”

“Kosher turkeys aren’t organic,” Margot said.

“I didn’t say they were, Margot,” Gram said, irritated.

“Mother, you’re thinking of Smithfield Ham,” Miriam said.

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking, Miriam. You don’t know what I’m thinking, and I am not thinking about Smithfield Ham.”

“Well, then allow me to correct myself. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miriam said. “Kosher means it’s been blessed by a rabbi.”

“Because it’s pure,” Gram said.

“Yes, but it has nothing to do with peanuts.”

“It does. Bobbi Eisenbaum told me.”

“Well, if she did, she’s wrong,” Miriam said.

“She is not. She’s been married to Bob Eisenbaum for forty-six years and is very active in their temple. She converted, you know.”

“Bob and Bobbi?” Mother giggled.

“Who’s Bobbi?” Gram asked.

“The Eisenbaums.”

“Ah, Jacquelyn. Her name is Betty.”

“You just said it was Bobbi.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You never listen when I talk. You girls are always waiting to tell me I’m wrong.”

“When did I tell you you were wrong?” Mother defended herself.

“Just now. About Betty Eisenbaum not knowing what kosher is, and I assure you that Betty knows kosher foods.”

“Miriam said that.”

“You girls treat me like I’m an idiot, and I don’t like it,” Gram said, pushing up from the table and storming out of the dining room.

“Ah, shit,” Granddad muttered as he threw his napkin on the table and went after her.

I leaned close to Jared and happily whispered, “
Now
it’s Thanksgiving.”

At the end of the evening, outside by his car, Jared decompressed by laughing, shaking his head, laughing some more.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” I asked. “Every year it’s exactly the same. They’ll all be in there talking until they fall asleep. Talking about nothing.”

“And then fighting about it.”

“I know,” I said, almost happily—happy that I had a witness at last. “Forty-some years and not one of them has learned to just say, ‘Is that right?’”

“Bronwen, they’re crazy. I’m with you. These can’t be your people.”

“They’ll be at the wedding. Are you sure you still want to marry me?”

“That hasn’t changed,” he said, and he kissed me. “That will never change.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ll tell you how sure I am. We’re going to set the date.”

“We are?”

“Not tonight. We’ll set one by Christmas. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, and we shook hands, so it was official.

No going back. At last.

For weeks, Jared and I had long-distance fun—e-mail, text messages—about setting the date. We suggested such things as August 3, thirty-six years from now in the all-plastic capital city of Columbanus on Mars, or September 8, sixty-seven years from now in our nursing home in Prague. We’d cup our ears and shout
huh?
every time the minister spoke. People would assume we were deaf, but the truth was we didn’t speak Czech. Then we’d eat applesauce and take a nap.

It was back at Rose’s in mid-December where we finally set the date. Our more serious conversations—in person and online—had been moving in one particular direction for weeks, and now the time came to consider them more diligently.

“Ever since last month, when you said August, I’ve been thinking that that just sounded so right,” Jared said. “But a year from August is too long to wait. I will if you want to, but, Bronwen, I’m ready now. It’s all up to you.”

“What do I do about school?”

“You still go to Hope. We’ll just live at my parents’ place.” He held my hand across the table. “There are married students there. You won’t be the only one. And why wait? You want this too. Can you give me one good reason to wait for something that’s so right for both of us?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I hope there aren’t any, because I do want this. As much as you do. Yes. Yes, let’s do it.”

“This August?”

“This August.”

“Come here,” he said, and we stood up from the table, and he just held me tightly, and I hoped he’d never let go. What an indescribable feeling—being held so tightly by someone you know loves you just for you, and not because he has to, but because he wants to. Yes, it was exactly what I wanted.

We agreed that night not to tell a single friend—sorry, Kirsten—until we had told our families. And since Mrs. Sondervan had already arranged a Christmas Night Dinner for us all, we only had to keep August 6 a secret for two weeks.

Those weeks passed quickly, and soon it was The Big Night. Even Peter came, but late, typically, later than Lauren and Spence, which visibly irritated Jared. We gathered comfortably in the Sondervans’ living room where Pat had set out hors d’oeuvres—shrimp and cheese and other things I could eat—and a jazz piano version of “White Christmas” provided soft background music.

Jared made the announcement the same way he had announced our engagement. No drama. Just, “We’d like you to know we’ve chosen August sixth of next year to get married.”

“Next year?”

“This coming year?”

“Next. Next August.”

“Next?”

“We’re getting married in eight months,” I said, and that’s when the room fell silent but for “White Christmas.”

…to hear sleigh bells in the snow.

Then the
I sees
and
ahems
began, and those gave way to lots of
wells
and tacit consultations with worried eyes, and finally the inchoate concern became clear objections. Polite. But clear.

“Don’t you think—”

“What about—”

“—it’s a bit—”

“—school?”

“You are too—”

“—soon?”

“—young.”

We had predicted these reactions. They lasted through “White Christmas” and “Joy to the World,” but by “The First Noel” everyone had objected enough or had run out of objections, especially since there was only one. Thematically, anyway.

“Does anyone have any reservations other than our age?” Jared asked.

“My age,” I said.

“I have some,” Mr. Sondervan finally said.

There were many, and most started with
have you thought about.

Have you thought about money?

Have you thought about insurance?

Have you thought about children and birth control and health emergencies and the weather and stress and job demands and school demands,
and yes, yes, yes, we’d thought about all these things. Except, no, I hadn’t.
Insurance? Excuse me?
Fortunately, Jared had thought about these practicalities, and I determined to start soon. There would be a time for that. Later. In the future.

“I’m young,” I said, and I was shaking a little but felt bold with Jared beside me. And, anyway, I wanted this. “I know that. But I’m also determined. We’re determined, and we’d like your blessing.”

And here, I had an unimpeachable record behind me, which no one could deny. I was fourth in my class, didn’t drink, didn’t do drugs, loved my dog, loved my Real Family, and did not have sex in my parents’ basement. Or anyone else’s. And two weeks earlier I had received my early acceptance letter from Hope.

I was going to college.

I was going to graduate.

And I was going to do it as Bronwen Sondervan, Jared’s wife, not Bronwen Oliver, nobody’s daughter.

It was all set.

My mother was the first to relent.

“Well,” she began, “it’s not the way I would do it if I were you, but then you’ve always done things differently.”

She turned to Pat and laughed unnaturally. “Little Miss Independent, I always called her.”

No, you didn’t.
But I nodded anyway.

And so began a general acceptance and finally a warm celebration that night of Jared’s and my plans.

Eight short months away.

The next couple months were a whirlwind to me with school, the newspaper, and wedding planning, which Mother and I threw ourselves into. Together. The two of us. Making a Day of It many times over with all the plans and details that needed our utmost and, on occasion, girlish attention.

First stop, Alouette Bridal, a by-appointment-only salon downtown, where I promptly found the dress I wanted, the first one I tried on. But I indulged Mother—and, okay, myself too—by trying on at least ten others. One made us both laugh, and if Mrs. Alouette had had a sense of humor, she might have chuckled some herself. The dress, covered in hand-stitched pearls and silver beads, weighed thirty-four pounds. I’m not exaggerating. Thirty-four pounds. Walking turned to lugging, and I lost my balance as I tried to stand up on the platform in front of the triple mirrors. I fell right over and needed help standing. Mrs. Alouette inspected the gown for damage while Mother did the same to me.

Mother tried to talk me into a dress with little cap
sleeves, which flatter no one, and why do designers keep producing such things?

“Mother, it’s ugly,” I finally said when she persisted, and I returned to the first dress I tried on: a simple, strapless dress of ivory silk with some lace and beading detail on the bodice, but nothing on the long, plain skirt with its asymmetrical hem, which skimmed my ankles and slowly flared to floor length—or, in my case, beach length—in the back.

Next came the bridesmaids’ dresses, the florist, the photographer, the caterer, the menu, the guest list, dress fittings and re-fittings. Mother and I tasted countless cakes from a dozen different bakers and settled on a four-tier design with buttercream frosting and rolled fondant. We avoided my grandparents, who were cautiously happy for me, but “Why the hell do you have to get married on a beach?”

“Howard, do not say…”

It was the very end of January when I took Kirsten and my other seven bridesmaids to Alouette Bridal one Saturday and made most of them cry when I emerged from the dressing room in my gown. Then it was their turn to try on their dresses—strapless chiffon, straight skirts to the knee, and blue to match the sky. Mrs. Alouette gravely endured the flashes of all our cameras and later said of the things, “Perhaps at our next fitting, you could bring just one.”

Our next fitting came five weeks later, early March. Mother brought Mrs. Sondervan with us and stood chatting to one side while the seamstress quietly pinched, adjusted, and pinned me in my dress first. Kirsten and
my bridesmaids huddled nearby over a catalog I strained to see and tittered over something I strained to hear.

“Stay still, please,” the seamstress told me.

Finally, she finished, and I rushed from the little platform to see what so interested my friends.

“Look,” Caitlyn said, showing me a page from a magazine, a dorm room decorated entirely in pink, brown, and white with polka-dot sheets, a funky lamp, and leather storage cubes that doubled as seats. “My parents are giving me this for graduation. This is going to be my dorm room next year.”

“Are you serious? This is so cool,” I said.

“I’m just telling my family to go to Pottery Barn for graduation,” another friend said.

“No, you know who has the best dorm stuff?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Bronwen,” Mother said. “Bronwen.”

“Yes.”

“Come on. You need help getting out of that dress or you’ll stick yourself with pins.”

“In a minute.”

“Now, please. The seamstress is waiting.”

“I’ll help,” Kirsten said, so it was off to the dressing room for a minute or two, then back to the fitting room where I watched the seamstress work on each girl and listened to the dorm-room decorating plans of the others.

I had thought it would be best to have a loft in my dorm room, open up all that floor space and get some…oh, well. Since the Sondervans’ cottage was
thoroughly and beautifully decorated, this was just one less thing I had to worry about.

But maybe they’d let me do one of the bedrooms there in pink, brown, and white too. I really liked that combination, now that Caitlyn showed me a picture.

My mood was entirely light and eager when I went down to Holland that Friday—eager to see Jared, who had spent the last several weekends in different parts of Michigan on job interviews; eager to see his friends, who were fast becoming my friends; and eager to join in another perfect weekend at Hope.

Nikki and Brianna and a few other friends hung out with us Friday night at Beeuwkes, watched bad movies, ate pizza, and laughed over inside jokes I mostly figured out on my own. Later, Jared walked me back to Cook Hall, trudging through typical March slush and ice behind Nikki and Brianna, who kept a lively conversation about someone’s scandalous new boyfriend going the whole time. Often, they said something about the guy over their shoulders to Jared, who explained the situation to me since I didn’t know what was going on. Didn’t really care either.

When we reached the front door at Cook Hall, I said a quick good night to Jared, adding a worry that he’d be frozen by the time he got home, and he said, “Nah, I’ll be fine.” And, of course, “Dream of me.”

Dream of me
made Nikki and Brianna coo a little. I cooed with them.

Upstairs in their room, where I was met with hugs by a few of their friends I knew from the last time I was there, we settled right into the routine of Diet Coke and potato chips and talking at once, and it began with Nikki’s question.

“Okay, we want to know every single detail about the wedding, but first I have to know—when is it?”

“August sixth.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid I’d miss it. I’m doing a May Term in Japan.”

“What’s a May Term?” I asked.

“Japan? You’re going to Japan?” someone else said.

“Japan,” Nikki confirmed.

“That is—”

“A May Term is a course you can take, if you want, for credit during May,” Nikki said to me.

“—so cool.”

“In Japan?” I asked.

“I cannot wait—”

“Not just there. Practically anywhere.”

“—to see it. I’ve never been anyplace that exciting.”

“Some courses are on campus. Some off.”

“How do you—”

“I went to England last summer,” Brianna said.

“—find out where they are?”

“I’m doing Vienna.”

“Bronwen, where are you and Jared—”

“When are you doing Vienna?”

“—going on your honeymoon?”

“This summer.”

“No way! I’m doing Vienna this summer.”

Screaming. Hugging.

“What’s this about Vienna?” I asked, and for what seemed like the rest of the evening, I heard all about these incredible study abroad programs Hope had, either for a few weeks in the summer or a whole semester. And at one point, someone—everyone still talking at once—said, “Bronwen, you can still go on these. It’s not like there are rules against it if you’re married. Jared could probably go with you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, not for a semester.”

“No, but for a May Term.”

“Oh, my gosh,” Nikki said. “That would be so romantic. Like a second honeymoon. You guys are so cute.”

“You know who else signed up for Vienna this summer?”

“Who?”

And they named some girl nobody liked and talked trash about her for a few minutes, and I tried to keep up, tried to ask pertinent questions but gave up and listened passively until I must have fallen asleep.

I slept fitfully, woke with a headache, and left the next afternoon, pretending to remember—
aw, do you have to go; yeah, sorry; call me when you get there
—an upcoming Civics test that I was not yet prepared for. When I got home, I told Mother and Whitt that it was a French test.

I hated leaving Jared early, but he would be home in two weeks for Spring Break. Spring Break at Hope and
Spring Break at East did not correspond. Hope’s was a week in March. East’s was, roughly, the first two weeks in April, last few days of March too.

I had plans to go with Mother and Whitt to Hilton Head, and, “Why don’t you and Jared spend your honeymoon there?”

“Mother, it’s planned.”

We would spend a week in Chicago. Plays, music, museums, restaurants, shopping, and the beach. It had everything.

Well, it wasn’t Vienna or Japan, but still—it had the beach.

Jared called me a couple days before the start of his Spring Break, and I smiled at the sound of his
Bronwen?
Kind of singsongy, and I could see him bobbing as he talked, thoroughly amused by whatever he was about to tell me.

“Guess where I’m going in two days,” he said. “No, wait. You’ll never guess, so I have to tell you. Are you sitting down?”

“I am.”

“You’re sure?”

“Wait, let me check. Yes.”

“I, Jared James Sondervan, am going to spend my last Spring Break not only as a college student but also as a single man in…”

“Tell me,” I nearly laughed.

“Columbus, Ohio.”

“Columbus, Ohio? Jared, come on. Tell me.”

“I’m serious. I’m driving Zach home,” he said. Zach was one of his friends who lived there at Beeuwkes. “He doesn’t have a car. No other way to get there, and it’s only about five or six hours, so it’s sunny Columbus for me for a few days.”

“You’re serious?”

“Jealous, aren’t you.”

“That and stunned.”

“We’re going Sunday. Back Thursday. Zach says there are some cool areas of the city I’d like. Bars and clubs and stuff.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, send me a postcard,” I said.

“I most certainly will,” he said, and it wasn’t until a few nights later, when he and I were having dinner at his house the night before he left—just the two of us, pasta, candlelight, some kind of jazz in the background—that I finally raised the subject of Columbus again. Well, just the part that bothered me.

“Jared, I didn’t know you liked going to bars and clubs,” I said.

“Sorry?”

“You said earlier that you’d like going to these bars and clubs in Columbus.” I didn’t even know what the differences between the two were.

“Sure,” he said.

“I never knew you went to places like that.” I knew he drank an occasional beer—just sort of assumed it was at places like Rose’s or the Club.

“Sometimes.”

“You like them?”

“Depends on the music and the people. If it’s too crowded, no. If it’s too empty, no. Do you want me not to go?”

“No. I just never knew you liked them.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You like music and dancing. You’ll probably like them too, once you start going.”

“I liked dancing in Cook Hall,” I said.

“Then you’ll definitely like dancing in clubs. A hundred times better than Cook Hall.”

I nodded but didn’t see how it could be. I didn’t see how anything could be. That was a fun weekend back in September.

I really didn’t like thinking about it too much anymore.

So off Jared went to Columbus, Ohio, for five days. Spring Break. His senior year. We made a joke of it. If anyone asked, we said, “He went south for break.”

He called every day, told me the city was huge, bigger than Boston, smaller than Chicago, and everyone there was some kind of sports fan.

“How are those bars and clubs?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re great. There’s this totally redeveloped area right downtown that’s pretty cool. I already have my favorites. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. I miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

And I did. I missed him terribly to the point of tears, even more so than when he was at Hope, and I think
that’s because Columbus was so far away. Civil War soldiers couldn’t walk it in a day.

Two days after he left, at breakfast, instead of the metro section, I read what Mother handed me with a quick, “Read this, please.”

In her left-slanting handwriting was:

Mr. and Mrs. Whitt Andrews VanHorn
request the honor of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Bronwen Alexis Oliver
to
Jared James Sondervan
917 Lakeside Road
Holland, Michigan
Saturday, the sixth of August
Six o’clock in the evening

“I’m going to order the invitations today,” Mother said. “I just wanted you to see how they’re going to look.”

I read it again.

“Bronwen?”

One more time.

“This is traditional,” Mother said. “I’m not having any of that ridiculous wording you see about sharing in the
joy of two souls uniting or whatever people are doing nowadays. Bronwen?”

“Sorry. What’s that?”

“Is something wrong? Believe me, this form is the only—”

“No, it’s fine. Fine.”

“You look like you don’t like it.”

“It’s fine,” I said again. “I’m just a little distracted this morning. Big Civics test later today.”

“You’ll do fine,” Whitt said. “You always do.”

“Well, thanks, but I’m feeling a little—uh—unprepared.”

“Oh, well,” Mother said. “Maybe you can study at lunch.”

Later, I aced the test.

Kirsten asked me if I was coming down with something. I did have a headache.

But it wasn’t just that. It was far worse and terribly unsettling. Earlier, when I looked at Mother’s mock-up of my own wedding invitation, I had absolutely no idea whose name this was:
Bronwen Alexis Oliver.
It was a fleeting uncertainty, quick as lightning and followed by this thunder all day long:
What the hell was that?

And when I thought about it more, I realized the whole invitation was wrong for having no mistakes in it.

Bronwen Alexis Oliver? Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Whitt Andrews VanHorn? No, she wasn’t. No, I wasn’t. Was I?

If form truly mattered—and trust me, nothing matters to my mother more than form—then shouldn’t the invitation have read:

Mr. and Mrs. Percival Lilywhite
request the honor of your presence
at the marriage of their Real Daughter
Phoebe
to, etc.

But then, would Phoebe actually be doing this? Or did she really matter anymore? Did she ever?

Ahh.
That’s what this was.

It was time, I told myself that night as I climbed exhausted into bed. Time to put away the entirely too childish fantasy of Phoebe Lilywhite with her perfect life inside her perfect family with their big teeth and brown hair. No, I was Bronwen Alexis Oliver, Percival and Jacquelyn Oliver’s daughter, Howard and Jane Onderdonk’s granddaughter, Miriam and Milton Bridenthal’s niece, and Jesus’s sister. These were my people, and the best one—my dad—was gone.