“Are Lauren and Jason at the house?”
“Yes. You know, sweetie, it would really be nice if your boss were a little more understanding about the time you need to plan a wedding out here. Your mother had to do most of it herself and she’s driving herself crazy with it. How is it that Lauren and Jason had no trouble getting a week off for your wedding, and you practically had to beg for it?”
Emily took several deep breaths, as one therapist suggested she do when she felt filled with rage. “Well, Dad, Jason is the pretend CEO of a company that doesn’t exist and Lauren is a writer for a magazine that barely exists. You’d be surprised at how lenient bosses are with vacation days when your job isn’t real.”
“Jason and Lauren are taking risks. You aren’t happy where you are—why not do something of your own? Your mother keeps saying you’re wasting your creativity over at TearDrop.”
“ClearDrop. And I’m not meant to create my own company. Why does everyone in the world think they’re equipped to start a company? I like my job security. The work’s boring, but I get to do my own fun stuff on weekends. David and I just want to make enough money to live comfortably, and enjoy our life together.” She looked at David, who nodded in solidarity. Every time she mentioned her future with David, she felt the urge to make sure he was on the same page. Even though they were getting married in a week, she still worried about the age-old problem of “What are we?” Sometimes she worried that if she referred to him as her fiancé, he would say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I didn’t realize we were doing labels.” There was no legitimate reason to worry about this, but there was no legitimate reason to worry about any of the things she worried about.
“Obviously, I’m thrilled that you have established such a stable life for yourself,” Steven said, almost sideswiping a bread truck. “But what about your creativity? What if your crafting was your job, and you got to come home whenever you wanted? Whatever happened to that cute little craft blog you were making?”
“A bunch of teenagers started commenting on it and said I looked like a naked mole rat in my profile picture. So I had a mini nervous breakdown and deactivated it. And besides, it never got enough traffic to make me any money.”
“Well, after David’s company goes public—”
“It’s actually not my company,” David said. “It’s my boss Robert’s company.”
“My mistake. But as I was saying, once Zookie goes public—wait, David, did I get the name right?”
“Yep.”
“Then you can focus on something that actually utilizes the stronger areas of your mind. Then you can both come home more often, see your niece and nephew...”
“Did Mom ask you to say this?”
“I do not recall,” Steven said, as if giving a deposition.
“Well, off the record, if Mom brings up the fact that I haven’t visited home in a while, and how she’s had to do everything for the wedding, let her know that’s a byproduct of me having a real job. If she wants to pick on anyone for not coming home enough, tell her to yell at Lauren and Jason. They both live in the city. They don’t even need to take a plane.”
Steven nodded. The car’s front tires squeaked as he absentmindedly drove into the curb.
* * *
Emily looked out the window at the house where she grew up. It was a pale blue colonial on a winding road lined with oak trees. The street would have been picturesque if people from other neighborhoods didn’t use the vacant wooded lot on the corner to dump their old TVs and mattresses. When she was eleven, she had sworn she saw two deer humping on one of the discarded mattresses, but her mother had dismissed the story as a ploy for attention, and briefly diagnosed her as histrionic.
“Ah, your mother is home,” Steven said, pulling into the driveway. In the carport she saw her mother’s Subaru Impreza, maroon like her trademark shade of lipstick. Her brother Jason’s used red Corvette—his first postdivorce purchase—was parked nearby as was a white Nissan Altima, which she assumed her sister, Lauren, had rented. It had to be a rental, since Lauren had sold her car to reduce her carbon footprint, and if she ever wound up buying another car, it was unlikely that it would be free of pro-choice or anti-meat bumper stickers. The last bumper sticker Emily recalled her sister having was a black one with white lettering, reading Got Privilege?
David and Steven lugged the bags inside, declining Emily’s mostly empty offer to help. She carried her wedding dress, still in the white garment bag. In the car, she had checked it every few minutes to make sure it hadn’t ripped, but every time she checked it, she worried that the zipper had ripped the lace, so she eventually stopped checking.
“Here comes the bride!” Her mother was at the front door. She was wearing her usual summer outfit, which Emily was convinced was the warm-weather uniform mandated to all sixty-year-old female Jewish psychologists: blue cotton shell top with a long beige linen kimono, matching palazzo pants, flat, thick-soled sandals with nondescript “ethnic” beading on them and a chunky amber necklace.
“Hi, Dr. Glass,” David said.
“Oh, come on, it’s ‘Marla’ now. We’re all family!” She hugged Emily, keeping her hands on her daughter’s shoulders after the hug ended. She looked her over.
“You look skinny. Are you eating enough? I hope this isn’t wedding nerves.” She rubbed the sides of Emily’s arms, as if trying to warm her up.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I’m a little worried that your wedding dress isn’t going to fit you now.”
“I went in for a fitting last week. It’s fine.”
“Why do you do this to yourself?” She threw her hands up in exasperation. This was a new record for her—normally she waited until Emily was actually inside the house to start criticizing. Emily supposed there was a first time for everything. “You had such a wonderful figure, and now you’re some kind of heroin-chic toothpick runway model. I know weddings are stressful, but you need to remember to eat.”
“I did eat. Actually, I think I gained weight.”
Marla crossed her arms. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a very long time. Maybe I just can’t remember what you look like.”
Emily refused to take the bait, even though that comment was difficult to ignore. She gave her a fake smile. “I didn’t lose any weight, Mom.”
“I’m not paying for any extra alterations that were caused by your unhealthy body image,” Marla said. “I’ll only pay for alterations done before you dropped below 130 pounds, because while I love you to death, sweetheart, I can’t be an enabler for your anxiety.”
“Mom, you’re not helping,” came a shout from inside the house. “Don’t blame women for their own oppression.” Lauren was home.
Marla stayed focused on Emily. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s not argue now.”
“I actually didn’t go under 130. I’m 132. I’ll weigh myself in your bathroom if you want.”
“You don’t look it. You probably gained muscle and lost fat, that’s why. You used to have such a nice lovely
