Me Vs. Me. Sarah Mlynowski
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My mom and I declared ourselves agnostics, but we still fast every Yom Kippur. Just in case. I’m not religious, but I absolutely can’t get married in a church. And what about those wafers? Do they come in kosher? Do people actually eat wafers, or is that just in the movies? Are they carb-free? My mom is always on a diet. Oh God, my mom is going to throw the wafer.
Cam sees the panic on my face and quickly adds, “Mom, we haven’t decided on St. George’s. I told you that.”
“Calm down, Cammy. You don’t have to make a decision this second. But it is a family tradition, and it would make me very happy.”
For someone not of the tribe, she sure has the Jewish guilt thing down pat. She could put my mom to shame.
“And May six is the perfect weekend,” she declares. “Not that I’m pressuring, I don’t want to pressure, but Aunt Zoey and Uncle Dean bought tickets in from Salt Lake for the whole family.”
But no pressure.
Cam looks exasperated. “Why would she already buy her ticket?”
Alice shrugs and stares at her plate. “American Airlines was having a sale.”
I don’t believe this. The relatives bought their plane tickets before I even knew we were getting married. Is this normal? This is not normal. I know my own family history makes it difficult for me to understand normalcy, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it. I should tell her to back off. Step back, missy.
The words are at the tip of my tongue, but they don’t come out.
“Anyway,” Alice says, “let’s talk about colors for the wedding. I think orange would be beautiful—”
“Let me just get something to drink,” I say backing away. Vodka, perhaps. In one of Alice’s orange-tinted tumblers.
“You know I’m not converting, right?”
“You don’t have to convert to get married at St. George’s,” Cam says. We’re lying in his king-size bed, wrapped in his sheets.
“I don’t even know if I want a big wedding. I always pictured myself getting hitched somewhere cool. Like barefoot on a beach in Fiji. Or at a campsite in Kenya. Or a mountain in Nepal.”
“My family can’t afford to go to Nepal.”
Bingo. “Who says our families have to come? I’ve always wanted to elope. So romantic.”
“Watching me get married will be a huge joy for them. I can’t take that away. This is the moment they’ve been looking forward to their whole lives.”
They could probably use a hobby. I lean up on my elbow and place my hand firmly on a patch of blond fuzzy chest hair. “Is this about them or us?”
“You know what I mean. I’m sure your family would be devastated if they weren’t there. Don’t you want your dad to walk you down the aisle?”
“Only if my mother is at the other end of the aisle at the time—and the aisle is five miles long.”
He squeezes my hand. “What did your parents say? Were they excited?”
Oops. I knew there was something I’d forgotten to do. “I’ll call them tomorrow.”
His eyes cloud over. “How could you not want to talk to them? Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“We’ve been busy,” I say and pull him closer. I squeeze my feet between his knees to warm them up.
“Phone them first thing in the morning. What if they hear from someone else?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah? Like who? The National Enquirer? ET?”
“Your feet are so dry,” he says, wriggling. “Why don’t you use lotion? It’s right by the bed.”
“Because I don’t feel like it.” Nag, nag, nag. I pull my legs away. “Would you stop telling me what to do?”
“I didn’t realize you were a fan of dry feet.” He nuzzles his chin into my neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds like he means it. “And we can invite whomever you want to the wedding. And dress them in whatever color you want. It’s about us, not my mom. Now give me a Gabby smile.”
I smile. How can I stay mad at him? “Sounds good to me.” I kiss his forehead and rub my scaly heel against his calf.
He runs his fingers through my hair. “But it would mean a lot to my family if it was at St. George’s.”
You’ve got to be kidding. “We’ll see.” I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
“Love you.”
“You, too.”
I close my eyes, squeezing the annoyance out like the last drop of toothpaste. I do love him. But is my whole life going to be about bowing to his mother’s wishes? Did I make the wrong choice? I toss and turn, and finally drift off to sleep.
I’m awakened by blaring music, swirls of green hot light and another intense headache. Ow! What is wrong with me? I seriously have to see a doctor. My brain feels like it’s imploding.
“Turn off the alarm,” I mumble to Cam, wiping drool from my lips. Lovely. Head hurts. Needles in eyes.
The music is shrieking, “Let’s do the time warp again!”
“Cam! Turn it off! It’s Sunday!” He’d better not be going into work today. I’ll kill him.
“Well, I was walking down the street just having a think, when a snake of a guy gave me an evil wink—”
I groan and open my eyes. Strange. My headache is gone.
As is my fiancé. The spot next to me is empty. “Cam?” I wonder aloud. Where is he?
“He shook me up, took me by surprise—”
Why are Cam’s sheets pink? Am I…Is this…
I’m back in my own bed.
3
Splitsville
The alarm clock, my Hello Kitty alarm clock, says 6:30 a.m.
I stifle a scream.
I officially need to be institutionalized. What is wrong with me? I stare up at my ceiling in despair. Maybe there’s someone I can call? 1-800-CRAZY? I kick off my covers and peruse my bedroom. How did I end up back here when I went to sleep at Cam’s? I creak open my door and tiptoe around the apartment. The lights are off and Lila’s door is shut. My two red packed suitcases are in the center of the room, mocking me.
When did I come home? How much vodka did I have at Alice’s?
The apartment looks just as it did in my dream last night. After I told Cam I was moving to New York.
Am I dreaming now? As I search the apartment for some sort of sign, my gaze lands on my left hand. My now diamond-less hand.
What happened to my ring? Why am I back home? Was yesterday a dream? Did I never go to Alice’s? Am I moving to New York?
I need to speak to someone. I need to speak to Cam. I race over to the living-room phone and dial his number. It rings once.
“Hi, you’ve reached Cam. I can’t come to the phone…”
Why isn’t he answering? He’s supposed to be my fiancé. A fiancé should answer even if he’s sleeping. I try to squash my rising hysteria. Something is wrong with my brain. I’m delirious. Maybe I have a brain tumor? I hang up and dial my mother’s hotel number. And then I remember that it’s 6:30 a.m. and hang up before she answers. And then I remember that she’s in Florida and it’s therefore 8:30. Or is it 9:30? I never remember. I call again.
“The hotel has caller ID,” she says. “It’s not nice to prank