Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (29 page)

Thirty-Three

I
switch off the intercom, squeeze my eyes shut, and shout. “Help! Somebody! For the love of Pete! For the love of
Charlie
!”

The organ swells upstairs, easily drowning me out. My scream tapers into a series of truncated coughs as I try to catch my breath and process what's going on. A couple minutes ago, I was telling Lena to shove it. Now I'm locked in the basement. This is what I get for standing up for myself: The universe produced an equal and opposite reaction. Thank you, classical mechanics.

I daydream briefly of a media scandal. A nice front-page spread.
Family Values:
Lieutenant Governor Hopeful Goes Crazeballs at Daughter's Wedding.

The processional morphs into the bridal march, snapping me right out of my self-pity-fest. I've got to get to Charlie.

No chance of making a phone call—Alex has my purse, and I don't see a landline. Given that I'm in a nursery, there's an obvious shortage of sharp objects for potential lock-picking. Unless I can devise a way to force open the door with a Tickle Me Elmo and ten Beanie Baby Jesuses, I'm fresh out of luck.

I examine the scattering of debris covering the floor. Rachel's eye shadow palette. Holly's silk bag with various pearlized cases spilling out: a makeup cornucopia. A stick of deodorant. A discarded foundation applicator. A few crumpled tissues. I think even MacGyver would be stumped.

In a panic, I switch the intercom back on, and the minister's voice comes booming through the wall speaker: “Dearly beloved . . .”

It's starting.

No way in Hades am I going gently into this good night. I slam my fist against the old wooden door until my hand aches. No one comes to my rescue. Time for a new tactic. I slip off my heels and toss them aside.

I scramble to the far corner of the room, kicking debris out of my path as I go. By the window, I jump up and down a few times to warm up, imagining Lin massaging my shoulders and giving me a pep talk. Something intense, like: “You were born to destroy!”

“I was born to destroy,” I tell the Jesuses before taking a sharp inhale and sprinting across the room. Visualizing the door giving way under my brute force. The impact sends me flailing backward, moaning as a throbbing pain stretches down the entire right side of my body. Should have taken more classes at Alex's GirlPower Gym.

“The bond and covenant of marriage was established by God in creation . . .”

I squint at the radio box. Does the broadcast go both ways? Could I interrupt the ceremony with a slew of amplified obscenities? Or maybe I could go for a different angle. “Attention, dimwits! Satan here. I've programmed this sanctuary to self-destruct in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

Nope. No way to make a return transmission. Of course—they wouldn't want children interrupting the ceremony with crying or poop jokes. Foiled again.

“The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy . . .”

In the sanctuary, Holly and Charlie probably look about as joyful as if they were each nunchucked in the crotch. I'm sure Lena's looking on, smiling smugly. Channeling my anger, I pace back across the room, pointing my index and middle fingers at the door, then back at my eyes. I can do this.

Bam!
I collide with the door and subsequently collide with the floor, dizzy from impact.

“Jesus!” says a voice on the other side of the door.

“Hello?” I pop up from the floor. “Help!”

The door handle rattles. “Piper? Did you lock yourself in there to fester in self-pity?”

“Alex, no! I need your help!”

“Clearly. Let me in, I've got pomegranate vodka.” She singsongs “vod-ka.”

“I can't! They locked me in! Holly lied about the baby!”

“Sweetie, I know this whole thing has been tough on you, but I do worry about your sanity.”

“No! It's Holly who lost her mind. She had a breakdown and admitted— Oh, fig tart. Just let me out so I can stop the wedding!”

“Wait, what?”

“Holly lied about the baby and I have to tell Charlie!”

Pause. “Shit.” A zip and a rustling as she presumably rummages in her purse. She tries jabbing something in the lock, then sighs. “Listen, I'll get you out, but I'm going to need more than a couple of bobby pins and a tampon. I'll be right back.”

“What? Don't leave me!”

Her heels click-clack across the landing and then go silent.

Meanwhile, the ceremony plows ahead. “I require and charge you both, here in the presence of God, that if either of you know any reason why you may not be united in marriage lawfully, and in accordance with God's Word, you do now confess it.”

Silence.

I press both of my palms against the door. Come on, Holly. Confess, dammit!

“Holly Garbo, will you have this man to be your husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

Pause.

“I will.”

I rattle the door handle in a panic. Deep breaths. It's early on in the ceremony yet. Not the vows; those come after the homily. Not yet. Still time. I dash to the other side of the room and examine the window, but it's definitely too high and looks painted shut. The tiny orange chairs aren't tall enough to give me the right amount of boost.

I trust Alex to come back for me, but what if she's too late? I should've told her to plow down the aisle and tackle Holly.

“And Charlie, will you have this woman to be your wife, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

Longer pause.

“I will.”

I collapse onto the floor, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead.

“Will all of you witnessing these promises do all in your power to uphold these two persons in their marriage?”

“We will,” say a chorus of voices, though I can think of a few people who'd be notably silent.

“Let us pray.”

And I do. Sitting on the nursery floor next to Tickle Me Elmo, I pray for Charlie to realize this isn't right for him. I put my face in my hands, transmitting that red octagon to him over and over. STOP!

I look up as I hear Alex's heels on the landing, again.

“I'm back.” Alex sounds out of breath. “Hang in there, I'm busting you out.”

The speaker crackles with static as someone begins reading First Corinthians 13. “Love is patient, love is kind . . .”

On the other side of the door, something snaps, then pops.

“Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth.”

A few seconds later, a loud tapping noise comes from the doorjamb at about calf height.

“What's going on out there?” I ask as the tapping subsides. “Alex?”

“Sit tight. Trust me.” The tapping progresses higher up the doorjamb.

The minister launches into a homily about today being the first brick in the foundation of their marriage. “You can build a sparkling mansion—one with the most beautiful and elegant decorations—that isn't really a home. Or you can build a solid structure, firm and true. Maybe it's not always beautiful to look at, but it has real character and style.”

The vows. The vows are after the homily.

“Step back, girly.”
Pow!
The hinge side of the door shakes, then moves a few inches toward me. Then a few more inches. Alex shoves it again, and her manicured hand emerges from the gap between the wall and the door. “C'mon!”

As I squeeze through, I see a flush-faced Alex on the other side. On the floor in front of her are the door's hinge pins, the Moses finger painting, her discarded purse, and an industrial-sized toolbox with “Property of Lakeville Episcopal” stamped on one side. Alex holds a hammer in her right hand and a screwdriver in her left. She's officially the empress of badassery.

“Lord, make Charlie and Holly's foundation a strong one, and bless their home together for as long as they both shall live. Amen.” The minister invites Charlie to take Holly's hand. The vows.

“Crikey! I'm going in,” I say.

Alex steps aside and gestures up the stairs with the hammer. “Godspeed. I'll be right behind you.”

I take the
steps two at a time. Shove open the stairwell door. Dash across the lobby. The marble feels cool on my feet. The rest of me is hot, hot, hot, sweaty and panicked. In seconds, I'm at the sanctuary doors. They're both closed. I can't hear anything on the other side—weird. Can't hear much over my heart, which is thrumming at avian speeds.

Grasping the nearest door handle, I yank it open.

The door issues an insidious creak. Hundreds of heads—and hats—whip toward me. I open my mouth, then shut it. I imagined dashing down the aisle screaming, “I object!” But the complete and utter silence in the sanctuary instantly disarms me. Oh God—is it over? It can't be over. Unless Holly pulled a Humperdinck and told the minister to “skip to the end.”

My eyes fly to the altar. Holly is shooting flaming arrows of hatred in my general direction. I'm almost afraid to look at Charlie, but I can't resist. He holds Holly's right hand with his left, but when he sees me, his grip seems to loosen. A warmth comes back into his face that I haven't seen since the night we met.

Holly jerks Charlie's hand back toward her. “Go ahead,” she says sharply to the minister. But the minister's lips are parted in shock, and for a moment, he lowers the binder balanced across his palm.
“Go ahead”
means it's not over.
But did they say their vows?

Lena half-rises out of her seat. Our eyes meet: An unspoken reprise of our earlier conversation flickers between us. My eyes say,
Raise that butt one more centimeter out of your seat, and I'll scream Holly's secret to the whole congregation.
Her butt lowers. Too much denial might indicate she has something to hide. I guess her strategy at this point is to let me make a fool out of myself.

A few of the congregation members smile hopefully at me, like I might burst into song or initiate a flash mob. A few iPhones are already trained on me. Sam beams in pure amusement, and Susan gives me a loopy smile and two thumbs-up from the front row. Uncle Rex bobs his head, apparently signaling me to start dancing down the aisle. Biff, the posh photographer, looks unsure. He holds his camera at shoulder height, at the ready.

Among the clearly not amused are Susan and Charlie's parents, who eye me suspiciously. Kayak Hat and Tiny Grandmother scowl at my utter lack of decorum.

Holly clears her throat. Looking flummoxed, the minister raises his binder. “Repeat after me. ‘I, Charles Edward Bell' . . .”

Oh thank God. He hasn't sworn himself to her yet.

Now. I should definitely say something now, but my mouth doesn't seem to work. Neither do my lungs. Can't remember when I last breathed. My feet work, though—they start down the aisle. Liberated from their heels, they can't be stopped.

I'm halfway down the aisle when the minister tries again. “ ‘I, Charles Edward Bell' . . .” he prompts.

But Charles Edward Bell is looking at me. I sense a question in his gaze, and I nod once, not even sure which question I'm answering. Maybe I'm telling him I forgive him for what he said to me at his rehearsal dinner, because I do. Maybe I'm telling him he's strong enough to trust his gut, because he is.

As our gazes hold, I send him the strength I used to stand up to Lena, send him the rush of water that had broken the levee inside me. I imagine it gathering momentum as it approaches the altar.

I transmit all kinds of ESP images to him, shapes that evolve into memories—us dancing at the Portrait Gallery. Ducking in front of the Elvis portrait to giggle as Peter and Marina commenced their epic romance.
You deserve that,
I tell him with my eyes.
You deserve an epic romance. You deserve so much more than this. What's in front of you is all a lie.