Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(41)
“Whichever!”
“Do you want to do a cabin in the Berkshires or an all-inclusive in Cabo for the bachelorette weekend?”
“Both sound fun!”
“Flowers or candles for the centerpieces?”
“You pick.”
For a moment, I wondered if she even wanted to get married. Could my perpetually unflappable sister be getting cold feet?
“Do you even care about the wedding?” I had asked her one night after she approved Ethan’s mom’s request to perform a twenty-minute Barry Manilow medley at the reception.
“The only thing I really care about is getting to say I do.” She shrugged, and suddenly, Jamie’s lack of interest in wedding planning became the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.
I explode with questions once we make it onto the freeway.
“Well, how are you feeling? Are you nervous?”
“Nervous?” She chuckles. “What do I have to be nervous about?”
What do I have to be nervous about? Eight words arranged in a combination I’ve never considered.
I decide against firing off a list of reasons why she should be breaking out in a cold sweat. I guess when the only part of your wedding you care about is saying I do, there’s not much that can go wrong.
“Right,” I acquiesce. “And Mom’s been fine?”
“Well, Mom’s been Mom.” And that’s all she has to say.
Jamie gets her easygoing nature from our dad, while I got stuck with our mom’s more…anal tendencies. While mine manifest in a hyper-organized, anxious sort of way, hers come across as more rigid and nitpicky. Her high school history students used to call her Mrs. Ber-maniac.
“How’s being away from Ethan?” I ask.
Jamie’s staying at our parents’ for the week leading up to the wedding, an old tradition that our mom insisted on upholding.
“I wouldn’t know.” She smirks. “He’s been sneaking through the window every night and leaving early every morning. He’s holed up in my room back at the house now.”
Jamie and Ethan haven’t spent a moment apart since they started dating their freshman year of high school. It’s like they’re each other’s air supply.
“Just like old times.” I exhale through a smile, remembering all the years Ethan spent sneaking through Jamie’s window when they were in high school. I reach over and push a strand of loose hair out of her face. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
She grabs my hand and smiles wide. “Thanks, Pheebs. I’m so happy you’re here.”
We pull up to the house forty minutes later. I say good night to an exhausted Jamie, grab a snack of pickles and Greek yogurt from the barren fridge, and do a quick inventory of all the things my mom has changed since I was here just a few months ago for Jamie’s graduation. Now that my mom’s retired, redecorating the house has become somewhat of a passion project bordering on obsession.
The sconces flanking the TV in the family room are brand-new. The mantel around the fireplace has been painted a dark green to match the accent fringe of the new curtains. I pick up a framed photo resting on top of the mantel, the one thing in this entire house that hasn’t been relocated or replaced: our first photo as a family of four. All of us are tightly packed into a hospital bed, and I’m smiling wide enough to show off my two missing front teeth. A freshly born Jamie rests on my lap, cocooned in a bundle of blankets, and Mom holds on to us tightly while Dad buries his entire face into her shoulder. I’ve always been able to hear his muffled sobs through the glass of the picture frame.
Who would have thought that little bundle of blankets would be getting married before I’ve even had my first boyfriend?
I hold the photo close to my chest for a moment before putting it back down.
I tiptoe down the length of the new jute rug that lines the hallway to the kitchen, studying the new additions along the way. New wallpaper. A mirror where a French poster used to be. A hideous mustard-yellow backsplash in the kitchen above the oven. New fridge magnets shaped like dogs. At least there’s one thing on the fridge I recognize.
I run my fingers over the minimalist cream linen cardstock adorning the freezer. Jamie Elizabeth Berman and Ethan Paul Robins request the honor of your presence…The invitations turned out beautiful, despite Mom fighting me on them until the last second.
“Linen is too summery,” she had said.
“September thirteenth is still technically summer,” I argued.
“Phoebe, you’re a teacher. You should know by now that September is not summer.”
“Luckily we aren’t having the wedding in a classroom.”
And on we went. I can only imagine how she’ll react to the linen tablecloths I picked out for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.
I can feel the yogurt sloshing around in my stomach as I make my way up the carpeted stairs. From one end of the hall, the familiar hum of Mom’s white noise machine blares. I picture Dad sound asleep next to her in his noise-canceling earplugs. I listen closely for signs of life coming from Jamie’s room, and hear the faintest sound of giggling. For a moment, my chest tightens so intensely that I think it must be acid reflux. From the pickles. But the sharp ache is accompanied by the feeling of being completely and utterly alone.
I wonder if it was a mistake not to bring Jonathan, even though I’ve barely seen him since all the weirdness Monday night at Jeffery’s. At least when I’m with him, even though it’s not romantic, it’s easier to avoid this feeling. Sometimes I forget that under all the anxious thoughts and constant spirals, I just feel sad.