Positively Mine (14 page)

Sheryl opens the door, wearing leggings and a T-shirt. She’s got a small frame with curves in the right places. It reminds me of the body I used to have several pounds ago. We are almost the same height; she’s maybe an inch taller. Dressed in these clothes, instead of the suits I’ve seen her in, if you told me she was the same age as me, I’d believe it.

She opens the door wide. “Come in, please.” Now I have to be invited into my home.

“I’m so glad you came up. I wanted to talk to you. Take a seat.”

I do as told and sit in an armchair.

She sits across from me in the stiffest chair in the room. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I’d like to change that. I’ve felt terrible about our dinner last month, and I think you and I need a chance to get to know each other. Would that be okay with you?”

I shrug.

“Oh, good. Because I think that if we spend some time together, you’ll see that I’m not out to replace your mother or anything.”

“Replace my mother?”

She nods, and I see fear in her eyes because she knows she just touched a nerve.

“No offense, Sheryl, but no one can replace my mother.”

“I know that, I know that.” She tries to smooth things over. “What I’m trying to say is that your father and I are very happy together, and I’d like for you to share in that happiness. I want to be a part of your life, but I don’t want to be intrusive.”

“Considering I’m not allowed to live here anymore, I don’t think we have to worry about that.”

“You are welcome here any time.”

“Right.”

“So,” she changes the subject, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you be willing to be one of my bridesmaids?”

“A bridesmaid?”

“Yes. I would be so honored. It would make our wedding that much more special.”

My mouth has dropped, and I forget how to close it. “Isn’t it little late? I mean, what would I wear?”

“Everyone is wearing navy. We could go shopping tomorrow to find something for you. And that way we could spend some more time together while we’re at it.”

“How many bridesmaids are there?”

“With you, there are three, plus my sister, who is the maid of honor.”

I think about Alison’s holiday advice.
Acceptance.
May as well go with the flow. “Sure, why not?”

Sheryl sweeps across the room and hugs my neck. “Thank you.”

I stay for dinner, which turns out to be quite late since my father is working on a case and he doesn’t get home until close to nine. Sheryl updates me on the latest happenings. She has decided to leave the law firm and be a stay-at-home spouse. They think it might be a conflict of interest, she explains, with her working at the same firm while they’re married.

I don’t bother pointing out the fact that my parents were once law partners who founded the firm together, and it never was a conflict of interest. But, hey, if she’s resourceful enough to find a man to pay her bills, buy her shoes, and provide her with a two-bedroom apartment on Madison Avenue, more power to her. Why should she work?

Dinner is Thai take-out, and while we eat crispy duck and lemongrass rice, Sheryl plugs what would otherwise be awkward silences between my father and me with wedding details. She’s decided on red roses for the arrangements – she was debating about going with orange, but she likes that red symbolizes true love. The cake is white chocolate with dark chocolate mousse. The photographer got back to her with a price.

When I’m able to leave, I say a silent thank you in the elevator to Mrs. Slawson for moving to Florida. I don’t think I could bear two weeks in that apartment.

Once home, I crash as soon as my head hits the pillow and sleep through the night until my doorbell rings a few minutes past seven.

“It’s Sheryl.” Her energetic voice chimes through the door. “Just wondering if you want to join me for a run.”

I look down at my belly hanging over my pajama bottoms.
A run?

“Not today,” I mumble. I don’t open the door.

“It’s beautiful out. Are you sure?” She speaks loudly through the steel.

“Yeah, I’m still tired from all my finals.”

“Okay, I’ll be back at ten to shop, then.”

“’Kay.” I lumber back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

Sheryl keeps her word, and we are in a cab zipping down Fifth Avenue promptly at ten. She seems to have settled in pretty comfortably using my father’s credit card because we go directly to Barney’s to find me a dress.

Even though she says she’s open to whatever I want to wear as long as it’s navy, she takes no time pulling things for me to try. A salesperson approaches, and after eyeing me up and down in my slouchy sweats, he turns to Sheryl and asks what he can do for us. “Wedding,” she explains. When he sees the price tags of the dresses she is holding, he changes his attitude towards me. “We’re going to have you looking gorgeous.” He fake smiles.

I let him and Sheryl debate T-length versus full length versus cocktail. She describes the other bridesmaids’ dresses. Soon I am shuffled to a fitting room with six different dresses.

When I slip the first over my head, it is so fitted there is no hiding the fact I’m five months along. I pull that one off and try the next and the next. They all are too tight around my middle.

“How is it going?” Sheryl asks through the curtain.

“I’m not sure.”

“Come on out and show us,” the salesman calls, a little too enthusiastically.

“Just a minute.” I put the last one on and then give up. A sweatshirt is not an option at a wedding.

When I come out of the dressing room in my clothes, Sheryl seems crushed. “You didn’t like any of them?”

“I don’t think they were right for me.”

“Well, do you want to try another floor, or we could go to Bergdorf’s.”

“Honestly, I think I’ve tried on enough for now.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just, I’ve gained weight since school started, and I’m not liking how things are fitting.” Not really a lie.

“I gained weight my freshman year, too. If you come running with me and watch what you eat, you’ll be back to your old shape in no time.”

We leave the salesman to mourn his lost commission as we depart on the escalator. I’ve got to get back to that maternity store if I’m going to conceal this pregnancy behind anything decent.

When we’re on the street, I tell Sheryl I want to do some Christmas shopping, so we part ways in front of the lines of people waiting to see the windows.

As soon as there’s a safe distance between her and me, I call Tara. “Can you meet me today?”

“I can be there in half an hour.”

We agree to meet in Midtown, and she emerges from the subway in crisis mode. I can’t love her enough.

The pending nuptials take precedence over Christmas. Sheryl’s parents and sister, Martha, fly in from Grand Rapids for the week. They’re bunking at the apartment with Martha sleeping on the couch and her parents in my old bedroom, making for crowded quarters. I think Sheryl was hoping I’d offer to put up her sister in my studio, but I need someplace where I can walk around half naked without hiding, so I keep my mouth shut.

My father is barely around because the firm is in the middle of a major lawsuit that’s going to court right after the wedding. Sheryl is frenzied getting all the last details taken care of while trying to play tour guide. It’s so chaotic that no one remembers to get a Christmas tree until Christmas Eve, leaving my father and me to scour the streets for one that isn’t dead yet. This is the first time we’ve been alone together since November.

The lawsuit is going well, and he’s in a decent mood. We stop at every corner on 86
^th
Street to inspect the last of the pines the street vendors have to offer. Not tall enough, needles crumbling to the touch, too short or tall. I’m happy for the activity on this busy thoroughfare with last-minute shoppers and workers exiting the subway. It takes the pressure off of constant conversation.

As we walk along, I say the words in my head. Dad, I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandfather, isn’t that great? It sounds good. But nothing comes out.

Finally, as we approach Second Avenue, I open my mouth. I’ve just got to do it. I take a deep breath. “Dad…”

But he grabs my arm before I can say more. “Look.”

On the other side of the street, a truck full of fresh trees is being unloaded. He pulls me across.

“Success,” he says as he pays the man.

For him maybe
.

I shiver from the cold that’s penetrating my bones and grab the front of the cumbersome pine while he holds the trunk, and we clumsily weave our way home through the busy streets in silence.

In the time we are gone, Sheryl and her mother have managed to pull out decorations and transform the apartment into what looks like a Christmas shop. Carols are blasting, and her father is making eggnog in the kitchen. Her sister is unraveling the tree lights.

“It’s a Michigan Christmas.” Her mother chuckles when she sees the looks on both of our faces. The apartment has never been so festive.

We eat a New York-style Christmas dinner, which includes an entire meal prepared and delivered from the gourmet shop downstairs. People in New York should just convert their kitchens to closets because no one ever seems to cook.

Afterwards, we decorate the tree. Hard as it is to admit, I like Sheryl’s family. Martha is a younger version of her sister. She’s in grad school and has a good sense of humor. Mr. and Mrs. Philips are big people in height, girth and personality. It seems strange they have such tiny daughters. But their jolliness has been passed on to both of them, and when they’re all together, laughing and smiling, I swear, they could find something positive about the apocalypse.

When the tree is trimmed, and the wrapped presents placed under it, my father turns off the stereo and puts his arm around Sheryl, who has a sheepish expression on her face. Something is going on.

“This has been such a nice evening. Sheryl and I are so thankful to have our families around for Christmas. And although we had thought about waiting to share some exciting news and make a big announcement at the wedding, Sheryl would prefer to tell you all ahead of time.”

The hairs on my neck stand up. I don’t even need to hear her say it because I know what is coming. This is not happening. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.

Sheryl looks like she’s about to burst. “I’m pregnant!”

Her parents and sister jump up and surround her and my dad.

Sheryl laughs. “I know we’re supposed to wait until after we’re married, but sometimes these things happen.”

“When are you due?” Her sister is gushing.

“July.”

The room fades out after that, filled with her congratulations.

I open my presents like a robot on Christmas morning. More jewelry for my overflowing jewelry box: a bracelet from Tiffany’s from my dad, a necklace from Sheryl. Sheryl’s family gives me a big box full of Michigan cherry things – cherry jam, chocolate-covered cherries, cherry salsa, individually wrapped cherry pies. Cherries are big in Michigan, I guess. I never thought to get them anything. Oh well. Sheryl’s condition is distracting enough.

All wedding talk has been back-burnered now that the first Philips grandchild is on the way. Over breakfast we learn she’s eight and a half weeks along. When they get back from their honeymoon in the Bahamas, there will be blood work to test for any problems, then an ultrasound. Is she taking prenatal vitamins, I ask. Yes, and they make her feel queasy, she replies. You’ll get over that once you get used to them, I’m tempted to tell her.

The Philips go to church on Christmas, something my father and I never got around to when it was just the two of us. So, after everything is picked up and put back under the tree, the room clears as they get ready for a noon service. This is my opportunity to duck out. We won’t need to reconvene again until three when we’ll have another Christmas meal together.

I hop in a cab across town because I can’t tell her this over the phone, and I’m in Tara’s apartment on Central Park West in no time since the streets are empty.

Tara is Jewish, so Christmas is like any other day for her. She answers the door in her pjs, holding her Persian cat. She’s watching the Food Network. Her mom hasn’t gotten home yet from her date the night before.

“What’s up?” she asks.

Five achingly long days later, fifty people cram into a candlelit room filled with gold-gilded banquet chairs facing a makeshift altar made from two white pillars with gigantic floral arrangements on them. Lights and oversized television monitors flashing commercials for denim jeans and vodka in Times Square just beyond make the whole scene surreal and dizzying at the same time. A white runner is rolled out, and one by one the bridesmaids filter down the aisle – first Martha, then me, then two friends of Sheryl’s from the law firm.

Sheryl is pleased with my dress choice. I think she was worried when I told her she’d need to wait until tonight to see it. It took two days to find, but a bridal shop in Midtown actually had a maternity section, and they were able to get my size in navy from another store on Long Island. I only picked it up this afternoon – tight turnaround. Thankfully it fits, and I don’t look pregnant, just chunky.
Really chunky
.

My father stands with the minister and watches as we walk. His lips curve up in a smile when I pass by. I make sure to hold my bouquet right over my stomach, just in case, and take a seat with the other bridesmaids and Sheryl’s mother in the front row. Only Martha will stand with Sheryl. My father never chose a best man, so her father will stand up for him.

The harpist begins the Wedding March, and everyone rises. When Sheryl appears in the doorway, there are oohs and ahs; then a hush takes over the room as the music plays. She is a beautiful bride in a straight-fitting dress and tiara. Instead of a bouquet, she holds one single long-stemmed rose, which I thought seemed kind of cheesy when she described it, but it works. I observe my dad as he watches her make her way down the aisle, holding her father’s arm. His face is calm, content. He loves her, I can tell; it’s in his eyes. I’m reminded of what Alison said at our last meeting.
Forgiveness.