My sister got married on Saturday. She was beautiful, and the spitting image of my late grandmother (whom I have only grown acquainted through a few pictures, a painted portrait, and generous anecdotes from my father). She was married at The Phoenix in downtown Cincinnati, and it was a small ceremony celebrating the happiness and sharing it in a manner of familial intimacy. My father proceeded to hand his daughter off while chomping on a piece of gum. I wish I were kidding.
(whispering)
Fran: Camille. Please tell me Dad is not chewing gum right now.
Camille: No, he is chomping gum. Oh my gosh.
Camille and I went into the evening bracing ourselves. Bracing is necessary, because the LaVilla side of my family is eccentric, passionate, and highly inclined to the dramatics. I would expect nothing less. I love each of them dearly. I would not have nearly as many stories if they were any other way. I love colorful, and that we are.
Just when I had run out of ideas of ridiculous happenings to have taken place within our family that might cause conflict, we were broad sided by yet another that left my father cryptically warning us to limit/sever contact with certain members of our family–starting that night. This particular instance only furthered my theory that Tony Soprano was loosely based on the man that is Tom LaVilla. Camille and I proceeded with caution and prayer, in spite of confusion and disagreement.
Tension was caught in the room during the reception, so Camille and I found ourselves drinking twice to three times the amount of beverages we would have normally in order to excuse ourselves more frequently from the room of potentially explosive family members. What resulted was a quick familiarity with the surroundings of the beautifully furnished ladies’ room at The Phoenix. Upon opening the door, our eyes were immediately drawn to the tastefully playful wallpaper. A soft pink background with varying designer sketches of 1930’s ball gowns and costuming seemed to be the perfect awkward conversation filler as (mostly) drunk women stood in line waiting to use the loo.
In our first visit, Camille and I were greeted by a particularly outspoken and incredibly inebriated woman.
Drunk Woman: I KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS DID, DON’T YOU NOW!
Yes, I realize this makes no sense whatsoever. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t immediately intrigued. Seriously, what did we do? It had to be good. Part of me wanted to ask, but the other part was just thankful she was immediately distracted by her other sloshed companions.
The next (and final) time we went in, the room was empty and comfortably silent and calm. This continued even as a woman entered shortly after us. Camille drying her hands, and I washing my own, the woman started in on a conversation as if we had known each other for years.
“Isn’t this wallpaper just so cute? I would love to have some in my apartment!”
I agreed, and turned from the mirror to look at her. She was just beautiful. Probably in her early sixties, she had aged so gracefully, and one would guess just by looking at her that it was effortless. Head to toe in a black pant suit, she carried off her polished look with beautiful simple silver jewelry and red pumps. She had sleek, dark brown hair and a kind smile.
She set her wine glass down by the sink. The decor small talk continued for a couple of moments and she then looked at me and said, “I would like that wallpaper for my new apartment. My husband just left me for another woman after 47 years of marriage. Can you believe it?”
In that moment, I really couldn’t believe a lot of things. My throat tightened and any words besides a broken “I’m sorry” were lost as she turned and went to the bathroom stall. My only reaction was temporary paralysis. Camille started to leave but I decided to dry my hands for a lot longer than necessary.
She came out and resumed the conversation. “We met when we were twelve.” I remained quiet as she continued. “Men can be disgusting.”
Her countenance is what struck me the most. Her voice, her demeanor, her mannerisms, her everything–were wrapped up in this confidence of denial. It seemed as if she had told the story to herself so many times that it didn’t seem real anymore. As if one day in the midst of all the messiness and pain she decided she would neither accept it nor be hurt by it. I knew it had to hurt her. I knew it had to feel like knives in her stomach every time she recounted it to someone.
Finally, stammering and almost pleading, I said, “I’m so sorry. I know, that I don’t know you…but would it be okay if I hugged you?”
I almost immediately realized I had selfish motives in all of it because I desperately needed a hug at that moment too.
“That would be nice,” she said.
I hugged this woman I had never known, and could have for much longer. I didn’t even know her name.
“I know that you are going to be okay.”
Camille and I left her to wash her hands, collect herself and return to whatever celebration we took her away from in the moments.
When we returned to the reception hall, the wedding cake was being distributed and I found that in a short amount of time I had lost my appetite and it just tasted dry. I was so confused, and yet had great clarity and confirmation that absolutely nothing we encounter is a sure thing. It is all so fleeting…and God is so gracious that He would give me the surest of promises and hope even if my husband decided to leave me after almost half a century of marriage.
I don’t like it when people speak negatively about marriage, but I can see why they might. Why even get married if the the beauty of such a covenant is trampled on and compromised by so many people every day?
I left my plate of cake and said some quick goodbyes to my family. As we were leaving the building, one of the other brides from the evening was outside with the company of smoking guests. She slurred between drags as she walked up and down the sidewalks crying and barefoot. On her wedding day.
Why?
