Father of the Bride

Maggie settled down in the reserved pew, second from the front. Listening to the organ prelude, she smoothed and re-smoothed the skirt of her new dress. Dove gray or pearl gray, she couldn’t remember what she’d finally decided on. Keep it together, she reminded herself. Do not embarrass your daughter. This day was about Sasha and Devon—those two gung-ho, madly-in-love young folks. She adjusted the pin of her corsage, an ebullient display of lily, chrysanthemum, and baby’s breath.

“Go ahead, turn around, have a look,” a familiar quiet voice whispered in Maggie’s ear. “No one said Mother of the Bride has to sit like a statue while everyone else moseys in.” It was a voice she hadn’t heard for a year, a voice as warm and reassuring as her favorite cardigan, a fine tenor that often sounded on the verge of a chuckle.

Maggie glanced right and left, and then turned around and looked behind her. No one was nearby. And none of the other guests gliding into the nave caught her eye.

“There, didn’t that feel better?” the tenor voice said.

In a low tone, she said, “Let’s not make a scene, Pierre.” Much as she loved having a confidant on such a wrenching and significant day as the marriage of her only child, she knew, from Pierre’s past “visitations,” that conversations were tricky to manage while in the company of others who had no idea his spirit still walked the earth.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “Mum’s the word.”

For the first time, she noticed patches of color shining through the stained glass windows and playing on the altar. Scarlet, amethyst, orange. She smiled.

“And don’t ask me what I’m doing here,” he teased.

“I need no reminding,” she said. Still, she was impressed. Once upon a time he had promised his princess, little six-year-old Sasha, that her daddy would be there on her “special day.” Growing up, Sasha spoke often about the promise. But in 2001, when she was ten, their world came crashing down and many things were never mentioned again.

Maggie wondered if Pierre’s ghost had ever visited Sasha after his tragic death in the American Airlines Flight 587 in Queens. Only two months after the 9/11 attacks, the plane crash was horror upon horror to the city they loved. After the first few months of raw uncensored grief, there were certain topics she could no longer mention to her daughter. Apart from those certain prohibited topics, mother and daughter spoke quite openly about their current lives, including health and dating, Maggie’s precarious job situation, and Sasha’s challenging work as a paramedic.

The organ music was swelling. And Maggie’s heart was pounding. Did she ever think she would see this day, when rebellious Sasha would be walking down the aisle, preparing for a public declaration of love? And in this church, the scene of Maggie’s own marriage, and the scene of Pierre’s funeral?

Maggie studied the brocade altar cloth, the kneeling cushions where the couple would be prayed over, the candles that were steadfastly shining. The pulpit where the Reverend Dubinsky would exhort the young couple to love, honor, and obey, even when the going got tough. Especially when the going got tough.

She could hear muffled noises: people gathering, filling up the pews behind her. So much livelier than the sounds of people solemnly assembling for a funeral. And whew! loads more perfume. She even welcomed the usual carping about road construction, which had strangulated local traffic. After a maelstrom of grief, she welcomed mundane complaints; they were but small puffs of discontent.

Oops, her corsage was sagging… she fussed some more.

“You should try to enjoy the moment,” Pierre said.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that after,” she muttered. Again, she glanced briefly around.

“Listen to yourself,” he said. “It’s a contradiction, promising you will ‘enjoy the moment’ — ‘after.’”

She suppressed a small chuckle. “Okay, wise guy, you caught me there.” She checked her watch.

“That’s right,” he sighed. “They’re running thirty minutes late. And counting. The ring bearer buggered off.”

“Oh my goodness,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t someone come out to inform the crowd?” She knew most people did not have a friendly ghost smoothing over the rough spots of life. Giving the inside scoop. She was unable to share Pierre—not, that is, without exciting alarm or pity—so she had learned to keep his occasional delightful appearances, his “visitations,” to herself.

 “You’re right, luv, I’ll see what I can do.” Pierre flitted away.

It was odd, his flitting away, because she couldn’t actually see him. But somehow, she sensed he was gone. Sadness touched her, like water wicking into thick paper. But, like thick paper, she stayed firm.

She sat quietly for the fifth play-through of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. She forced herself to turn around again. This time, a couple of fellow parishioners caught her eye. Maggie smiled but nodded briskly and turned right back to the front so they would get the message and not come by to chat until after the ceremony when she would have her game face on.

Devon’s best man entered the nave and marched around in squeaky shoes, announcing, “A little delay, folks, a little delay.” Appeased, the crowd briefly fell silent. Then the chatter rose to a new, higher level. Everyone began joking, speculating, and waxing philosophical about the delay.

 “Devon’s got cold feet,” someone said and laughed.

“Sasha heard about last night’s stag,” another one said. More laughter.

 “I like a bit of suspense,” Pierre confided to Maggie. “Don’t you?”

“That was fast action,” she said, startled. “Getting the best man in here. To make an announcement so soon, I mean.”

 “Let’s just say Reverend Dubinsky is a friend of a friend,” Pierre said. He had an impish tone. And although Maggie couldn’t see him anymore, she knew he would be grinning as he said it. But she only had the memory of that look now.

She turned her gaze to the vibrant hues of the stained glass. Cerulean, amber, emerald.

“Since we have a minute,” she said, “what do you think of my new dress?” She lifted the skirt slightly from her knee and let it fall.

 Pierre hesitated. “It adds ten years, Mags.” He paused. “Sorry, but you asked. Gray is too somber for a May wedding, don’t you think?”

He said it gently—and to be honest she had heard similar comments from a few well-meaning friends, who kept trying to coach Maggie about how to get back into the dating game. So it didn’t dampen her mood. “Well, then, it’ll be perfect for my next interview,” she said pertly.

“And you’ve got great gams, why not show them off?”

 Gams. She giggled. That was Pierre through and through, with his old-fashioned slang. “Oh, great,” she scoffed. “Where were you when I was dress shopping?”

“I’m trying to cut down,” he said.

She laughed. Then covered her mouth, hoping no one heard this mother of the bride sitting by herself. Laughing, God forbid. She buried her nose in the wedding booklet.

“No, seriously,” he said. “I fear my visitations were distracting you. Keeping you too much on the sidelines. Didn’t you feel that way?”

“No-o-o.”

“Really? I believe I was extending your period of mourning. Or bereavement. Or whatever they call it. Far too long.” His voice was serious, emphatic.

“Maybe I enjoyed the company,” she said defensively. “In fact, I’ve been missing you a helluva lot. You started getting scarce around the time of that big twenty-year memorial in Rockaway Park… and then this past year, when Sasha started giving pushback, you got really scarce. Again.” Her voice grew husky and she let it trail off.

“Would you say… I ghosted you?” Pierre made the sound of a rimshot, like he was playing in a comedy revue.

“Oh, get serious!”

“Sorry.” He grew serious again. “I’m not infinitely long in limbo,” he said. “I had to start weaning you off my visitations at some point.”

The organist switched to some contemporary pieces. A Time for Us. Lara’s Theme.

Maggie smoothed and re-smoothed her dress. “Well, I did try a couple of dates…”

“Yeah, how’d you get set up with those losers?” Pierre asked.

“You know—Tinder.” She heaved a sigh. He shouldn’t play dumb with her. He’d likely watched her set up her profile. “And look what happened.”

“I have to admit, that second date was weird,” Pierre said, “I should have piped up sooner.”

“You’ve always been protective. Infuriatingly so.”

“Infuriatingly? He left bruises on your arm, didn’t he?” The tenor voice roughened.

“I was handling it!” she protested. “I was getting out of it, then you pulled your superhero stunt. Ohh.” She squeezed the hymnbook, recalling that tumultuous evening. First, the jitters of getting ready for a date, and second, in the middle of her date’s kisses, realizing how badly she wanted Pierre in her arms.

Suddenly, the organist hammered out the opening chords of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus and the crowd hushed itself. As Maggie teetered to her feet (new high heels), she noticed nearby faces quickly swinging away from her. Had she been arguing too loudly with Pierre?

Step- step- pause. Sasha proceeded slowly down the aisle. Step- step- pause. Her wedding gown had a low-cut bodice and a slit up the thigh. Maggie liked the dress—for Sasha, that is. Sure, it was incongruous for a church wedding, but fashions had become more revealing. The best part was that Sasha’s body ink was visible, faintly rippling when her arms and calves moved.

“Oh my my,” Pierre said. “There goes my baby girl.” He made a soft clucking noise. “Check it out, Mags. Left bicep.”

She didn’t have to look. She had first seen the tattoo of a mighty oak commemorating Pierre when it appeared eight, nine years ago. Unexpectedly, she had a hunch. “Were you there when she got it?”

“I was there when she prayed over it the night before… and then, yes, the next day, when she got it.” He paused. “And I was there for the next one, and the next….”

Aha. Maggie did a quick mental tally. Sasha had been adding to her body art over the years; what, maybe a dozen times? She chortled, “And here I figured tattoos had something to do with the tribe of paramedics she and Devon joined.” She laughed softly. “But it was you… giving your visitations, as you call them.”

Sasha continued proceeding down the aisle on the arm of Uncle Jacob, and when they reached the pew second from the front, she flashed a brave, tearful smile at Maggie, who flipped two thumbs up.

“Oh, not Jacob! That jerk.” Pierre’s voice hissed in Maggie’s ear.

She ignored him, kept the grin plastered to her face, aware that the wedding photographer was popping up here and there, getting candid shots during the processional. Once the bride and her uncle were out of earshot, Maggie muttered between clenched teeth, “Of course it’s your brother. He’s the fatherly stand-in. Two years older than you, same handsome look and athletic build.” She fought against the sob rising in her throat.

Mrs. Stilton, a shirt-tail cousin, one pew behind, let out an aggrieved “Hush!”

Maggie white-knuckled her hymnbook, feeling her face go bright red. Lips pressed firmly together, she ignored Pierre. She teared up when the soloist sang Puccini’s O Mio Babbino Caro, which translated to “My Dear Daddy,” chosen in honor of Pierre.

Maggie gave herself over to the music. Surely she was allowed to weep for that. Except Pierre was there. Sort of.

Then came the readings. She decided to suss out Pierre. “So… do you think they will actually tie the knot?” she asked with a mischievous twinkle.

“No, they will not,” he replied.

“What? You surprise me, Pierre, stating this without doubt! How do you know?”

“I told you… the ring bearer took off with the ring.”

“So? An exchange of rings is not what finalizes a marriage.” She recalled an episode of M*A*S*H* where the lovebirds used a band-aid in lieu of a ring.

 “True, true. I had to spirit away the license, too.”

“What? You stopped the paperwork?” She uttered this so forcefully that Mrs. Stilton cleared her throat. Maggie pretended she had received an alert on her phone—tut-tut—and conspicuously turned the device off.

 “I have my ways…” His voice trailed off with a lilt of mystery.

“Not to worry, Mags. They will play-act the part of signing the license.”

“Whoa. What?” Maggie scowled in puzzlement at the empty air, forgetting briefly she couldn’t see the invisible presence. “You’re serious? You’re really, truly stopping the marriage? Why?”

“Devon recently broke it off with another woman, the mother of his child,” Pierre said, words rapidly streaming, as if he’d bottled this up too long. “So, this affair with Sasha is a rebound. They’re not really soul mates. He’s just using her to get back at his ex.”

“News to me.” Maggie was huffing a little, and her chest was tightening. “He seems genuinely in love with her.”

“Of course he does. He’s even convinced himself. But you didn’t know the full story, with the rebound and the young child, did you?”

This was too much for her.

Maggie got to her feet, this time holding her hands to her face, and excused herself to bathroom, leaving a row of concerned faces in her wake.

She secured the door then burst into scolding Pierre. “I don’t believe this! Her own father—at her wedding—as promised. But you don’t approve? And you didn’t think to tell your princess in advance? What were you thinking!” By now Maggie was shaking her fists in the air.

No answer. Pierre had flitted away.

Maggie sat on the toilet and took deep breaths. Keep it together, she reminded herself. Do not embarrass your daughter. She blew her nose and splashed cold water on her face. Then she left the bathroom, ignoring the dirty looks from the line-up that had begun to form outside.

 *        *         *

True to form, Maggie got her game face on.

She was besieged by well-meaning friends and relatives the minute the service was over. She endured the banquet, where she was seated between two of the groom’s aunts, who ended up chatting more with each other than her.

“I’m not going to stick around for the dance,” Pierre said after the banquet.

“What, you don’t want to watch Jake busting out his best moves for the dance with the bride?” For once, Maggie gloated, she was the one in the know. She had already heard most of tonight’s playlist while driving around with Sasha, doing wedding errands the past week. In Da Club by 50 Cent was the first-dance song. Second-dance song was Hypnotize by The Notorious B.I.G.

“Not fond of rap,” Pierre said curtly.

“You still owe me—and Sasha—an explanation.”

“I told you! Devon needs some time to get his head on straight.” He added in a fonder tone, “I’ll see you around.”

Maggie felt a little sad—and there was no stained-glass colors to observe, but the DJ had some kind of light show in the background.

After the three obligatory dances (the first dance by the couple, the second by the newlyweds and their respective parents, then the anniversary dance by the longest-married couple in attendance), Sasha wended her way over to Maggie. She took her mother’s hand. They sat without speaking until the first set ended.

“So, uh, how’s your evening, Mom?”

“Marvelous. I found out,” Maggie said, smiling, “we’ve both been in touch with the same spirit.”

“Yes, Mom.” Sasha’s shoulders relaxed. “Daddy drops by from time to time. I never told you ‘cause I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Me too.” Relief washed over Maggie.

“Remember that time I ran away from home?” Sasha said.

Maggie nodded. “Worst 48 hours of my life.” She gripped Sasha’s forearm.

“Yeah, well, he’s the one who steered me back.”

“Thank God for that,” Maggie said.

“He told me you were a little upset when he made the ring and license disappear,” Sasha said, with a small laugh. “It was a shock to me, too. But if he wants me to put the brakes on, I will.”

“It’s Dad’s protective nature.”

“Yeah. But Devon and I didn’t want to kill the celebratory vibe, so—”

“I know, I know.”

“Yeah.” Sasha blew her nose. “We’ll give it another think.”

“Sounds good. I’m free to come down and sign at City Hall a year from now. If needed.”

 “Keep the dress ready.” Sasha laughed. “Ash gray. It’s wonderfully appropriate.”

The End