Hanging by a Thread

“I just bought chips and cookies,” Leo says, not bothering to look up from the board. “In the cupboard.”

I grab bowls and plates, rip open bags and dump out treats, stealing a Chips Ahoy for myself. Also not looking up, Starr says, “What’re they gonna drink?”

Good question. I open the fridge to half a bottle of probably flat root beer, a carton of Tropicana, a jug of ice water and a gallon of two-percent milk.

“I could go to the store, pick up a few things,” Leo says.

“Two twelve-packs of Diet Coke,” I say without missing a beat. “From the refrigerator case so they’re already cold.”

From the coatrack by the back door, my grandfather grabs his parka, hands Starr her puffy coat. “You know,” he says as he opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid air, “that could be you one day, planning your wedding in our living room.”

I find this a highly unlikely possibility, but this is not the time for a reality check. So all I say is, “Believe me, if I ever even think of having twelve bridesmaids, you have permission to shoot me.”

I cart bowls of goodies back out, barely having time to set them on the coffee table and jump out of the way before the pack attacks. I do notice, however, that Heather’s begun to slip into the Fried Bride stage. Her lipstick’s gone, her hair is sagging and she’s got that desperate, panicked look in her eyes. “This one’s not bad,” she says for at least the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time, she is pelted by a barrage of objections.

“Oh, no, that’s way too plain, honey—”

“It’ll squash your tits—”

“You can’t be serious. Long sleeves in June?”

“All those bows? What? You wanna look like you’re six?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, baby, but that’s made for somebody with a much smaller ass.”

A word of advice—choosing a wedding dress by committee is a seriously bad idea.

She looks up at me, tears glittering in her eyes.

“Why don’t you give it a rest for a moment?” I say.

“Yeah,” Joanne says, brushing cookie crumbs off her front. “Maybe we should talk about the bridesmaids’ dresses?”

Panic streaks across Heather’s face. “We can’t do that! Tina’s not here!”

Oh, yeah, like this poor woman needs one more opinion. “Heather?” I sit down beside her, put my arm around her shoulder and hand her a cookie. “You can do this, honey.” She takes the cookie and nibbles on it, but her brow is a mass of wrinkles. “Now, do you—you,” I repeat, “have any ideas?”

“Well…not really. Except I know I want something the girls can wear again.”

Naturally, that brings a chorus of “Yeah, that’s right,” along with the sporadic fire of bridesmaid-dresses-from-hell stories. However, unless she’s planning on putting the girls in halter tops and suede miniskirts, ain’t gonna happen. Like “Just relax, this won’t hurt a bit,” the concept of recyclable bridesmaids’ dresses is a myth.

“That’s a great idea,” I say, because, really, who wants to know it’s gonna hurt, right? “What colors do you have in mind?”

“Colors?”

Oh, boy.

A sane, solvent person would gently extricate herself right now. Since I am neither—and since Sheila Abruzzo has already given me a hefty check up front—I smile and start tossing out suggestions. By the time Leo gets back with the Diet Cokes—at which point we get a rerun of the swarming locust action—we’ve narrowed the choices down to yellow, magenta, lavender, dark green, mint-green, pearl-gray, or some shade of blue.

“You know what?” I heft a Modern Bride off the teetering stack at her feet and lay it on her lap. “Maybe once you find your dress, the color scheme will come to you….”

My attention is snagged by Leo’s psst-ing me from the kitchen. I excuse myself, threading my way through the sea of lush Mediterranean womanhood.

“What?” I say when I get there.

“It’s Tina.”

“That’s weird, I didn’t even hear the phone ring—”

“Not on the phone. Here. In the kitchen.”

She’s sitting at the table, the green tinge to her skin clashing horribly with her mustard-colored sweater, letting Starr try on her necklace. Tina’s always been really sweet to my daughter, but her affection has always seemed…cautious, somehow. As if she’s afraid to let loose.

“C’mon, Twinkle,” Leo says, “Time to get jammies on.”

“Aw…”

“Now.”

With a huge sigh, Starr hands Tina back her necklace and troops off after her great-grandfather.

“God, she’s getting so big,” Tina says. “Who’s she look like?”

“Judith,” I say, referring to my father’s mother. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yeah, you’re right, I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before.”

The conversation comes to a dead halt; I try kicking it back to life by saying, “Uh…Tina? Aren’t you supposed to be in there?”

“Would you be, if you had a choice?”

Point taken. I sit down beside her. “So how come you didn’t return my calls?”

“Sorry. I just wasn’t feeling real sociable, that’s all.”

I take her hand and say gently, “Luke’s so happy about the baby.”

Her lips stretch into a thin smile. “I know. But please, El, not a word to anybody else. In case, you know, something happens.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, honey.”

She nods, not looking at me. Then, on a sigh, she glances toward the door. “So is it a total zoo in there?”

“Total. And you’ve been missed.”

I’m not sure she’s heard me, her attention focused on the sporadic explosions of laughter from my living room. Suddenly, her gaze meets mine.

“I’d forgotten, how crazy and fun it all was. How happy I was. How I thought…” Tina shakes her head, removes her hand from mine. “Pete and Heather are so good together, you know?”