Exile

Conversations in the Bathroom

My Dad is taking my Mom out to some fancy brunch downtown, yet she's trying to dress me as though I were going with them.

Clothes are strewn all over the floor, pairs of shoes are viciously torn apart, and I've lost countless accessories. But my mom sits at a chair nearby, stern faced, clearly a woman on a mission.

"Next!" Her tone is harsh as she dismisses yet another one of my outfit ideas. "It's a brunch, not a lecture, and you're a beautiful woman, not a damn librarian!"

Oh, Mom. She pulls no punches.

I struggle to keep the frustration at bay, but I'm not very successful. My face it taut with expression lines bold and underlined, and I can't seem to stop myself from pouting. Here I am, at twenty-six, being dressed by my mother. I thought I was beyond this time of my life.

I guess were always our mothers' babies.

"Mom, I can figure this out on my own," I tell her as she rifles through my clothes. "You can get ready to go with Dad. You shouldn't keep him waiting."

"Your Dad will be fine. Besides, this is more important. You need to stand out."

"No, I don't," I insist. "I'm not a real part of the wedding party. I'm just a reader."

"You're not just a 'reader', you're the best friend of the bride!" My mother is exuberant. It's a little scary. "You've been gone a long time, and now you have returned in all your glory because you just had to come and see her get married."

"This isn't a chick flick, Mom."

"No, it's real life. That's even better! So even though you won't be wearing a dress that you'll never find a chance to wear again, you're still special. So, you've got to dress like the celebrity you are!"

I open my mouth to protest, but then she shoots a dark look at me. The words evaporate into thin air.

Then from out of nowhere, my mom pulls out these gorgeous dark wash skinny jeans. She pairs it my gray cardigan with gold sequin shimmers, my gold shimmer shell, and glitter gold ballet flats.

"Put this on," she commands, "and you can thank me later."

I am too stunned to speak. I do what she see says. My very life depends upon it.

My mom is very smug when I realize her fashion sense is dead on. I look really nice, and with coordination like this, I definitely stand out.

Never mind that I never wanted to stay out in first place, but I discovered long ago that its better to be submissive to my mother. To defy her is openly desire a violent end.

No, thank you. I want to live.

Here at the wedding brunch, the guests of honor should be the actual wedding party, and by extension the bride and groom, but all eyes are firmly on me.

Not that I want the attention, of course. But I guess it's a good thing that my mother dressed me this morning.

When I got there, the other wedding party members were all huddled together in their little cliques – bridesmaids and groomsmen – chatting about who did what, this and that, and so on. I recognize some of the faces – Emily's cousins, old classmates, the other Blackjacks. Just as I start to feel like I'm clearly the outsider of the room, everyone notices me and not too long after that, the questions begin.

"So, you work in Canada? Are there really igloos and polar bears there?"

Like I haven't heard that one before. "Uh, no, actually it rains quite a bit in Vancouver. It's quite temperate."