A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [54]
Bridget had a quick nap under the duvet in the bed, then roused herself when the food arrived. Nora, who did not have children of her own, seemed to understand that teenage boys came with large appetites. There was a mound of sandwiches: beef and chicken for the boys and Bill, crustless cucumber for herself. The cukes were crisp and cold, and Bridget made a mental note to buy a half dozen when she got home. They were one of the few foods that had tasted good to her in weeks. After the lunch, the boys spoke of wanting to go off for a hike, and Bridget urged Bill to join them. She wanted to be alone, she argued, to rest, to think, to let her thoughts drift.
Bridget had had a bath, letting the jets cause a froth that rose to her chin. She was wrinkled pink when she emerged, and she found herself relaxed, a state that lasted only as long as it took to start applying her makeup and pulling on the severe underwear. She had two possibilities for the cocktail party. The first, a dress she had thought would fit nicely because of its loose waistline, made her think of Madeleine Albright when she put it on. Bridget tried it with the wig, thinking hair would help, but the wig, with its perfect set, made her think of Margaret Thatcher. Bridget had no choice then but to wear her gray suit, which she knew would be too tight but would have to be endured. First the one-piece, then the panty hose, then the skirt girdle. Bridget was sweating before she even drew on the skirt. From time to time, Bill knocked on the door, giving her bulletins from below. Matt and Brian had cleaned up very nicely. Jerry was having a fight with his wife. Rob had brought a date—a guy. For that, Bridget had opened the door a crack, letting the steam out. She’d insisted on all the details. After a time, Bill’s knocks had become more frequent. “We’re all waiting,” he’d said in a slight singsong, barely controlling his concern.
In the steam, Bridget’s wig frizzed. She thought that if she didn’t breathe too deeply the buttonholes of her suit jacket wouldn’t gape. She stepped out of the bathroom, Bill waiting by the door. “You look beautiful,” he said, which was, of course, the right thing to say, but which she didn’t believe for a minute. At some point, one simply had to stop caring about how one looked, she decided as she picked up her purse and stepped into her pumps. Age and illness had to be accepted. This was her wedding weekend, after all. Wasn’t it the event itself that mattered?
Bridget descended the stairway, teetering as she went. In a mirror on the landing, she saw that she had put on too much makeup, that her skirt already had stretch marks across her lap. She had a memory of herself in her childhood bedroom at eight or nine years old, following the telecast of the Miss America pageant, singing, “Here she comes . . .” to herself in the mirror, absolutely certain that one day she would be in the pageant. She had been able to imagine the moment of winning so intensely, it was as if she were actually there.
Miss America, indeed.
Bridget heard her name and turned.
Harrison held her gently by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Congratulations,” he said.
“Harrison,” she said, hardly believing it was really he standing before her. He had not grayed up as much as Bill, but his hair was thinning at the crown. She remembered the soft brown eyes, the V-like dent over one eyebrow (the legacy of having fallen out of a tree house when he was a boy, she seemed to recall), the wiry body slightly less wiry now. He was the man she’d have imagined he would become, and yet his face was not precisely the same. The difference had to be age, but Bridget thought there was something else. Regret possibly.