“Parents of the bride, Mr. and Mrs. George Gates.”
Nikki’s parents do a little skipping routine into the banquet hall, making them look sloshed, which they were, and I laugh thinking about how much fun my in-laws were when they drank. I really do miss Nikki’s parents.
“Bridesmaid, Elizabeth Richards, and groomsman, Ronnie Brown.”
Liz and Ronnie come out waving to our guests, as if they are royalty or something, which was strange, and the tactic all but mutes their applause. Ronnie looks young in the video, and I think about how he was not yet a father, how Emily did not even exist when this video was shot.
“Maid of honor, Wendy Rumsford, and best man, Jake Peoples!”
Jake and Wendy walk across the dance floor and directly toward the camera until their faces are life-size on my father’s huge flat-screen television. Wendy just sort of screams like she is at an Eagles game or something, but Jake says, “I love you, brother!” and then kisses the camera lens, leaving a lip-shaped smudge mark. I see the videographer’s hand emerge and quickly wipe the lens with a piece of cloth.
“And now, for the first time ever, allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Pat Peoples!”
Everyone stands and cheers as we walk into the banquet room. Nikki looks so pretty in her wedding dress. She’s holding her head in that cute, shy position, with her chin close to her chest, and seeing her now makes me cry because I miss her so much.
When we move to the dance floor, the band shifts gears, and I hear those sexy synthesizer chords, faint high-hat taps, and then the soprano saxophonist steps forward and “Songbird” takes flight.
Something in my mind begins to melt, and it feels as though I am experiencing an ice-cream headache—or as if someone is churning my brain with an ice pick. I’m not seeing the television screen anymore, I’m seeing the road through a fogged windshield, and it’s raining something fierce. It’s not even four in the afternoon, but it’s as dark as midnight. I’m upset because we have a big game coming up and yet the gym roof is leaking again like a sieve, which has forced me to cancel basketball practice.
All I want to do is take a shower and then watch game tapes.
But when I enter my house, I hear a soprano sax moaning, and it’s strange to hear Kenny G’s smooth jazz coming from my bathroom at a time like this. Mr. G’s notes are swirling all about. I open the bathroom door; I feel the steam lick my skin, and I wonder why Nikki is listening to our wedding song in the shower. Kenny G’s solo has reached a climax once more. The CD player is on the sink, and two piles of clothes rest on the floor, and a pair of men’s glasses are on the sink next to the CD player. Sexy synthesizer chords, faint high-hat taps.
“You fucking whore!” I scream as I rip the shower curtain off the rod, exposing so much awful, soapy flesh.
I’m standing in the tub. My hands are around his throat. I’m between them now, the shower is spraying the back of my coat with hot spokes, weighing down my sweatpants, and he is in the air, begging me with his eyes, pleading for a breath of air. His hands are trying to break my grip, but he is a tiny, weak man. Nikki is screaming; Kenny G is playing; Nikki’s lover is turning purple. He’s so small, I can hold him up against the tiles with one hand. I cock my elbow back, squeeze a tight, teeth-shattering fist, and take aim. His nose explodes like a packet of ketchup. His eyes are rolling into the back of his head; his hands have fallen away from mine. When I cock back my fist a second time, the music stops playing, and then I’m on my back in the tub and Nikki’s naked lover has fallen out of the tub and naked Nikki is holding the CD player in her trembling hands. When I try to stand, she smashes the CD player over my head once more; my knees give out, and I see the silver faucet rise like some fat, shiny snake to strike the hard spot just above my right eyebrow, and then—
—I wake up in a hospital and immediately begin vomiting all over myself, until nurses arrive and tell me not to move my head. And I’m crying and calling for Nikki, but she does not come to me. My head hurts so badly. When I touch my forehead, I feel some sort of bandage, but then my hands are being forced to my sides. The nurses are screaming and holding me down, and then doctors are restraining me too. I feel a prick in my arm, and …
When I blink, I see my reflection in the blank television screen. The video has ended. I look life-size on my father’s flat screen, and I can see my mother asleep on the couch, just over my right shoulder. As I continue to stare at myself, my little white scar begins to itch, but I do not really want to smash my forehead with my fist.