SARA DOBBIE
Let It Fall
The first course consists of a garden salad tossed in raspberry vinaigrette and fresh dinner rolls. Anita picks at the food, conscious of the satin fabric stretched tight around her torso. After dieting for weeks leading up to tonight, she doesn’t want to throw all that self-denial out the window. She needs to ensure that everything is perfect, so that her sister’s dream wedding is exactly that. This perfection encompasses not only the tasteful décor of the hall and the meticulously planned menu, but also Anita herself. As maid-of-honor she needs to present a picture of feminine grace. Manicured nails, moisturized skin dabbed with a modest amount of body glitter. Strapless high heel sandals, impossible to walk in but flattering to the calves. And her hair, coiled on top of her head like a medieval queen, a masterpiece of bridal coiffure.
The server pours red wine into Anita’s glass, and she tries not to think about her hair. There is a tiny stab of pain like a perpetual pinprick originating at the nape of her neck and pulsing to the crown of her head. The stylist this morning had labored for over an hour to pin it up, plaited the long strands and wound them into artful patterns. Joked that it took a hundred bobby pins to hold her stubborn tresses in place and emptied a bottle of hairspray to glue down any stray wisps. In spite of this, Anita wants nothing more than to rip it apart, to shake out every pin, every curl, and massage her aching scalp.
Gabriel places his hand on her bare shoulder, a gesture she knows is only for show. “You doing all right, babe?” he asks, and she squints her eyes. He never calls her that at home, never touches her like that either. Anita smiles weakly in affirmation. “Everything’s falling into place, just like we planned.”
Her engagement ring sparkles as he lifts her hand so his fellow groomsmen can see it. “We’re up next, in the spring,” he tells them, and the guys make bawdy sex jokes about strippers and bachelor parties at Anita’s expense. She swallows a healthy mouthful of wine and leaves the head table to work the crowd.
Kissing Aunts and Uncles on sweaty cheeks, welcoming her brand-new brother-in-law’s relatives into the family, Anita feels that her powdered face will crack like alabaster. Her feet are killing her, and she cannot resist snaking a finger into the base of her updo, wiggling it around to loosen the offensive hair. She thinks about super models and pageant queens, wonders how they keep their shit together in the midst of all this physical discomfort. And Gabe is gesticulating at the edge of the dance floor, bragging, Anita is sure, about his new job, to her sister’s three bridesmaids.
Filed into long ovals, Anita’s fingernails catch a snag inside the smoothly groomed hair on the back of her head. Shit, she thinks, and decides to yank it out quickly, because her sister’s mother-in-law is approaching with open arms. She feels a sharp pain and realizes too late the extent of the damage, the untethered locks tickling her shoulder blades. She embraces the mother-in-law but offers apologetic excuses and hurries to the bathroom, thankful to arrive there without spraining her ankle on the god damned heels.
She cranes her neck in the mirror to survey the situation, is dismayed with the shine on her forehead and the silhouette of her too-curvy body. Stiffens, surprised to hear a voice as a stall opens to reveal a red headed woman in a floor length strapless gown.
“Wow, you look gorgeous,” the woman says, “I love your dress.”
“Thank you, I think my hair is ruined, though.”
Anita is struggling to tuck in the stubborn clump of unruly hair when the woman comes behind her and places a hand on her shoulder blade. “I can help,” she says, and Anita thinks it’s astounding that this woman’s hands on her skin and voice in her ear can provide more comfort than Gabe’s. The stranger proceeds to gently pull out the hair pins one by one.
“Are you sure?” Anita asks, and the woman nods.
“Better to let it fall out at this point,” she answers. Anita studies the woman in the reflection. She is taller than Anita, and her shoulders are speckled with freckles. She tells Anita her name is Fay, and that she’s a second cousin on Jimmy’s side. “Beautiful wedding,” she adds, “whoever planned it has great style.” Anita wants to claim credit, but does not. Only stands silent while Fay fluffs and primps her hair, which is now falling in imprecise waves over her gown.
“There,” Fay says, “Perfection. If it makes you feel better I’ll let mine out too.” Faye undoes the glittering barrette holding her bun in place, and Anita thanks her for her solidarity.
After another glass of wine Anita delivers her thoughtfully prepared speech, delights in the laughs she garners over the anecdote from their childhood, revels in the tears her sister sheds over a memory of their dead grandmother. Gabe is dancing with the three bridesmaids, and when she shimmies near to him he exclaims, “I can’t believe you went up there like that.”
“Like what?” she yells over the pulsing strains of Abba.
“With your hair all messed up.”
The bridesmaids are pulling Gabe towards them seductively, their jiggly bosoms barely held in place by the strapless bras Anita ordered for them months ago so that their gowns would look painted on. Anita stops dancing, frozen as though the three bridesmaids have worked some kind of Medusa magic on her frame. Filled with a new certainty that she will not marry Gabe, she gathers every bit of her self composure to instruct her limbs to step carefully over to the dessert table.
The wedding cake sits, poised like a feat of culinary architecture on the long cloth covered table. Soon her sister will stand with Jimmy and cut through the immaculate fondant in front of a jeering crowd. And then will follow the removal of the garter, the tossing of the bouquet. Anita thinks about Jimmy on his knees, teeth grazing her sister’s thigh, and laughs out loud at the thought of Gabe posturing in such a way. The last time his teeth were anywhere near her thighs was a year ago, and if she’s being honest it had felt mildly annoying. She picks up a plate and fills it with fresh fruit, then heads over to the fondue fountain. She is slowly moving her plate in circles under the river of chocolate sauce when Fay appears beside her, a single plump strawberry between thumb and middle finger.
Their eyes meet like two galaxies colliding and Fay says, “Nice speech, really emotional.” She takes Anita’s left hand, lifts it to examine the expensive diamnods set against the band of white gold. Comments on their beauty. Anita pulls her hand away and removes the ring. Lets it fall hapharzdly, a worthless trinket, on top of the coffe caraffe. She inhales the scent of Fay’s perfume and steps closer, red glossed lips parted, expectant.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she says, and realizes she wants this to happen far more than she wants her sister’s dreams of a flawless wedding to come true.
“What about your sister, she’ll want you here, no?” Faye asks.
“She’ll be fine. It’s time I start thinking about what I want.”
They abandon their heels, fill a plate with chocolate brownies and escape out the fire exit, the open night sky before them, and their unkempt hair trailing behind them.
Sara Dobbie is a fiction writer living in Southern Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, Menacing Hedge, (mac)ro(mic), Trampset, and elsewhere. Look for stories forthcoming at Emerge Literary Journal and Fiction Kitchen Berlin. Follow her on Twitter @sbdobbie.
Art by Sofia Musa