Chapter 13 - What the Night Cost
I remembered the lights coming up too bright. Not during a song, but in the middle of one. I was six and sitting on a folding chair by the dance floor with my shoes off because my feet hurt, and Dad had his suit jacket around my shoulders. The jacket smelled like his cologne and the parking lot air from earlier.
The music stopped with a scrape. The coordinator, a woman with a headset and a clipboard she kept tapping against her leg, walked fast to the little stage where the DJ was. She didn't smile the way wedding people smile in pictures. She leaned in and said something, and then she took the microphone.
"Folks, we're going to wrap the dancing a little early tonight," she said. "Thank you so much for celebrating with Daniel and Lauren. The bar is closing. Please take your favors on your way out."
Nobody moved at first. Then chairs scraped. Men stood and reached for jackets. A woman near the cake table said, "Already?" and her husband shushed her. The chandeliers that had looked warm an hour before looked yellow and too honest. The waiters started stacking plates louder than they needed to.
Dad didn't look at the dance floor. He looked at me. "Shoes on," he said quietly. He knelt and helped me because my hands were shaking and I couldn't get the strap right. His tie was loose now. I could see sweat at his hairline.
Lauren was standing near the head table. She wasn't crying. Her mouth was a straight line. When the coordinator went to her and whispered, Lauren shook her head once, sharp. Then she turned and walked toward the hallway that led to the private suites, her veil catching on her shoulder. A bridesmaid followed her.
Dad told me to stay with Marcus for a minute. Marcus the videographer was coiling a cable, his camera now sitting on a table. He gave me a short nod, like he didn't want to scare me. Dad went after Lauren down that hallway. I watched their backs get smaller.
I didn't hear what they said. I heard a door open. Later Dad told me she had gone into the suite to get away from the staring, and he had followed just to say they were leaving. What I saw myself was only a second when the bridesmaid propped the door with her foot to carry out a bag. Inside, the suite was bright white and messy with flowers and garment bags. Lauren stood in front of the mirror. She reached up with both hands and pulled the pins from her half-up hair and lifted the veil off in one motion and set it down on the counter like it was heavy. She didn't look at Dad in the mirror. She just stared at her own hands.
Dad came back out fast. He didn't carry anything except my little pink sweater.
In the ballroom, people were leaving in a line past the favor table. Nobody looked directly at us, which was worse. An older man I didn't know touched Dad's arm and said, "Take care of her." Dad nodded.
The church parking lot was cold. That shocked me after the ballroom heat. The asphalt was damp and reflected the tall security light. Our breaths made small clouds. Dad carried me the last few rows because I had started crying again without sound, just wet cheeks and hiccups. He unlocked the back door of his car and set me inside and buckled the seat belt himself, pulling it snug. He put his jacket back around me.
"You warm enough?" he asked.
I nodded. He got in front and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel, not starting it. Through the windshield I could see the ballroom doors opening and closing as guests came out. Lauren did not come out.
He started the car and turned the heat on low. The vents blew and ticked. We pulled out of the lot onto the county road. No radio. Just tires and the heater. Streetlights passed over his face in rhythm. At the red light by the gas station, he looked in the rearview mirror at me.
"We're going to Grandma's apartment tonight," he said. "Your bed's already made there."
"Is Lauren coming?" I asked. My voice sounded small in the back seat.
He paused. "Not tonight," he said. "We need quiet tonight."
May you like
Grandma's apartment building was brick with white doors and a sidewalk that always had salt on it in winter. She was already waiting with the porch light on, in her robe. She opened the car door herself before Dad could get around. She didn't ask what happened. She just unbuckled me and held me against her shoulder and carried my weight like I was still four.
Dad got my overnight bag from the trunk. He stood in the parking lot under that orange light with the bag in his hand and looked back toward the road, toward the church we couldn't see anymore. He didn't follow us inside right away.
