Scaredy Cat

Chapter 2: Commitment

Everly and Simon had arranged to meet the following Saturday morning, at the church where the wedding would take place. Wear something fancy, Simon had said, and they'd go to brunch afterward at The Mill. He'd seemed agitated, and Everly wondered if he had given their discussion further thought. Maybe it would be mutual, this change of plans -- they would meet at the church, review the sequence of events for the wedding, repair to their favourite restaurant, and then ruefully agree that they just weren't ready. It would be very civilized, even sophisticated. They would affirm their undying friendship with a glass of champagne and orange juice, and part with a tender hug and loving glances.

Either that or he was agitated because he was deliriously happy at the prospect of marrying her, insanely happy, unhinged with glee, and he would snap like a twig when she broached the subject of "rescheduling" -- for this is how she had decided to phrase it -- the wedding. Brunch at The Mill would be a hideously embarrassing scene, with other diners looking out of the corners of their eyes at the tomato-faced tall woman and the weeping man.

Everly was sweating now, dressing for the debacle ahead. What would be dressy enough to signify that she wasn't taking this lightly, yet not so dressy as to make the break-up stilted and formal? The fitted blue linen -- his favourite colour? That would be heartless. The scoop-necked sundress? Too sexy. The white suit? God, no, not white. Not when you're calling off a wedding. Frazzled, she chose a pale yellow knit, a dress he'd seen once or twice before but never commented on. Neutral. Innocuous. Perfect. She put on her makeup, being careful not to overdo it, and clasped her grandmother's pearls around her neck. And emerged, dishevelled.

***

St. Patrick's Church looked like a wedding cake itself, small and white, all peaks and spires, dripping with bricabrac and trim like melted icing. Where the figures of the bride and groom should be, there stood instead a statue of Jesus, red and gold robes flowing and arms outstretched over his confection. This cake image had occurred to Everly as a child, and it tormented her for years of churchgoing, stoking her hunger as she waited through Mass, stomach empty, until Holy Communion. Often the Sunday morning fast had proven too much for her. Her face would get cold and sweaty, the priest's drone -- first in Latin, later in English -- would fade, the light from candles and stained glass windows would dim, and she would topple to the floor, followed occasionally by a few more topples from a few more children for whom the power of suggestion proved irresistible. Then the roaring in the ears, and visions of floating wedding cakes and puffy white gowns would slowly recede until she was conscious again, staring up at a circle of concerned grownup faces from flat on her back on the pew. Everly had been eternally grateful at age 10, when the Church waived the need to fast before Communion; and probably her parish priest, who rarely got through an entire Mass uninterrupted, shared her gratitude.

Pulling into the parking lot now, she felt a twinge of guilt. Was she doing a bad thing? Would wedding cake Jesus disapprove? She drove past the first parking area, into the second, where the statue could not be seen. And waited nervously for Simon. Simon had immediately agreed to a formal church wedding, and had participated in Father Shanahan's Marriage Preparation Course with his usual earnestness and affability. He, too, had been raised as a Catholic, although he had stopped attending Mass long ago, when he left home to go to university. Everly had seen his background as a huge point in Simon's favour -- there would be no need to explain this or that sacrament or ritual -- particularly the confessing of one's sins, a concept which seemed to generate skepticism and hilarity among her non-Catholic friends.

She shifted in her seat and leaned forward to unstick her dress from her back. It was unreasonably hot for the May long weekend, an instantaneous summer, despite the fact that the last dregs of ice had thinned away in shady areas not three weeks earlier. Hot enough to have launched a full-fledged mosquito attack throughout the Ottawa Valley -- a ravenous hatching that was keeping the entire city indoors. So Everly stayed in the car with the windows rolled up, dabbing her face occasionally with the tissue she kept in her sleeve, and thinking wistfully of the sleeveless sundress. Wretched Ottawa weather, she thought. Too cold one week, too hot the next.