I lean closer to the mirror and pinch my cheeks. Trying to entice at least a little bit of color into my pale complexion. Mimicking the heroine in one of my favorite old movies. She was trying to impress the man she loves, despite claiming she didn’t care about him. While I try to convince a man I don’t love, that I actually care about him.
Failure. On both counts. Nothing can help my empty heart or my dull skin. I should be glowing. Flushed pink with joy and anticipation. Instead, I’m sallow and miserable with disillusionment. A liar to him, to myself, and everyone waiting for me.
A fraud and an embarrassment emotionally and physically. I turn away from my reflection. Unable to stand staring at myself any longer. My make-up’s too harsh, my hair’s too big, and my dress is way too poufy. Only my mother thought I could actually pull off this enormous skirt and extended train. She was wrong. Again. Instead of a princess, I look like a little girl playing dress up, and everything’s too everything.
We both should’ve known better. When I’m really a ‘swipe on some lip gloss, twist my hair in a messy bun, and slip into running shorts to be ready to go’ kind of girl. Or a colorful sundress if I’m really dressing up. But the extravagant ball gown, the ornate church, the huge bridal party—all of the exorbitance—are for her.
To make her happy and to keep my father safe.
I take a deep breath. Nothing I can do about the deception now. I’m out of time as well as options. Especially with the thunderous knock from the hallway. The heavy wooden door swings open before I can answer. The epitome of my entire pitiful life.
It doesn’t matter what I want.
I do what’s expected. Macy The Mouse always keeps quiet and stays out of trouble.
So instead of crying, I smile at my parents because that’s what you do when their dreams are coming true while yours are fading farther and farther away until they don’t exist anymore.
“You look beautiful, darling.”
An air kiss from mom. She wouldn’t want to smear the foundation slathered on my skin like putty. She gushes and then fans her face to keep from tearing up. To prevent her own mascara from running. Because of course with her, it’s all about appearances.
Dad’s more subtle. Guilt tempers his emotion but not his hug. Unafraid to crush my veil or crease the silk fabric with his monstrous embrace. Until Mom starts fussing at him and then spends the next two minutes smoothing down wrinkles that won’t smooth. Remorse that won’t ebb. Disappointment that won’t subside.
He hates this charade almost as much as I do, which makes me feel a little better. At least he cares about my feelings even if he doesn’t do anything to protect them. Or me. After promising me to a “good family” that really isn’t good at all. Sentencing me to a life I hate. Punishing me to a prison I don’t deserve.
Fear will do that to you. Well that and booze. Lots and lots of expensive whiskey. Always my father’s weakness. Oh that and the horses. Lots and lots of bets that didn’t pan out. So I’m his payment plus interest. Antonio forgiving all of his debts with one indestructible agreement. An enthusiastic handshake, a jovial pat on the back, and a marriage to his virgin daughter, thank you very much. Yay, lucky me to be marrying such a clever man, smart enough to outwit a drunk gambler terrified beyond reason who’s willing to sacrifice his only child to save himself.
Now tears do really prick my eyes. I guess I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself. For the next ninety seconds anyway as announced by the woman in a teal suit and silver headset. The one lady even bossier than my own mother. She plasters on a fake smile and motions for us to start walking.
“All right Macy and Mr. and Mrs. Shaw. Let’s make our way to the narthex. We need to make sure we’re in perfect position before the doors open. This is the moment everyone is waiting for. Revealing the bride to her audience is the most important part of the entire day.”
Of course it is. Not the sacred vows or the genuine love or the permanent joining of lives and families. Just the façade. Only the farce. Perfect for this fiasco.
“Your entrance is what everyone will always remember.”
Such haunting words for our death march with me playing the role of dead man—or I guess more accurately dead woman—walking. I can’t even wallow for a moment. My mom shakes her head at me, nagging under her breath. Admonishing me for my distraught expression. Encouraging me to smile. Look happy. Enjoy my special day. The scary part is I think she actually means it. According to her, I’m marrying a rich, powerful man who will always keep me safe, and damn it, I should be ecstatic.
However, the reflection in my Dad’s gaze confirms he knows the truth. Feels as miserable as I do. Wishes he hadn’t messed up. Wants to break his promise uttered in drunken terror.
But he can’t. Neither of us can.
I know he’s devastated. He’s a weak, selfish man who ruined my life through his own flaws. Yet despite his faults I know he loves me. So I take a deep breath and smile for him. Put on my best mask of agreeability and submissiveness. Because he’s still my Dad, and I still love him even though he failed me.
My acceptance makes his shoulders soften, and he side hugs me as best he can while we parade to my doom. Leading me to my sacrifice. Guaranteeing the ending of me as a focused woman with her entire life ahead of her and the beginning of miserable housewife with zero options except to be owned by a cruel man with dubious intentions.
I’ve accepted my fate so he can too. I let everyone else control my happiness and mind as well as my body. Standing how the planner arranges me. My bouquet resting just below my belly button. My knees slightly bent so I don’t get light headed. My lips curled up in an excited smile because I’m getting ready to finally see my beloved fiancé. A genuine laugh bursts out of me from that assertion and relief releases the anxiety lining her face. She thinks I’m giddy and going to be a good girl, cooperating with her for the rest of the ceremony.
Fear buzzes in my head. I do have to be good from now on because if I do anything to mess this up they’ll kill my father. I can barely live with him, but I know I won’t be able to survive living without him either. Especially if it’s my mistake that causes his death.
Ten girls in iridescent periwinkle dresses line up in a shimmery row. Some I know, some I don’t. One I love. My best friend Savannah gets to wait closest to me as the matron of honor. She knows the truth and doesn’t make me feel weak or stupid or naïve for not being able to figure out how to get out of this mess. Supporting me as I suffer through my father’s error.
Instead, she just offers a quick hug, a firm nod, and an encouraging grin. Both of us grateful that Antonio hasn’t tried to keep us from seeing each other. Anxiety swirls in my stomach. Not yet anyway.
“You’ve got this. Don’t–”
The planner interrupts Savannah’s whisper to me. Shushing us as the doors suddenly fly open. Not on her order, but open nonetheless. A swell of organ music shrieks through the cathedral, and after a confused pause, she taps the first bridesmaid on the shoulder encouraging her to start the procession. Time to go whether we’re ready or not. Whether I’m ready or not.
I read on one of those silly websites, for girls who are actually eager to get married, that keeping your gaze locked on your soon-to-be husband will calm your jitters as you walk down the aisle. Luckily, I can’t see Antonio from where I stand. For the best. Probably not very romantic to vomit in your mouth on your wedding day.