Borrow-A-Bridesmaid Read online

  “And you’re a chef, right?”

  “Yep. Well, sous chef. At the D.C. Hilton.”

  “Cool. I’ll have to come check it out sometime.”

  “Do! I’ll get you a good deal and a hell of a meal. Tell ’em I sent you,” he says, winking.

  Mr. Coffee has quieted down, so I pour us all a cup as Lin walks in, looking sleepy-eyed and happy to see Steve.

  “I see you two have met,” he says through a yawn. His hair sticks straight up in the back where he’s slept on it.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.” I hand him his coffee and slip out so they can have some morning-after bliss in private. Lin and Steve will apparently be celebrating the Fourth with their own kind of fireworks. The kind that don’t require leaving the apartment. I might not know much about what I want out of life, but one thing I do know: I want the kind of simple happiness that just involves the other person being in the room. Where all you need is conversation and a chipped coffee mug.

  Back in my room, I shove a few tampons in my purse. Even though Aunt Flo wasn’t invited to the wedding, she’s going to crash it anyway. I glance at the clock—it’s almost time to get manicures with Stacey. I feel like I need some gearing-up music, or at least a good power ballad. I hum “Eye of the Tiger” as I leave the house for wedding number two. Wulfie will be my chariot, with his newfound lease on life.

  Before I close the door behind me, Lin calls, “Aarti, then! See ya!”

  The wedding venue is an Indian restaurant with a large adjoining event hall in the northern suburbs. When I arrive, I’m immediately struck by the mandap, which looks even more beautiful than I imagined. It’s decked in sheer white, gold, and crimson fabrics and crowned with roses. The priest and his wife sit nearby, arranging candles, brightly colored powders, and sweets on gold plates. As I watch in wonder, a stout brunette woman touches my arm.

  “You must be Piper! I’m Deb,” she says in a thick English accent. I like her immediately. “Bless you for helping out with this.” She winks. “Stacey told me she hired you. Brilliant! In twenty years in the wedding industry, I’ve never heard of it. I might have to put you on my vendor list.”

  “Please do! It’s so nice to meet you. Stacey’s been raving about you.”

  Deb gives a mock bow. “Weddings are what I do best, dear. Now, I can’t say I have much experience with Hindu weddings, but there’s a first for everything.”

  “It’s my first, too. This is beautiful.”

  Our gazes take another lap around the room. Deb nods approvingly. “This is sort of a double first for me,” she admits, leaning closer. “The first official client of my very own.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Don’t congratulate me yet, dear. When the whole thing’s done—both ceremonies—that’ll be the time to head to the pub for a proper celebration. Until then, I must admit I’m terrified. I’m afraid something’s literally going to come crashing down. That . . . tent thing, for instance.” She points at the mandap. “Do we know that’s secure?”

  “Quite secure,” I say, nodding as convincingly as I can. “So did you start your own business? That’s awesome.”

  “ ‘Awesome’ is one word for it. ‘Insane’ is another. It’s like jumping out of a plane without knowing if you have a functioning parachute. I’m still in the panicky cord-yanking stage. But I was at the point where I couldn’t do anything else. I was working for an event-planning company, and it was hell in a handbag. Not being able to make my own calls. Dealing with the bitchiest slag clients you’ve ever met. Pardon my cockney.”

  “In that case, Stacey’s your dream client.”

  “What a sweetheart. She’s a family friend, and I’ve been hassling her to get hitched since she started menstruating. But enough about me. I want to know how you got into this business.”

  I open my mouth, but we’re interrupted by the sound of a desperate psst coming from the hallway that leads to the adjoining restaurant. Stacey’s face is peeking out at me, her eyes imploring.

  “Go on, looks like the bride needs you,” Deb says, shooing me away.

  I walk over to find Stacey and the groom’s sister, Priya, getting ready in the empty restaurant. Stacey blinks at me, her blue eyes lined in kohl. They look wider than before, like they’ve expanded to let in a hint of nervousness or fear.

  “How do I look?” She spreads the folds of her sari to reveal intricate gold designs beaded across deep red fabric.

  “Gorgeous!” I say. Priya smiles in assent.

  Stacey smiles back, but she’s shaking a little. “Are you okay?” I put a hand on her shoulder. She suddenly seems small, almost frail, swallowed up by the fabric.

  “I just—” Stacey starts to put her hands over her face.

  “Your makeup, dear,” Priya whispers, and Stacey pulls her hands away, not wanting to smear the kohl around her eyes, the red lipstick. Though the stoplight red is a shocking color against her delicate features, it gives her a fiercely beautiful look.

  As Stacey frets with the folds of fabric, Priya turns to me. “She isn’t sure if her mother is coming,” she offers, and we both look at Stacey, our hearts going out to her. I think for a second about what Lin would say. He’s such a kind heart; he always has the right words. I crouch in front of Stacey, taking her hands in mine.

  “Stacey.” I look into her eyes. “Remember what you were telling me the other day about knowing you and Raj were right together?”

  She nods.

  “You just have to think about that, okay? I don’t know if your mom is going to come today. But even if she doesn’t, as much as that might hurt, you’re starting your own family with Raj. That’s something to celebrate.”

  She nods, and Priya reaches out with a handkerchief to dab a tear as it rolls down Stacey’s cheek.

  “Thank you,” Stacey whispers. I close my eyes, silently thanking Lin. It was like he was speaking through me. That, and maybe I’m developing a bit of a knack for this comforting-crying-brides thing.

  “Has Raj seen you in your sari yet?”

  She shakes her head, smiling.

  A few minutes later, Deb joins us, followed by the priest’s wife. “Hello, ladies,” Deb says in her thick accent, smile lines crinkling in the corners of her eyes. “We’re almost ready to start. Priya, could you join the rest of the groom’s family in the back of the hall?”

  Priya nods. Before she turns to follow the priest’s wife, she encircles Stacey carefully with her arms, leaning in to whisper in her ear. I can barely hear her say, “Welcome to the family, bibi.”

  Crap, now I’m getting choked up. It doesn’t help that when I’m PMSing, I’ll cry at pretty much anything, including lone gloves on the pavement and commercials for laundry detergent. Of all people, I need to hold myself together. I’m just the hired help.

  When the priest gives the signal, I lead Stacey to the mandap, carrying a small metal plate with an oil lamp on it. I focus on each step—don’t trip!—until we reach the front. Stacey and Raj loop garlands of pink, red, and white roses around each other’s necks. They look like they’re about to burst into nervous giggles.

  Midway through the ceremony, my attention is pulled away by a flash at the back of the hall. A silhouette passes behind the dimpled window glass. I don’t want to leave the bride’s side, but my bridesmaid Spidey Sense is tingling. I’m pretty sure they won’t need me for a while. In the Hindu Wedding Guide, Stacey mentioned there’d be some flux during the ceremony with people getting up and taking little breaks—it’s a marathon affair, after all. I take a risk and make my move, hoping I’m not committing any grave cultural sins.

  A few people look up as I pass, but mostly their eyes are anchored on the rose-decked couple. When I open the door, I immediately recognize the foyer lurker, though I’ve never met her. Like Steve this morning, she’s a familiar stranger. She has Stacey’s features on
a wider face. Her blond hair is streaked with gray and perfectly coiffed.

  “It’s true, then,” she says as I ease the door closed behind me. “My daughter hired a total stranger to be in her wedding.”

  I nod.

  “I don’t understand,” she says, gesturing to the door leading into the restaurant. “I don’t understand. We raise her up right for twenty-three years, then she decides to go against everything.”

  “Everything?”

  She nods.

  I look at Stacey’s mother and see my own parents. As angry as I’ve been after our long post-graduation talks, I know they only want the best for me. They see the jobs I’ve chosen and know I’m not happy. The disconnect is that they think a certain type of job would do the trick. If only the title were snazzier. If only I could manage other people. If only I could raise myself up above the middle-class clocking-in jobs they held their whole lives, the ones they worked hard at so I could be the first one in the family to go to college.

  I look at Stacey’s mother and see the “if only” all over her face, pushing down her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth. “You should go in there,” I blurt.

  She gives me a sad but resigned stare. “Look,” she says. “I’m sure you mean well, but you don’t know me. You don’t know my family. And I don’t know you or how you came to be here. None of this makes sense.”

  Her words pinch at my gut. I don’t know how I came to be here, either. Where do I belong?

  “But Stacey loves you,” I insist. “I know I’m a stranger here, but that much is clear. And you love her.”

  She looks past me, trying to see through the blue dimpled glass.

  “And,” I continue, “I’m guessing part of what you taught her for twenty-three years has something to do with values?”

  She nods, still not meeting my eyes.

  “Values like ‘Let us love one another, for love comes from God’?” It’s like I’ve been hit by biblical lightning.

  Now her eyes meet mine. Writer Piper begins scratching down impressions: “Even though we’re total strangers, we have a moment of uncanny reconciliation. In looking at her, I see my parents. In looking at me, she sees her daughter.” And it’s Writer Piper who prompts me with my next line.

  “She chose love. Just not in the exact way you imagined.”

  Stacey’s mom closes her eyes, her mouth puckering as tears slip past her eyelids.

  “The way you can show her your love today is by walking through those doors.” I gesture in the direction of the mandap. The sound of the priest intoning prayer reaches us in the lobby.

  “I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Me, neither. Why don’t we go in together?”

  I grasp the door handle and wait. She swallows, takes a deep breath, and gives me a curt nod. I swing open the door and hold it as she walks through.

  No one seems to notice at first. I follow her toward the front, where she hesitates between the congregation and the mandap. Standing on the boundary, she reaches a hand out toward Stacey. The priest goes silent, and his wife stops rearranging items on the gold plates. Stacey turns, hesitating. The priest exchanges a careful glance with his wife, who looks away from the women as if to give them a little privacy in the roomful of onlookers.

  Stacey stares at her mother, fingering the petals of her garland. Then she reaches out and skips her mother’s outstretched hand to wrap her in a full-on hug. Her mother’s eyes are closed; Stacey’s, too. To my surprise, tears slip onto my cheeks. I wipe them away quickly, grateful to witness this moment, even though I feel like a trespasser.

  The rest of the ceremony goes smoothly. The priest’s wife quietly signals me to perform my various roles. First I pour puffed rice into the bride’s and groom’s hands so they can toss it into the sacred fire. Then I pour seven piles of rice onto the floor and cover the piles with rose petals. Stacey rests her foot on the petals, one by one, each symbolizing a step the married couple is taking together. The priest’s wife translates the Hindi into English.

  Step one we take for health, vitality, and prosperity.

  Step two we take for strength and energy.

  Step three we take for progress.

  Step four we take for eternal happiness and harmony.

  Step five we take for offspring.

  Step six we take for fulfillment in all life’s seasons.

  Step seven we take for bliss born of wisdom.

  After the priest recites the final sacred mantra, the guests are invited to move into the restaurant for a buffet dinner. Across the back of the restaurant, several tables are loaded with silver tins of food. While I’m waiting in line, wondering whom I’m going to sit and eat with, Stacey finds me and squeezes my shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she says, giving me a huge hug. I hug her back, my arms lost in the folds of her sari. Her mother joins us and shakes my hand: a good, firm handshake.

  Stacey pats my back as she pulls away. “I’ve got to mingle for a while—you understand—but please help yourself to the food and stay as long as you like. There’s a rumor there might be dancing after dinner.”

  As they depart, I inhale the aroma of the steaming chicken and rice dishes and feel my stomach grumble. I can’t remember the last time I had a nice big meal. Probably my last gig.

  “Oh!” Stacey turns back. “I almost forgot! There’s someone here for you—a date, I think.” She winks.

  I flush, looking left and right. It can’t be Lin—he had tickets to take Steve to a concert in the city tonight. Two warm hands reach around and cover my eyes. I catch a hint of cologne.

  I put my hands on my hips, my heart racing. My hope rises like a hot air balloon. “I give up.”

  The hands drop from my eyes.

  Twenty

  Kalil steps in front of me, holding a bouquet of purple flowers. It takes me a second to process. I must have inhaled too much incense; for one beautiful moment, I thought the hands over my eyes were ones I held that night at Susan’s wedding. The hands that got tangled in my hair as we slow-danced outside the reception hall.

  Back to reality. Kalil holds the flowers out to me, trying to breach the space between our bodies. He looks as good as he ever did, but the only thing I feel is a sense memory of his shirtsleeves slapping my cheeks, which are likely tikka-masala red.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He clears his throat. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you. You know, explain.”

  “You can’t be here! How did you even know I was here?”

  “You mentioned on our last date you had a wedding gig tonight at an Indian restaurant in Sterling. This is only the third restaurant I tried.” He offers a sheepish smile to supplement the bouquet.

  The line is building up behind us, and my stomach is growling for naan. I say nothing to Kalil and turn to pick up a plate, fork, and napkin. My hope balloon has popped, its pieces tangled in a nearby shrubbery.

  “Listen, I know I can’t make up for what I did to you that night, but I thought coming here would count for something,” he says.

  I begin piling food on my plate, taking in the smell of the warm naan and samosas. I’m hoping the pleasant sensory boost will quell the urge building up inside me to grab his neck and give his head a swift dunk in the tin of spicy curry. The thought of the yellow curry dripping from his eyelids makes me smile, and Kalil mistakes this for a weakening to his plea.

  “So, can I join you for dinner or what?”

  Do not dunk him in the curry. My hand flutters up, beginning to indulge in the urge, and I scratch my ear instead.

  “Leave me alone.” I’m hoping my six-inch voice can sound formidable. The last thing I want is to cause a scene on Stacey’s special night. She and Raj are standing by her parents’ table, and she’s planting a kiss on her mother’s cheek.
<
br />   Must. Not. Dunk. Head. In. Curry.

  I cram some golab jamun onto my plate and walk to the nearest empty chair. Kalil trails behind me. The nerve—he’s pilfered a samosa!

  “Anyone sitting here?” I ask Raj’s family pleasantly. They smile and gesture to the seat. As I set my food down, Kalil sits opposite.

  I raise my eyebrows and grip the back of my chair, cocking my head toward the door. “Did you hear me? I said leave me alone.”

  He sets the flowers down on the table. “Please sit. I just want to talk for a minute.”

  My hands are gripping the chair so hard my knuckles are white. “Hand over the samosa and skedaddle.”

  He looks at the offending samosa and laughs. “Seriously? C’mon.”

  I close my eyes. It would be so much easier to let him say his piece and leave, but behind closed eyelids, I see Lin shoving my ringing phone under the couch. I think of my new jeans full of shrubbery debris and the scratches up and down my legs. I think of a puppy suffocating in a box.

  “Hear me out, okay?” he says.

  Silence.

  “Okay, I get it. You’re still mad. But you don’t know my mom. It would not have been a pretty sight for her to see you there. I did it as much for you as for me.”

  I sit and commence eating the butter chicken. It’s quite tasty.

  His shoulders slump. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my mom. She sort of runs my life. And I’m sick of it. She wants me to date a Muslim girl, but it goes further than that. She wants me to date one she approves of, maybe even—I mean, most likely—one she’s picked out.” He reaches out a hand. “I like you, Piper. I mean, really like you. More than anyone in a long time.” I can sense he’s giving me a long, hard look, but I don’t return it. “Going against my mom’s will is going to take a long time for me to learn how to do. And I don’t think it’s fair for me to drag you along through all that. But maybe we could still hang out?”

  Hang out as in make out, methinks. This time I see the blimp message: “He’s never going to take you home to meet the parents.” We’ll never be more than friends with benefits. Even if the benefits are quite, erm, beneficial. But I want someone who’s going to stand up for me. Like Stacey and Raj did for each other.