Chapter 2 - The Mirror in the Restroom
I pushed the restroom door shut behind me and turned the lock with both hands because my right hand wouldn't stop shaking.
The marble was cold through my shoes. The vanity lights were too bright after the hallway, white and clean, and for a second all I could hear was the fan and my own breathing coming back to me off the tile. No music. No glasses. No one saying my name like I owed them something. I stood there and let my purse hang heavy on my shoulder and just breathed.
My name is Eleanor Bennett. I was seventy-three that night, and I had paid for my son's wedding down to the last white rose.
I set my purse on the counter and looked up. That was the mistake. In the mirror, under that light, there was no way to pretend.
The red mark spread across my left cheek, high along the bone. It wasn't bleeding. It was worse than that. It had shape to it. My earring had twisted when she — when it happened, and I reached up and straightened it first, because that was easier than touching the skin. Then I touched the skin. My fingertips came away warm. I pressed lightly and felt the sting pulse once, then settle.
I didn't cry. I breathed in through my nose and let it out slow, the way I did at the dentist, the way I did when Daniel was small and had a fever and I needed my hands steady to work the thermometer.
"Tell them to put it on your card. This is my wedding."
Her voice was still in my ears, word for word, in that same tense pitch from the hallway. I hadn't imagined the tone. I heard it again and my stomach tightened. Not the request. We had talked about money for months. It was the way she'd stepped in close, the way her eyes hadn't left mine, like I was staff.
I lifted my chin in the mirror and turned my face a little to the right, then back. The mark didn't fade. I touched it again, just with two fingers, and held them there. The cool of my own skin against the heat steadied me. I watched myself do it — an old woman in a burgundy dress, gray hair still pinned the way the girl at the salon had fixed it at four o'clock, staring at her own cheek in a wedding bathroom.
The door handle rattled once behind me. Someone tried it, laughed low with whoever she was with, and moved on. I didn't answer. I was glad for the lock.
I opened my purse. My phone was on top of my checkbook, screen dark. I picked it up and it felt heavier than it should have. My thumb hovered over the side button and I didn't press it. Not yet.
I thought about calling Daniel. That would have been the mother's call. He'd been standing in that doorway in his tuxedo, out of focus, and he hadn't moved. I could still see him, half in the light. If I called him now, he would whisper. He would say Mom, please, not tonight. He would try to smooth it over before he even asked if I was all right.
I thought about calling my sister in Ohio. She would have answered on the second ring and told me to put ice on it and come home. But she couldn't do anything from Ohio with a ballroom full of people waiting for dinner.
No. This wasn't a family call. Family would make it bigger and softer at the same time, and I didn't want soft. I wanted clear.
I pressed the button. The screen lit up. 8:47 p.m. A photo of Daniel at the lake as my background, ten years old, missing a tooth. I swiped past it and opened my recent calls, then my contacts. My venue contact was right there under V — Richard, the daytime manager who had walked me through the contract at the long table with the binder open between us. He'd turned the pages with a pen and said, Mrs. Bennett, since you're the payer, these rights stay with you.
The cancellation clause exists. I had read it twice in his office with my reading glasses on. I hadn't thought I'd ever say it out loud.
May you like
My thumb rested on his name. I looked back up at the mirror. The woman there was holding a phone in one hand and still touching her cheek with the other, like she couldn't decide which one hurt more. I let my hand drop from my face and gripped the edge of the counter instead. The marble was solid. That helped.
I took one more slow breath. Then I tapped the name to call — not Daniel, not my sister — the venue.
