Authors: Alexandrea Weis
She searched my
face as if I were five and had just discovered my first mud puddle. “Of course
it’s fifteen thousand dollars. It’s an exclusive shop. Everything is
expensive.”
I gazed down at
the gown with abject horror. “I could feed an army of homeless people for a
month with this thing.”
“Lucky for us
there won’t be any homeless people at the wedding,” Mother scoffed. Then she
waved her hand nonchalantly over the dress. “What did you expect? It’s an
original.”
“An original
what? Because unless it’s got
The Last Supper
painted across it, I don’t
see how it’s worth that much.”
She sighed and
undid the zipper on my back. “That’s what people spend, Nora.”
“This is
ridiculous,” I muttered, pulling the dress off my shoulders.
Mother shrugged
at me. “That’s nothing. The gowns I picked out for you start at twenty
thousand.”
I began pulling
the dress back on my shoulders. “Then this is the one I want.”
“Nora, what do
you care what it costs? Lou is paying for everything. He wants you to have a
nice wedding, and he told me money is no object.”
I stepped around
and showed my unzipped back to her. “I’m not going to bankrupt Lou over a
dress. Now zip me up and let’s get this one fitted.”
Mother zipped me
up and stared at me through the mirror with her lips pinched tightly together,
the way they did when she was upset. “I want you to try on the other ones
first, before you make up your mind.”
When I turned to
face her, I felt some slender thread inside of me snap. “Mother, this is my
wedding, and I will have what I want. I want this dress, and I do not want to
sparkle, or glitter, or shine brighter than the Virgin Mary at the altar. We
are buying this one, or else I’m walking down the aisle naked!”
Mother recoiled
slightly with surprise. “All right, all right, Nora. You don’t have to get so
emotional about it.”
As I walked out
of the dressing room to begin my fitting with Lily, a surge of exhilaration rushed
through me. For the first time in weeks I had voiced my opinion, and it felt
wonderful. Relief washed over me as I realized the outspoken girl I used to be
before John came into my life had not shriveled up and died. I was there,
despite all of the chaos swirling around me. In that moment I knew that I had
to take control again. I had to start speaking up for myself, before anyone
else did it for me. I wanted my life back, and from now on I was not going to
let anyone tell me how to live it.
Chapter 13
John and I stood
before St. Rita’s Church on St. Charles Avenue, ready for our first night of
Pre-Cana. He held my hand as we gazed up at the solemn spire on the high
steeple.
“In just a
little over three months, Nora, we will be here, exchanging our vows,” John
voiced, sounding almost giddy.
A ripple of
panic pervaded my body as I imagined our wedding day. I closed my eyes and
pushed the sensation back down into the depths of my being. Now was not the
time to entertain such emotions. Perhaps the wedding would be postponed due to
a hurricane or an asteroid hitting the earth. Images of natural disasters
delaying my wedding had a calming effect on me. I knew this was not normal
bride behavior brought on by the demands of planning a big wedding. What I was feeling
was something completely different.
When we stepped
inside the arched entrance of the church, a short man dressed in black trousers
and a black shirt with a white collar greeted us. He had dark hair touched with
gray, and a round, chubby face. His cheeks were as red as his lips, and when
his large brown eyes spotted me, he gave a welcoming smile.
“Nora Theresa
Kehoe,” the priest called out as he came toward me and offered a hug. “It’s
been a long time,” he added as he pulled away.
“Father Delacroix.”
I motioned to John. “This is my fiancé, John Blessing.”
John took the
priest’s hand. “Thank you for arranging to see us this evening, Father. My
schedule at the hospital has been rather hectic lately.”
Father Delacroix
waved away John’s concern with his plump hand. “Don’t think anything of it,
son. It’s the least I can do for Nora and her family. I’ve watched Nora grow
up. I baptized her in this church. It was the first ceremony I performed as a
priest in this parish. Nora’s father was always very good to me, so I’m glad to
repay the kindness to his daughter.” Father Delacroix motioned to a small door
off to the side of the entrance. “Come. We can use my office for the sessions.
This way.”
The office was
roomy with a wide array of religious statues of saints, large bookshelves
overflowing with religious books, and piles of boxes on the floor. Father
Delacroix went to the two plain wooden chairs placed before his desk and began
removing the boxes that were sitting on them.
“Sorry about
that,” he said, carrying a box from one chair to the corner of the room.
“Sunday school textbooks just in from the publisher. I haven’t had time to
distribute them yet.”
Once the last
box had been moved out of the way, John and I were seated before a black walnut
desk.
Father Delacroix
took his chair behind his desk and began browsing through a small pile of
papers in front of him. “I’ve already read through your paperwork and have set
aside Saturday, September seventeenth for you on the church calendar,” Father
Delacroix began. He pointed to the papers on his desk. “I see here that John
does not live too far from you, Nora.” Father Delacroix glanced up at me. “Must
be convenient,” he added.
“Yes, it is,”
John quickly asserted. “It allows us to visit with each other as much as we
can.”
I found it
amusing how my devout fiancé could lie so easily to a priest. Wanting to avoid
a scene, I bit my lower lip and refrained from snickering.
Father Delacroix
placed his folded hands on the desk. “Now, the Pre-Cana is usually coordinated
by the parish priest in charge of the service and other parish laypeople come
in to facilitate the sessions. A psychologist will be coming in to talk to you
about communication in one session; in another, a financial counselor will give
you some advice on how to set up household accounts and distribution of
household funds; and we have a sexual therapist who will spend an evening going
over aspects of human sexuality and health issues with you. But the time you
spend with me will focus on the religious and spiritual aspects of marriage.”
Father Delacroix paused and collected his thoughts. “Marriage is more than a
civil union according to the church; it’s a religious covenant made with God,
and as such cannot be broken. I hope you are entering into this marriage with
an open heart and a vow to be honest and forthright with each other.”
For some unknown
reason, the image of Jean Marc holding me close and dancing with me in his
mother’s kitchen filled my head right at that moment. I could feel his muscular
arms about me and smell his woody cologne. I smiled as our dance strolled
across my memory.
“Nora, is there
something you wish to say?” The priest’s voice jolted me out of my daydream.
I felt like a
cat caught with the pet canary. I stared at Father Delacroix while my mind
raced with excuses. “Ah, I was just thinking about the—”
“You’ll have to
forgive Nora, Father,” John interrupted. “All the wedding plans have got her a
little flustered.”
I turned to
John. “I’m not flustered. I was just thinking about—”
John slapped his
hand over my knee. “You weren’t paying attention, dear. You were probably
thinking about your wedding dress,” he complained through his gritted teeth.
“Now let’s listen to what Father Delacroix has to say.”
“I was paying
attention,” I insisted. “And stop interrupting me. I can speak for myself,
John.”
“Nora,” John
grumbled in a deep tone, his face turning a light shade of red. “Now is not the
time to discuss this.”
“Perhaps it’s
good that the two of you are here,” Father Delacroix intervened. “Every couple
has issues they need to smooth out, but just remember these sessions are to
help you make your marriage stronger. Use what you learn here to help you
through the rough patches together.”
“Rough patches?”
I almost laughed out loud. “You have no idea,” I mumbled, folding my arms
across my chest.
“What was that, Nora?”
Father Delacroix asked.
John cleared his
throat. “Nora, let’s let Father Delacroix finish.”
“No, John.”
Father Delacroix waved his hand across his desk. “It’s quite all right. Perhaps
there are things we can discuss tonight that can help you two get over this
communication problem you seem to be having right now.”
John grabbed my
hand and squeezed it. “We’re not having a communication problem. Nora’s just
tired. She gets testy when she’s tired.”
I flung off his
hand. “I’m not tired, John. Stop making excuses for me.”
Father Delacroix
sat back in his chair and looked from John to me. He placed his hands before
him as if praying, and then he smiled.
“I feel there
are some other issues going on here,” he surmised. “Most young couples I see
get all caught up in the wedding, and never really think about the years of
marriage that come after it. Part of Pre-Cana is planning for the changes your
relationship will endure after the wedding ceremony is over.” Father Delacroix
focused his eyes on me. “For better or worse, it’s going to be just the two of
you, and you will have to learn to open up and share your thoughts and
feelings.” He paused. “So let’s get back to the original question I asked you,
Nora. When I was talking about marriage and you smiled, you were thinking of
something. What was it?”
* * *
“What the hell
was that about Nora?” John shouted once we were in the confines of his
perpetually spotless car. “You embarrassed me in there, going on about dancing
in some kitchen with a Jean Marc Gaspard. Do you know how that made me feel in
front of a priest? The man probably thinks we need therapy before we can even
get married.”
I fought to
remain calm as I spoke to him. “Father Delacroix asked me about Jean Marc and I
told him the truth. He’s an old family friend who has helped my uncle.” I
paused and frowned at him. “Why are you getting so bent out of shape about
this? And stop speaking for me. I can speak for myself, damn it! I’m not your
wife yet.”
“What’s that
supposed to mean?” He briefly gawked at me and then turned back to the road. “I
don’t speak for you, and I certainly know you can speak for yourself and always
do. All I’m saying is that tonight you spent half of our Pre-Cana session
talking about Jean Marc Gaspard and Manchac. We were supposed to be discussing
our marriage, not your childhood friends.”
I watched as the
sights of uptown New Orleans passed by my car window.
“I’m sorry,” I
said after an uncomfortable silence. “I guess I got carried away.”
“Your mother is
right. You need to forget about your uncle and those people in Manchac. This is
about us, Nora.”
I nodded my
head. “Yes, John.”
I returned my
gaze to the car window. As the old mansions of the city passed quickly by, the
knot in my stomach twisted tighter. Not since the death of my father had I
worked so hard at hiding my emotions, and I knew it was only a matter of time
before I eventually exploded. But what was beginning to weigh on my mind was
who would be left in my life when the dust from my furor finally settled.
* * *
A few days
later, I was in my office waiting for the head of the orthopedic department,
Dr. Harris, to arrive for our quarterly medical chart review. As I sat at my
desk amid a mound of patient charts, Steve ran in my office door.
“Sorry I’m late.
Dr. Harris here yet?” he asked breathlessly.
“On his way,” I
informed him and closed the chart before me.
He moved a pile
of charts from a chair in front of my desk. “Wow, you look like shit.”
I glared at him.
“Thanks, Steve. That’s just what every woman wants to hear.”
“Can your
haggard appearance be attributed to pre-wedding jitters?” Steve went on as he
took his chair. “Still want to marry the fine doctor, or is the fish guy making
you have second thoughts?”
I threw the
chart in my hands to the side of my desk. “I don’t look haggard, Steve. You
sound just like my mother. Everyone is saying I don’t look happy, or I’m too
thin, or God knows what else!”
“Hey, there.”
Steve jumped up and came around to my side. “This isn’t like you. You always
have it so together. What’s wrong? This can’t all be the wedding?”
“Well, most
people have never had to plan a wedding with my mother. Between fending off
phone calls from my mother about wanting to glue rhinestones to my wedding
dress, or John calling me with another one of his plans for our future
together, or trying to cram a full-time job into part-time hours, I swear I
think I’m losing it.”
“How long do you
plan on keeping this up, Nora? If you ask me, this wedding crap is eating you
alive.”
I ran my hand
over my forehead. “I think you’re being a little overly dramatic, Steve.”
“No, I’m not.
For weeks I’ve watched you sulking around your office, losing weight, and
looking as if you were carrying the world on your shoulders. This is more than
just the wedding. I think your handsome fiancé and your mother are shoving you
into a corner, and you’re terrified of telling either one of them what you
really want.”
“Maybe I don’t
know what I really want,” I whispered as I inspected my engagement ring.
“You know.
You’re just too afraid to go after him.”
I retrieved the
discarded chart from the side of my desk and opened it, trying to ignore him.
“Perhaps you
should put a little space between you and the good doctor for a while. Take a
little time off. Might help you sort out your feelings for both men.”