Jackal, page 4
“You okay?” I ask.
A hardness washes over Mel’s face. “It’s a mess. All of it is just a…nightmare.”
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
“I’m this close to asking her to leave,” Mel says in a rushed whisper. “I know my parents aren’t the biggest fans of Garrett, but I thought he’d won them over. We’d won them over.”
“What happened?”
Mel’s face shows her fatigue. She unzips a garment bag to reveal her dress. It’s beautiful, intricate lace. Off the shoulder. Open-backed. With a long sheer train.
“That’s stunning.”
“This was my third-choice dress. Only one I could get in time. Mom was like, ‘It’s a sign.’ ”
“Seriously? It’s perfect.”
Mel removes her robe and shimmies into the gown. “And when the first venue canceled on us, Dad was like, ‘Well, I guess that’s it.’ Like, that could stop a wedding? Thank God for Nick. All this is his next…investment.” Even though Mel grumbles, she can’t hide her awe. “He’s been building it up for weddings anyway. Wasn’t supposed to be open till next summer. He worked overnight to get things ready for us.” Mel leans in for a whisper. “It’s a trap, right? I mean, of all people, he’d be the one to pull something.” She laughs.
Try as I might, I can’t.
“So, you got your speech ready?” Mel asks.
I almost throw up. “You said nothing about a speech—I don’t have one—I barely got the dress—”
“I’m kidding!” She chuckles. “Kidding. Trying to get you to snap out of whatever is going on with you.”
“Oh.” I attempt another laugh, but it falls out of me like a cough.
Mel finally speaks to my discomfort. “Don’t tell me that’s why you’re— You still have that thing about the woods?”
“I don’t have a thing. I have a real, justifiable fear.”
“There’s electricity and working toilets. This is not some kegger in the trees.” She turns around. “Help, please?”
I button a column of tight little loops cinching in at her lower back. “I know.”
“You can still make a speech. But only if you want—if it will get you to calm down.”
“No. Thank you. I’m terrible at them. I never know what to—” I stop midsentence and shriek when I see something dart across the tiny dressing room and out under the curtain. It looked like a mouse. Or a bug. “Did you see—”
“No, you didn’t.” Mel digs into one of her many bags. I try to perch on a chair, but she grabs the edge of my dress before I can shrink away. “Elizabeth Rocher, don’t you flake on me.” She produces a small flask from a bag, prompts me to tip my head back, and fills my mouth with a shot of vodka. Then she takes one herself.
“You’re here.”
“So are mice. Or bugs. Both.”
“There’s an open bar. Even if everything goes horribly wrong, we can still have one hell of a party.”
I breathe in Melissa’s confidence. “Right. You’re right. We’re gonna have a total rager!” I haven’t used that word in years. It feels good to whip it back out again.
Melissa laughs loudly. “I expect nothing less!”
Maybe it’s the vodka, or finally seeing Mel, but I relax. She’s right, today is going to be exactly what both of us need. She’s going to get married, and I’m finally going to have some much-needed fun.
A sweet-looking nine-year-old brown girl peers into Melissa’s dressing room. “Auntie Liz!” Her enormous curly hair blooms from her head.
“Caroline!” Mrs. Parker, Mel’s mother, says as she races in after the girl. “Now, you—”
Mrs. Parker stops still when she enters. Both Mel and I stare at her expectantly. She presses her fingers to the edges of her eyes, blotting back tears. She’s seeing Mel in her dress for the first time.
“Oh, Melissa” comes out of Mrs. Parker as a whisper.
Mel deals with Caroline first. “I told you Auntie Liz would make it.” Melissa turns to me. “Caroline has been asking for you since I told her you were—” Caroline doesn’t wait for her mother to finish, she races to me and hugs me. The white ruffles of her dress flutter with the speed of her impact. It’s the best hug I’ve received since coming home.
“Care-bear, when did you get so tall?” I ask. When I saw her around this time last summer, she came up to right above my elbow and now she’s up to my shoulder. I gave Garrett and Mel a date night and took Caroline to see some bright, loud show on Broadway. I got her a light-up headband thing from the gift shop. We got sushi. She fell asleep against me on the subway ride home.
Mrs. Parker answers my rhetorical question. “She’s gonna be tall, like her father. I keep telling Mel to get her on the basketball team.”
“MeMaw, I don’t like sports,” Caroline mumbles with a slight edge. Maybe her teenage years are closer than I thought. Caroline carries a sketch pad and sullenly clutches crayons. I can tell they embarrass her. I got her fancy ones for her birthday last month. White wrapping. Vivid colors. Satisfying waxy feel. I feel silly. She’s clearly grown out of them.
Caroline looks at Mel in her dress. “What happened to the sequins?”
“You got all the sparkles, remember?” She has. Caroline’s dress is a white shimmery explosion of ruffles. Melissa looks back at me. “Oh my goodness.”
“What?” I ask.
“That looks exactly like your prom dress.”
I look down. Melissa’s right; it isn’t just the town that’s reminding me of high school. Add a little more volume to the skirt, sprinkle some shine on the bodice, and it would be a carbon copy. High school prom is why I avoid dances and clubs and holiday parties. Prom was the first social event I attended where it was no longer acceptable to show up alone. I had this shattering realization during the first slow dance of the night. Watching everyone paired and happy, I wept in public in a way I never had before. When Melissa noticed my puffy eyes, she ditched her date and spent the evening with me instead. We danced, laughed, and snuck cups of spiked punch for the rest of the night.
“Mom! Can you do a zigzag part?” Caroline asks.
Mel doesn’t respond. She can’t avoid her mother anymore. Sensing the weight of a needed conversation, I seize the opportunity.
“I can do zigzags, Care-bear,” I say.
Mel flashes me a quick look of thanks. She straightens her back and faces her mother. I grab Caroline’s hand and close the curtain behind me.
I lead her out to where my things are and settle her on the floor between my knees. Her hair needs water, leave-in conditioner, and curl cream. I grab a bottle of water, wet my hand, and sprinkle till her hair is damp. I massage the leave-in thoroughly till it reaches her scalp. Then I grab a rat-tail comb and a paddle brush. I part and gather her hair on one side. Caroline relaxes in my grip.
“Auntie Liz.” Caroline’s high voice carries in the busy room. “When you were on the train from New York, did you tell them to go faster—” I thought Lauren was nosy; Caroline wants to know every single detail of my life since I last saw her. Unlike Lauren, she hasn’t mentioned my ex once. She’s too concerned about what I’ve eaten every day since we had sushi. I catch her up as best as I can while I do her hair. After a brief pause she asks, “Am I behaving today?”
“So far? Yeah, you are. Why?”
Caroline grins. “Because if I’m good, Mom said she’ll think about getting me a dog.” The girl vibrates with excitement.
“Well, keep it up. Your mom had—” I pause. Did Mel ever have a dog? While we were childhood friends, I forget that there were years before when we weren’t. Before I can follow up, Caroline is already on to her next topic.
“Do you like my dress?”
“Yes.”
Caroline slouches and I guide her upright. That was the wrong answer. Already the girl is seeking external validation. She picked the dress. She liked the dress. But she wants to know that I like it too.
“It’s really pretty. Like a princess.”
Caroline beams from the inside.
I see movement from Mel’s dressing area. After a shuffle, Mrs. Parker pulls back the curtain and leaves her daughter to finish getting ready. I watch her, looking for a clue as to how it went. Mrs. Parker’s face is an enigma. She scans the floor of the room, checking the corners and crevices for something. Examining the craftsmanship of the wall, she catches my eyes in the mirror. I bury myself back in Caroline’s hair.
Mrs. Parker comes over to us. “You’re so good at that.” She hovers. Her voice is tinged with the slightest bit of jealousy.
I keep making twists. “Practice.” I take the time to roll the ends with a little extra cream so that they pop back with a curl. When I’m done, I swoop the girl’s edges into little waves. Caroline watches me in the mirror. I wonder when’s the last time someone did her hair like this. She reaches up to touch it, but I brush her hand away. I search in my bag for a scarf and tie it around the girl’s head.
“Okay,” I level with not-so-little Caroline. “I did zigzags. Now promise me something, okay?”
“What?”
“Do not take this scarf off and do not touch your hair.” My voice is heavy with well-earned wisdom.
“What about your hair, Auntie Liz?” she asks.
I look back in the mirror. My wig is catching hell in this humidity. The plastic strands curl up in unorthodox shapes around the sweat on my temples. Leave it to a child to call me out. I look at everyone else getting ready. They are almost done, blotting away shine or adding one last spritz of hairspray. I look at the products in front of me, the ones I’ve just used to do Caroline’s hair. Water, leave-in, and curl cream. I didn’t bring anything for the synthetic strands on my head.
“Caroline!” It’s Mrs. Parker. She’s getting everyone set. I know she’ll be calling my name next if I don’t hurry.
“Go ahead.” I nudge Caroline. She doesn’t move. The girl looks at me like she wants to ask a question she’s been told not to. “What is it, Care-bear?”
“Are you sad because your hair looks funny?” She’s right. I am sad because my hair looks funny. Lace-front or not, the straight strands would never grow out of my scalp.
The room is empty. I reach up and pull the wig off. I brace for Caroline’s questions, maybe even a few well-timed teases. Instead, she reaches out with both hands and touches either side of my head with such care. Like she’s checking to make sure it’s real. Then she takes her left hand and touches the back of her head, where, though her curls are looser, her hair is tight like mine.
“I like it. You look like”—she considers this—“a superhero.”
“Caroline!” Mrs. Parker ducks her head back in. “Come on, honey. You need to line up.”
That’s my cue too. I admit, I already feel better without the confines of the wig. I rub a bit of product into my hair to get my curls to pop. I start my makeup, keeping it simple; cover the perpetual bags under my eyes and some blush. I’ll sweat most of it off anyway, as the temperature is already at 80 degrees and rising. The lines around my mouth are deeper than I remember. And there’s a hollowing to my cheeks. My baby fat is gone. I look like someone’s mother. Then again, I could be.
This is the shortest my hair has ever been. Instantly, I think of when it was at its longest. I went all the way to Pittsburgh to get waist-length microbraids, once and only once, for vacation. It took two days to put them in. The kids here acted like I was…something. It was the first time someone other than my mother called me beautiful.
“You’re…beautiful,” Mel said when she saw me in school the next day. The way she uttered it was like she was relieved that I’d finally realized it myself. It was a fact to her. A fact that had never occurred to me. I kept those braids in until they matted and my mom had to cut them out. It would be a long time before someone called me beautiful again. That’s why I straightened my hair all through high school. And after. Months ago, when I cut it all off, I saw my natural hair for the first time in years. I was sick of length and the perm–new growth cycle. I wanted off the wheel. Also, my ex liked my hair straight. He’d grip me by it so he could give me sloppy kisses. Thick. Heavy. Full of saliva and tongue. I start to feel nauseous all over again. A chill runs up my spine.
“Lizzy?” Mrs. Parker catches me mid-shiver. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“No, no.” She gathers me up by my arm, looking down near my feet. “If you saw something, I don’t want to know. Nick rushed this place through, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are…vermin.” She carefully scans the floor.
“Nope. Just a chill.”
She continues to peer over the construction as she leads me out. “You know what they say. If you think you saw something out here…no, you didn’t.”
FOUR
Here’s how to survive a wedding after a breakup. You’ll need: A dress you look amazing in. Good shoes. Wine. I have: A polyester peach poof. Stunning but painful shoes. And an open bar (I just have to get through the ceremony). Also I have an intangible promotion. Will it be enough?
I’m happy for Mel. She did it. I didn’t. I went through the stages of a proper relationship, but I always knew it was off. When love feels like a series of checked-off boxes, something is wrong. Relationships aren’t meant to be itemized. Now that it’s over, I’m working on getting back what I lost: My pride. My joy. My peace. Reviewing the list in my head, I wonder if I ever had any of them.
Mel and Garrett came together like a story. They were from different sides of the tracks, or in this case, altitudes. Every level of Johnstown has a different demographic. Like most Black people, Garrett grew up in the valley. Mel and I grew up high in the hills. Spread evenly throughout, the forest is the only thing every area has in common.
After living in the same town for their entire lives, Mel and Garrett met for the first time in college. They started dating almost immediately. Senior year they advanced to meeting the parents. When Garrett brought Melissa to Thanksgiving dinner, his mother cornered Melissa in the bathroom to demand her intentions. Melissa blinked and told her the truth. Next Thanksgiving it was Mel’s turn. Melissa’s pregnancy had just started to show when she brought Garrett home. Her father physically chased him out of the house. Garrett calmly declared his truth from his exile in the front yard. Over the years, their love stayed the talk of the town.
Now, on their wedding day, Mel and Garrett’s love is so true that it has done the impossible: rendered them unremarkable.
They are in love. Simple. Fact.
The wedding party stands in the negative spaces between the dark branches in the scenery. Rows of white chairs arrange the attendees in two perfect squares. Guests fan themselves and shield their eyes from the piercing summer sun. Lauren, Claire—Mel’s friend from college—and I teeter in our heels in the grass. Throughout the ceremony, there are only a few shifts in the audience. That’s it. I can sense the relief in Mel. She and Garrett kiss. The applause comes instantly.
The air cools as the sun sets. The reception starts. Summer blossoms fill the centerpieces on the tables and everything is cloaked in a glow from the soft, battery-powered votive candles. The lights cast strange shadows in the woods surrounding us, but there is light and that comforts me.
I gear up for the entrance of the bridal party. My last obligation. We all wait for our cue outside the barn. Claire puts her long red hair up into a bun to get it off her shoulders. Lauren futilely fans herself with her hands. Unable to sink our heels into the grass, we all hobble on the balls of our sore feet. The groomsmen rehearse a dance step they plan to march in with, balancing from one side to the other and somehow ending up on beat with the music. Claire notices.
“I’m not letting those boys show us up”—she smiles—“and neither is Liz.”
“Oh! I don’t dance,” I say. That’s not enough of an answer for Claire. Before I know it, my hobbling has become a step-touch with a snap, twirl, and pose. It’s much simpler than the guys’, but we can do our routine cleanly and in sync.
Our cue comes.
“Here we go!” Claire grabs my hand and pulls me into formation. Nerves and adrenaline take the details away from me, but the feelings stay. My face aches from laughing. And smiling. I’m having a silly dance battle at my best friend’s wedding in a barn in the middle of nowhere—and I’m having fun.
After we pose for pictures, we head for our seats. I’m the first one to arrive at my table, nestled in one of the corners. As the others come, I realize that I’m at the singles table. The seats comprise Garrett’s two single cousins, myself, and Claire—all the unpaired wedding guests. While the others make conversation, I nurse my water and peel my feet out of my shoes. I spread my toes out on the cool concrete and it feels like heaven. Claire gradually unlatches from her phone and attaches herself to Garrett’s cousin Tré. Seeing them flirt fills me with a dose of envy. There’s no hint of failure in either of them. It’s like the world has deemed them beautiful, and because of this they have no need to question anything about themselves.
Once the bridal party is seated, Melissa and Garrett make an entrance to a song everyone except me seems to recognize. It’s catchy. I can’t help but hum along to the predictable tune. The couple takes their seats at the place of honor and the toasts start. Thankfully, because of the rush, my duty as part of the wedding party is over. I just had to show up and put on a dress. The Parkers are all smiles and laughs and telling stories about triumph over uncertainty. This is acceptance.
The band starts to play and I bob my head along to the music. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a good time like this. I feel myself shaking off a fog. A few guests make their way to the dance floor. I take this opportunity to head to the bar.
