Chapter 3
The organ had stopped. That was the first thing I noticed after I said it.
No one had told the organist to stop, but she did, her hands hovering over the keys while the last note faded into the stone. I could hear the rain against the stained glass and the soft wet drip from my hair onto the stone floor. Everyone in the pews was looking at me, and no one was saying anything loud enough to cover it.
My hand was hurting from holding the plastic so tight. The crinkle had gone quiet because my fingers had gone numb.
The man in the tuxedo — my dad — hadn't moved closer. He stood with one hand on the altar rail like he needed it to stay upright. The bride stood half a step in front of him, white dress bright against the dark wood, and I could see her chest moving fast under the V-neck.
"Folks, let's just take a breath," someone near the front pew said, a man in a gray suit who looked like he was supposed to be in charge. But my dad finally spoke over him.
"Not here," he said. His voice was low and hoarse. He wasn't looking at the guests. He was looking at me, then at her. "We are not doing this here."
The bride's smile came back, but it wasn't real. It was the kind she used in the photos I'd found online of her at charity dinners.
"Of course not," she said. She turned her head toward the pews, louder. "This child is clearly confused and upset. We're going to step aside for just a moment so we can help her. Please, everyone stay seated."
She said it like she was still running the wedding.
My dad didn't correct her. He just nodded once and stepped down from the altar. He didn't reach for me at first. He looked at my right hand, at the plastic bundle, and then he looked at my face.
"Come on," he said to me. It wasn't unkind. It wasn't kind either. It was careful, like he was afraid I'd bolt. "There's a room right off the chapel. We can talk there."
I didn't move until he started walking, and then I walked because he did. The bride fell into step on my other side. The aisle was longer going back than it had been running down. The white ribbons on the pews blurred as we passed and I could feel water squelching in my sneakers with each step.
Behind us, the murmuring got louder. Someone whispered, "Is that...?" and someone else shushed them. I didn't look back.
The vestry door was tucked to the left of the big stained-glass window, narrow dark wood with a brass handle. My dad held it open. The bride's hand found my wrist before I got there.
Her fingers were cold. Her nails were painted pale pink and perfect. She didn't grab me hard at first, just looped her hand around my wrist like she was guiding me, but as we got to the doorway her grip tightened.
"You're okay, sweetheart," she said to me, soft enough that the guests wouldn't hear. Her eyes didn't match the words. "You're mixed up. We'll get this sorted out privately. You're safe."
I tried to pull a little and her fingers dug in more. The plastic crinkled in my other hand.
My dad saw it. He hesitated with his hand still on the door. He looked at her hand on my wrist, and then at my face. His brow was pulled together the same way it had been at the altar, that tense stillness. He didn't tell her to let go right away. He just stared for a second too long, like he was deciding what it would mean if he did.
"Let her walk on her own," he said finally, quiet.
The bride's smile tightened. She let go, but slowly, her fingertips dragging against my skin like she wanted to leave a mark. She went through the doorway first, her dress brushing the frame.
The room on the other side was small and warm. It was the bride's dressing suite. A mirror with lights around it, a rack with a white veil hanging, a couch, a table with a champagne glass and a half-eaten cracker. The air smelled like hairspray and roses. Someone had left a heater running and the windows were fogged from the rain outside.
My dad gestured for me to go in. I stepped onto the rug and my wet sneakers left dark prints. The bride stood by the mirror, already fixing a loose strand of hair, watching us in the reflection.
My dad stepped in after me and pulled the vestry door closed behind him.
The click was soft but it changed everything. The organ, the rain on the stone, the whispers from the pews — all of it went muffled. The three of us were alone with the buzz of the heater and my breathing. The plastic bundle was still in my right hand, sealed, damp where my palm had sweated through. No one had touched it but me.
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My dad leaned back against the closed door, his tuxedo jacket pulling at the shoulders. He didn't lock it, but his weight against it said he wasn't opening it again soon.
"Okay," he said, looking at me. "Okay, now talk."
