The day I said ‘yes’ feels like a dream to me now. I can’t remember the feeling of happiness or my chest quivering, I just remember that it did and that I was happy.
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It had been a week since I first hung the dress up by the wall mirror; and when I went to use the mirror half of my reflection was obscured by it but I didn’t mind. I would be inclined to look at my reflection but how I appeared never really registered with me as I was so preoccupied with the white silk and the lace and the beads. I remembered how every time the dress distracted me I would stand there smiling and the smile would linger until I was well on my way to work.
From the moment I said yes I had been surrounded by people; from the bustling restaurant to the party, and at work I was swarmed by a procession of shuffling people who kept asking me the same questions and tried grasping for my hand. Even the few close friends I have seemed to multiply as their excitement and attention towards me grew. We had dresses to buy, flowers to see, cake to taste, shoes to try-on, music to hear, and when we had exercised our senses with such tasks we had lunch together where I was yet again showered with attention. It is only now, seven weeks since that reverie of a day, that I am alone. Seven weeks down and only four to go and now I am left to think.
This is the first calm morning I’ve had in seven weeks, no work, no plans, no people. Although I’ve been looking forward to a ‘day off’ I’ve found myself just sitting here at my bedroom table, surrounded by creams, perfumes and make-up, in my bathrobe, closely inspecting the ring on my left hand. I find it perplexing how something so small and delicate-looking can be cut so smoothly, and how it can be so bright and rich yet so translucent. I have always worn rings on my index finger and whenever I think of the ring finger I think of my Mom. When I was a little girl I remember fixating on that particular part of my Mom’s hand and seeing three beautiful inexpensive rings, but they made her look so elegant and I remember it making her a ‘grown up’. Analysing my own hand however, doesn’t have the same effect. The platinum band and the row of three diamonds definitely personify elegance, but that is all. It is a ring. It doesn’t give me a sense of anything, I don’t feel elegant and I do not think it makes me ‘grown-up’. Even when I look away I can feel its presence, as if it were a bandage wrapped thickly around my finger; it feels slightly too big and the two surrounding fingers are crowded by it. I look again to make sure it hasn’t in fact doubled in size, of course I know it hasn’t, but I begin to analyse again intently.
It fascinates me how each jewel is clamped down, as if the metal claw has a tight grip around each diamond refusing to ever let go. I reject to believe it is that secure and there is no danger of losing a piece so I lightly rub each jewel with my nail. Not quite knowing if my judgement is right, that something cannot be held in place so securely, or whether the unsecure diamonds are just my imagination running away with me, I remove the ring and place it on the side while I go for a shower. Only for now I tell myself, to be safe, just in case.
* * *
I cannot believe what I am looking at. I have spent so much time staring at my white dress, and now I am looking at myself in the dress. My hair is perfect, my make-up flawless and my jewellery sparkling. All of my family and friends are downstairs waiting for us to enter the reception room as Mr and Mrs Alex Morgan. Married. I can’t help think of what I’d have done differently if I told myself a month ago I would be standing here today, married. “You silly, silly girl”.
* * *
As I got out of the shower I felt renewed and awake, it was as if someone had slapped me in the face to come back to reality, as if I was getting a second chance at the day. Being completely honest with myself I had forgot about the wedding for a few seconds, until I opened the bathroom door and my engagement ring was where I left it. It stopped me dead in my tracks as if I were a naughty child caught in the act. Snapping out of it I scanned the rest of the room, there was nothing out of place (as if I would leave anything out of place). In fact, I had packed almost a week early for the girly bachelorette weekend my bridesmaids had planned for me, and the silver suitcase was there next to my dresser. All ready.
As I was getting dressed I don’t know what came over me. It sort of felt like when my sisters and I were little and Mom and Dad would only know last minute whether they had the weekend free (which surprisingly, as they ran their own law firm, wasn’t very often). We would shove things into a suitcase, jump in the car and take off for a few days. We were never victims of the ‘busy working parents’ who didn’t spend enough time with us. As my parents married very young, to the dismay of my grandparents, they were never really obsessed with making money, they were crazily in love. However, they also happened to be successful and began their own law firm, small as it may be, and when they came home from work the love they shared with each other was mirrored in us girls. It didn’t matter how long their working day was, we were one big happy family. I remembered how those weekends away were liberating, as if Mom and Dad never worked, we were always together. They would have a vague idea of where we were going, be it two hours away or six, but they would never satisfy the excitable curiosity of their children, making us even more excited. A huge part of the joy of those trips was the madness and the rush of it all. We would be told as soon as they returned home, Dad loosening his tie and Mom throwing off her shoes, and we would all light up and flee to our own separate rooms to pack. It would be a mad frenzy four of us running round the house looking for our essentials and my favourite skirt or Helen’s best swimsuit (despite swimming being an uncertainty). It was my job to help Mom pack for Carly as she is the youngest and I am the eldest, Mom would grab her clothes while I’d get her imperative toys. Carly probably had the most practical suitcase content out of us three girls. The excitement of all that rushing around came back to me, it felt like my happiest memory, and I wanted to go back there. It also saddened me that my happiest memory wasn’t with my fiancé, surely it should be? “Those trips were almost ten years before I even knew him”.
Without my mind going through any sort of decision process, I picked up my suitcase, grabbed my jacket, my phone, car keys, purse, realised I couldn’t hold it all at once so threw one arm in my jacket sleeve and left the apartment. Crossing through the doorway I felt the excitement rise in my stomach, sickly but euphoric. I placed my suitcase and purse on the floor, locked the door, and finished putting on my jacket so hurriedly that the collar has half sticking up. I snatched my things up and sped to the parking lot, popped the trunk for my suitcase and got in the car slamming the door behind me. Reversing out I was still in a mad panic but as soon as I was on the expressway I relaxed and turned on the radio.
Feeling so relaxed I had time to think a little, and I realised my parents weren’t here to direct me to a surprise location so I had to think for myself. I knew I wanted to get away but at the same time I didn’t want to be driving for too long, I wanted to get out my car and breathe in the fresh and free air. Every place we went on our sudden weekends away were both beautiful and suitable, and the only way I could make a decision was to think like a child again and go with the name I loved the most. I always presumed this place to be magical because of its name. So I began to drive the one hundred and one miles to Mystic, Connecticut.
It wasn’t until my cell lit up with a text message that I considered communicating my plans with anyone, although straight away I found a huge part of me was extremely opposed to such a thing. It was as if I was making a stand with myself, putting my foot down with the decision to turn my cell off. I did however, end up justifying it to myself, that it had nothing to do with my relationships with people but it was merely a case of authenticity. My parents never bothered with cell phones outside of work, on our trips they wouldn’t have to call their parents to ask for permission to leave, and they certainly would have never ran it past their siblings or friends either. And... Well, I’m not married yet.
I had done it; I was standing beside my car, sheltering my eyes from the golden, warm and welcoming sunshine and was looking out onto Smith Lake. The muscles in my shoulders were relaxed and soothed by the heat, and my mind felt soothed by the sound of the water. After checking into a quaint little hotel I unpacked my clothes and was definitely taken back to when I was younger. But whereas when I was little none of my frantically chosen clothes would match and in the rush I’d packed impractical shoes, now all of my clothes matched perfectly and were completely practical... For a bachelorette weekend. I’d be a little dressy for Mystic, but I’d manage, although I wasn’t sure about the white lace dress and black stilettos, and I definitely wasn’t going to wear the veil Carly bought for me.
In the morning everything was so peaceful and there was something rejuvenating about eating breakfast outside on the terrace, soaking up the fresh air. It was so invigorating to wonder the town alone, do whatever I wanted whenever. As I explored the shops in Olde Mistick Village I was caught in a whimsical state of historical and architectural appreciation, something I hadn’t felt for a very long time as I’d been preoccupied with planning my life to the last detail I hadn’t just enjoyed what was around me. My life at that very moment had a sort of bohemian feel to it, and I felt very cultured and less egotistical about my life. I wanted to do something I hadn’t done before, something that made me a different person to the one I left at home. As I left Olde Mistick Village, leaving behind the charming colonial New England locale, I came across the poster for the Garde Arts Center. We had been there when I was little to watch a film I didn’t quite understand, in fact it was only really Mom who enjoyed it. I loved the theatre itself though, the old dusty smell and the elaborate decoration for something that was now so common and mass-produced as a movie theatre. I never realised that the center showcased music, and here advertised was a jazz musician named Henry Butler, this became the exciting ‘something different’ I had been looking for, and he would be playing tomorrow night. When I got back to the hotel, before I went up to bed, the receptionist was kind enough to help me sort out the ticket for the show.
I spent the majority of the next day relaxing and reading a book on the beach, I can’t even remember the last time I picked up a book. I realised I had used up most the day trying to kill time by reading, and as seven p.m. drew nearer it dawned on me that I had nothing really suitable to wear and I was out of time. I stared at the white dressed hanging up in the closet as I sat on the bed, “I can’t wear that”. But I didn’t want to miss the show. I tried to think of what else I could wear, would jeans be suitable? Then I realised, who cares? Who would care that it’s a party dress? Who would care if it fits or what colour it is? There will be no-one there that would care what I was wearing... I put on my white dress, checking in the mirror that it covered up enough. I slipped on my black heels, sorted my hair into a conservative up-do rather than the party animal hair I was going to go with when buying the dress but kept the bright red lips. It took me a while to leave the room confident but when I eventually did I was ready, ready to forget weddings, and plans and the daily routine and instead try something new, feel something again.
When I entered the room it wasn’t anything like I expected. There were no rows of red seats, no red curtains with gold detail, but huge tables to fit eight or ten people, there were appetizers served on silver trays and black sashes draped over the chairs. It was known as the Oasis Room and people seemed to be sitting in groups. I stood looking dazed, which must have been apparent to everyone as an elderly man pulled out a seat at his table and ushered me over.
“Come over and sit with us darling, we might not be the hippest company, but we’re a friendly lot, and well, you look so cute just standing there I had to invite you over”. He finished his invitation proposal with a cheeky grin while his companions laughed at what seemed to be his usual charm, one woman waving her hand as if to say ‘he’s always like this’. I sat down and immediately felt at ease with my company.
“So what’s your name darling?” the charmer asked me.
“I’m Catherine.” I replied a bit shaky; strangers always intimidate me at first.
“Well Catherine, I’m Earnest, this is Jeff, Edna, Buck, Dotty and Janice. Where are you from darling?”
“I’m from Wayland, Massachusetts.”
“Not a local then eh? Well let me welcome you to the area. Boy me and Buck are lucky guys tonight, having the pleasure of four beautiful young women!” Despite being an old guy full of flattery he still made me blush, but just in time as the show was just about to start, a show Dotty was clearly looking forward to, “shush Earny! The Show!” she hissed.
Henry Butler had been playing for forty five minutes. I had never really listened to jazz before, and had definitely never heard it live before. I fell in love with it that night. The way he sang, he could make lyrics sound heartbreaking, but the way he played piano was uplifting. At some point it was even as if he was mixing sadness with happiness. I considered how long it had been since I had enjoyed anything like I enjoyed listening to this man. As the piano began again it sounded like a dream sequence in a movie. When the tempo slowed down he began to sing, and I didn’t realise at first that I knew the song but it was his rendition of ‘the dock of the bay’ by Otis Redding. In my head I was laughing to myself, if I were a little more dramatic this could be my song, the irony tickled me. The time I’d spent here in Connecticut seemed more real to me than my life back home, I hadn’t really done anything in weeks, apart from wedding planning and half of that was merely due to tradition.
My thoughts were interrupted as people were clapping, so I joined in. When the lights came back on Ernest leaned in towards me.
“Fantastic wasn’t he? Absolutely brilliant.”
“Yes I really enjoyed every minute of it, this is the first jazz musician I’ve seen live.” I started to find it easier to talk to him now and was quite enjoying the conversation.
“Well, you’ve come to see the right one, second time I’ve seen him here, and he’s as good now as he was then.”
“I’ll be sure to come back next time he’s playing.”
“Ah you should bring your new husband next time,” he said winking at me, “rather than sit here with us old folks.”
“Husband?” I asked, he completely caught me off guard and reminded me of everything before the trip.
“Yes I see you’re due to get married, congratulations! What a lucky man, I hope he knows how lucky he is. You sure you wouldn’t go for the more experienced guy?” I smiled and looked down, I couldn’t even remember putting my engagement ring back on, didn’t even realise I was wearing it, it must have come as natural to me as brushing my teeth in the morning and before bed.
The elegant, sparkling ring had been on my hand since I left my apartment. I had gotten used to the feel of it, and it was if it had become a part of me. The ring that once exemplified how claustrophobic I felt in that one moment, now made me feel comfortable. When I had sat there in my bedroom it felt like the calm between the storms and led me to panic. But it was never the storm that I couldn’t handle; I’d had all of the wedding stuff planned in an impressive seven short weeks, a feat many other brides would crumble under, and what’s more I actually enjoyed myself. Even the madness to follow, actually getting married, it made me eager to discover what was to come. In my panic I thought marriage was a constraint and that wasn’t for me. I even thought that I was giving my consent for someone to have a tight grip on my life, and what if we weren’t the right fit together? But I love Alex and that’s why I wanted to rush the wedding, giving myself a ridiculous schedule. What I truly couldn’t handle in all of this was the calm, not rushing about and not being with the people I love, and yet here I am thinking it was a spontaneous weekend alone I needed. I was then, and am now, ready to become Mrs. Morgan and I can’t believe I didn’t comprehend it sooner. I’m such a silly silly girl.
I could feel my chest flutter and looking at myself like this, as Alex’s wife, I felt grown-up. It just felt as if everything I would do from now on I would do right, and I was who I was supposed to be. Flashing in the mirror, my engagement ring caught my eye. I looked at it with so much admiration and felt like it told a story, one that only I knew. My wedding band now accompanied my engagement ring and it felt as though it was an end and a beginning for me. It was hopefully the beginning of what would be a whirlwind progression into married life, yet it also felt as though it was an end to my search for happiness. My wedding band became a cork that halted my engagement and my ‘single’ status, leading me to a new married life and the moment it was amorously placed on my finger I exemplified happiness.
Alex had slowly opened the door and was looking at me, “are you ready?” he asked. I threw my arms around him and we stood for a minute or two before heading downstairs, hand in hand, to greet everyone as Mr. and Mrs. Morgan.
About Me:
I am from Liverpool and have recently graduated with a BA in American Studies and English from Keele University. I had a poem published when I was 9 and have always been interested in books and writing, however, it wasn’t until my 2nd year of university that I began to write again after gaining confidence through my creative writing class. This confidence along with the constant help and support from my Mum and boyfriend are the reason that stories such as these exist.