looking
I suppose that I don’t have to mention here that my mother is wearing a crisp white linen suit.
“Love your suit,” I say to my mother, in much the same tone that Hannibal Lecter uses when he says that very line to the Senator.
“Why, thank you, BB!” my mother cries, oblivious to my tone, “I saw it at Saks and I just couldn’t resist! How often do you get to be the mother of the bride at your own daughter’s bridal shower?”
Jack’s two sisters shrug and smile. My mother either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that Jack’s mother actually got to do that very thing on three separate occasions.
“Well, you look fabulous, Mimi,” Vanessa says, giving my mom a hug.
“If you wear white to my wedding,” I say, drawing my mother in for a hug and then whispering directly into her ear, “you are dead to me.”
“You preapproved this outfit, BB,” my mother says, trying to release herself from my grasp.
“You tried it on for me in Saks in blue,” I say, “this is not blue.”
“Oh, BB, you’re so funny,” my mother says, laughing like a crazy person, “that’s my BB. What a nervous little bride-to-be! Oh, Joan, I didn’t even see you walking over here! Hell-o!”
“So lovely to see you,” Jack’s mother says to us, giving us both a hug and a peck on the cheek. “What a wonderful day, isn’t it?”
My mother and I both smile and try not to laugh. I know exactly what my mother is thinking right now because Joan is wearing, yet again, palazzo pants.
Did they have a fire sale on these things at Armani or something? This pair is navy, and she’s wearing them with navy sling-backs and a light-blue cropped jacket with three-quarter sleeves.
“My cousin made these delightful cards for us to put on the table,” my mother tells Joan, taking pale-pink index cards out of her pocketbook. “You put them on the table and everyone writes down marital advice for BB. Then, BB reads them aloud when she’s opening her gifts.”
“Oh, Mimi,” Joan says, feigning disappointment. “We won’t be playing any games at the shower. The girls and I figured there were simply too many guests for such things.”
“Oh,” my mother says, keeping her smile glued to her lips, “of course. But…”
Joan walks away, Jack’s sisters in tow, toward the front of the room before my mother can finish her thought. Or maybe it was the back of the room. It’s hard to tell which end is which with all of the brightly colored ribbons floating down from the forty-foot ceiling.
“That’s an adorable idea,” Vanessa says in a hushed voice. “Why don’t we do these at our tables and at your family’s tables?”
Vanessa is referring to the fact that even though, I, myself, am an only child like my mother, my father’s family is actually quite large. So large that he has seven aunts. His father’s family was a traditional eastern European family with the eight children to back it up. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to remember who is who and which cousins correspond to which aunt. I definitely have Aunt Devorah and Aunt Jean’s families figured out, but as for the other five that don’t live in New York, I’m completely hopeless. Every once in a while, I’ll have dinner with one of Aunt Devorah’s brood and we’ll outline an ornate plan to create a massive Miller family tree, but that plan usually falls by the wayside by the following Tuesday.
If Vanessa knows the names of all seven of my great-aunts, I will have to strangle her on the spot.
“All of the tables are mixed up,” my mother says, with a frozen smile. “Each table is half Jack’s family, half ours. Half Jack’s friends, half yours and BB’s.”
“Right,” Vanessa says, “well, it was a cute idea anyway.”
My mother smiles at Vanessa, trying to keep her composure, and I reach over and hug my mother. This time it’s a real hug, not one where I grab her and then whisper threats in her ear.
“And you look beautiful today,” I say to her.
“May I have everyone’s attention?” Joan says at the front of the room. Or what must be the front of the room, since that’s where she’s now standing, trying to quiet the massive crowd. Somehow, out of nowhere, a podium with a microphone has materialized. “Is this thing on?” she asks, tapping the mike.
Jack’s sister Patricia nods her head at her mother and adjusts the mic upward for Joan.
“I just want to welcome all of you here and thank you for coming. I know that I speak for my family and Brooke’s family, too, when I tell you that we are all so happy to be sharing this very happy occasion with all of you. Now, I invite all of you to take your seats and enjoy your lunch!”
Inexplicably, everyone begins to applaud before scurrying about to find their seats. My mother walks with Vanessa and me back to our table—Table One, of course. Since Vanessa and I already set down our place cards, I’m anxious to rush back to our table so that we’re able to put my mother next to either Vanessa or me. The rest of the table is made up of Jack’s mother and his three sisters, and I just know that Jack’s mother and sisters will feel the need to mix the families up. I wonder if they’ve already moved Vanessa’s and my place cards around so that we don’t sit with the person we speak to every day.
Vanessa and I had hoped that we’d be at a table with some of our friends. Since I’ve been working so hard, I’ve barely seen any of my old friends from Gilson, Hecht and I definitely haven’t seen any old friends from law school. Hell, I’ve barely even seen my friend Esther, who works at my very own law firm. And she’s been getting really serious with her blind date guy and I’m ashamed to say that I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time for her to tell me all of the juicy details.
But, instead, we’re sitting at Table One. My only saving grace is that Vanessa told me that it’s good form for the bride to visit all of the various tables at her shower, so once I’ve had a bite to eat, I’ll be free to get up from the table.
My mother links her right arm into my left and Vanessa’s right arm into her left and we begin to walk back to our table. As I walk arm in arm with my mother and Vanessa, I realize that maybe it isn’t such a bad thing for the three of us to be sitting at the same table. There’s strength in numbers, right? Sure, Jack’s mother and three sisters still outnumber us, but on our side, we’ve got two attorneys and a pushy matron from Long Island, so we’re nothing to sneeze at.
“Vanessa,” my mother asks, “do you know what we’re having for lunch today?”
“I had my hands full with the table seatings,” Vanessa says, “I wasn’t really involved with the menu. But, I’ve taken summer associates here for lunch before and they have great salads. It’s like something out of
“Well,” my mother says, “I hope I can get mine with the dressing on the side.”
“Oh, me too,” Vanessa says.
Salad? I can’t have a salad for lunch! I’m so tired that I feel like I’m hungover and everyone knows that the one thing you need most when you’re hung over is grease. A nice, big plate of delicious grease. What are the chances that they’ll be serving a side plate of French fries with those salads? I consider asking Vanessa that very question when I see the waiters set down a few plates of the salads that they’ll be serving today. In an instant, I forget all about the fries. In fact, I can’t think at all. I stop dead in my tracks and it has the effect of making my mother jerk forward, forcing Vanessa to do the same.
I don’t even notice that I’ve stopped walking until Vanessa announces that I’ve just caused her to lose a shoe. Leaning forward, I examine the salads that the waiters have set down onto Table Twelve, certain that there’s some kind of a mistake. It’s got to be a mistake. There is no way in hell that these are the salads that we are supposed to be eating today at my bridal shower. Because what’s sitting on top of the incredibly high salads that the waiters are serving is something that I’m absolutely sure can’t be there.
Lobster.
This must be a misunderstanding. There is simply no possible way that the Solomons could be this passive-aggressive. The man I am about to marry cannot possibly be born from the loins of a woman who, in the face of a holy war over serving lobster at my wedding, has instead chosen to serve it at the bridal shower she’s throwing for me.
And then my mother gets in on the action. She doesn’t say a word, but I can see in her plastered-on smile that she is having the same thought process that I am having at this very moment.
“Oh, my God,” Vanessa says and then covers her mouth when she realizes that she actually said it. Luckily, none of the guests at Table Twelve overhear her.
“Let’s not make a scene, girls,” my mother says quietly, “we’re too good for that. This is the party that they
