In My Father's House

In My Father's House

"You worry too much", my mother's voice seemed to whisper in the darkness. When I was young, I would lie sleepless on Christmas Eve, my child's heart filled with an intense and joyful anticipation of the following morning. The emotion was different now: darker, adult. I worried. Will everything go all right? Will I be beautiful? This is my last night in this bed, in my father's house. Tomorrow I will be married. Tomorrow I will be married. Tomorrow I.....

I arose the next morning just as the sun was edging over the horizon, and the day promised fair and bright for January; no cold grey clouds would mar my day. The rest of the house also woke early; my father wandered the downstairs, my mother couldn't eat, and my brother left to meet the ushers at at another house. I closeted myself in the bathroom and sought serenity in a deep tub.

I never found it: I had soaked too long and was running late. The bridesmaids appeared, the flowers arrived, the hairdresser fussed, and the photographer waited impatiently for my appearance. The maid of honor came to help me dress. First, the elegant underthings: the silk stockings, garter belt, garters, shoes. Then the full petticoat. Last, the heavy winter satin over my head, arms circled by slender sleeves, and breasts confined to the fitted bodice. Corseted in its heaviness and crowned with the veil, I was almost afraid to move, lest I rip a seam or trip in the stiff new shoes. Standing before my mother's mirror, I saw a bride, not as thin or breathtaking as she would like to be, but beautiful nonetheless. I remember hearing that all brides are beautiful on their wedding day; perhaps the bridal dress transforms them.

Finally, primped, clothed and jeweled, I descended the stairs for the last time as an unmarried woman. Not a maid; I was twenty years old, David and I had been engaged for over a year, and that particular veil had been torn some time ago. Still, a part of me so longed to be that blushing, innocent girl that for a moment, as I paused on the last stair and listened to the bright morning laughter of my bridesmaids, I felt I was.

The shrill voice of the phone interrupted my reverie. It was David.

"Do you have your vows memorized?" he asked. We had written our own, separately, and were keeping them secret until the ceremony.

"Yes; I think so," I said.

"What if I can't remember mine?"

I gaped into the phone. "You'll remember them," I tried to say patiently. "I have to go now."

Three minutes later the phone rang again. "Honey," my mother called out, "it's David again."

I stomped to the phone. "What is it now?"

"I'm really worried about the vows. I'll look stupid if you have them memorized and I have to read them."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "David. Stop worrying. You'll be fine, and besides, the minister will be holding them right in front of both of us. No one will be able to tell if you read them or not. Okay?" He seemed to acquiesce, and we hung up.

The phone rang again.

"Couldn't we both just read them?" he began.

"No!" I'd lost my patience. "Stop calling me! It's like seeing the bride before the wedding! Everything will be fine. I'll see you at the church. Don't call me again." I hung up. I felt like chewing glass.

I rationalized my frustration as the natural result of my nerves; shrugging it aside, we piled into the limousines and headed for the church. The air outside was cold and crisp and felt good on my flushed cheeks and heated emotions. At the church, I sat with my parents in a small waiting room while the last guests arrived; first my mother left to be formally seated, and then my father and I waited for an acolyte to tell us that the bridesmaids were going down. We didn't speak; I thought of all the planning, money and expectation that invested this day, and could only look at my hands, my bitten nails shaming me. And then it was time.

I took my father's arm and we entered at the back of the church. Purcell's trumpet voluntary echoed majestically from the rafters. This was my music; here is the bride.

I was completely and utterly overcome. I dropped my head, ashamed of the uncontrollable tears filling my eyes. It was too much, this moment: the swelling music, my friends and family rising and turning to honor the bride, their eyes burning me. I fought the frightening emotion with all my strength, confused and frustrated by it. I am a young bride...I should be radiant...happy ...this is the day everyone's waited for...you are making a wreck of yourself...stop it! I forced myself to raise my head, tears and all, and tried to swallow past a great pain in my throat; it felt as if an apple was trapped there, choking me. We began together down the long, tortuous aisle. When my arm had been placed in David's, the minister gestured silently for me to take a deep breath, and my composure returned.

We both remembered our vows.

The ceremony was beautiful; the reception elegant, crowded, and endless. After countless photographs, the eternal receiving line and innumerable toasts my mouth was frozen in a smile. I was glad to leave. David had kept the site of our wedding night a secret, and I was almost too tired to be delighted when the limousine pulled up at the Ritz-Carlton. They forgot our welcoming flowers and hors d'oeuvres, but why should I care? we were young and newly married. They remembered the champagne, and David toasted us while we opened gift envelopes sure to contain cash to help on our honeymoon. I drained the last glass of Perrier Jouet, and it was time for one last wedding-day rite. He wanted this, and I knew it, and nothing had changed except for the new feelings rising within me.

When it was over, I slipped quietly out of bed and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I clutched my old teddy bear beneath my robe and sat on the toilet, rocking slowly back and forth. I felt the same choking pain I'd had in the church, and began to weep bitter, soundless tears as its meaning became clear. I wept, longing for comfort, longing for the past, longing for my father's house.