I really was.
I must have looked like I was about to have the stroke I was almost positive was about to happen, because the officiant kept asking me if I was okay. “Mrs. Redmond, are you alright?” I nodded and smiled the best I could manage. Tanner paid the forty-two dollar fee for the license and filing. I didn’t speak again. I couldn’t. Because if I’d answered her question, if I’d opened my mouth to speak at all, I was afraid the truth would have come tumbling out of my mouth. So, I kept quiet and Tanner and I walked in silence from the courthouse and remained silent during the entire drive home. I didn’t even say good-bye when he’d dropped me off at my house.
I didn’t speak again until I was alone on my bed in a room I didn’t remember, in a life I didn’t want, in a family that was built on a foundation of lies. I rolled over and pressed my face into the pillow.
And just like millions of other brides before me, I cried on my wedding day.
Chapter Eighteen
Doe
I’d thrown up three times since that morning and was still queasy, threatening to expel whatever contents remained in my stomach, if any. I had no doubt that what I was experiencing was a full body rejection of my current circumstances.
The party, or fundraiser, was being held in the Tanner family’s backyard, and it was the last place I wanted to be.
The senator was in his element, shaking hands and recalling the names and occupations of each and every guest at the party as if he were a best friends to every person in attendance. The Olympic-sized pool had been covered with plexiglass to create the illusion of walking on water.
How appropriate, I thought as I saw my father cross over the pool.
My mother held court by the bar with several women wearing varying shades of the same style sundress and the same chunky jewelry and French twist hairstyle. They weren’t doing half as good of a job pretending to be sober as she was. And as my father was, acting every bit the practiced and perfected politician. I was learning that my mother was every bit as equally practiced in the art of public intoxication.
My ninth birthday. My mother stumbling into the backyard wearing a low-cut tight blue dress and gold heels. She has a glass of wine in one hand and knocks over a table full of my birthday gifts in front of my friends from school. Nadine cuts my cake and my mother tells everyone that we shouldn’t eat cake at all because it is high in calories and will make our asses fat and men don’t like fat asses. Her wine sloshes over her glass and the magician Nadine hired has to grab her by the elbow to save her from crashing into the pool when her heel catches on the pavement.
Miraculously, she manages to catch her falling wine glass. “I saved it!” she shouts, holding it up to our little group like it’s a trophy. “Totally saved it,” she says again, before walking back into the house without another word.
I guess she wasn’t always that good.
It was too hot for the white cardigan I was wearing, but I was playing by my fathers rules tonight which meant covering up any signs that I wasn’t the picture perfect daughter of the picture perfect senator. Several people came up to me to welcome me home and shake my hand. I smiled politely and asked them how their summer was and what their plans were for the fall. The senator had told me a secret of his, which was when you don’t remember the person, name or face, ask them about themselves.
“Ramie! So good to see you!” A short plump man wearing an off white linen suit stepped into my line of view. He grabbed a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to me. “How was Paris?” he asked.
“Parisian?” I said. His laugh came out in one big burst, like a shot through a cannon.
“I see you gained a sense of humor in France. Hard to do. The French aren’t exactly known for their humor,” he said. “Are you still considering art school? Francine said your drawings are quite impressive. How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
Crap.
My father came over and stood by my side. With a smile still on his face he waved to the passers-by who called out greetings and returned them with his own. With a stealth-like move, he took the champagne glass out of my hand and held it in his, like the drink was his own.
Shit. Drinking age. Not allowed. I mentally chastised myself. “George, my friend, how have you been? Ramie was just saying how she and Francine needed to catch up. And art school is so far away in Rhode Island. I think now that she has a family of her own, she’ll be sticking close to home.”
“Ah, then you will be joining your father on the campaign trail?” he asked me.
“We haven’t really talked about it yet,” I answered as sweetly as I could manage.
“Well, I think you should consider it. Seeing this man behind a podium is a wondrous thing to behold,” George said, holding up his glass to my father.