Planning perfect, p.19
Planning Perfect, page 19
“For a summer wedding?” Bubbe practically laughs. “Definitely not.”
Mom groans. “What does it matter? Cake is cake.”
“This is the most important cake of your entire life. Of course it matters.” Bubbe looks over at me. “At least you understand.”
I do; I’ve been thinking about the wedding cake since Mom got engaged. “I was actually thinking we might go for a mixed berry filling so they can decorate the side with fruit. It looks really beautiful,” I say.
I reach for my phone in my purse so I can show Bubbe what I was thinking.
Bubbe takes a bite of the mixed berry and vanilla slice before I can even find an example picture. “No, it’s got to be the champagne and strawberry one. And they’re going to decorate with flowers, not fruit. It’s better to choose the classic option. Trends pass.”
It’s not what I wanted, but Bubbe is probably right. It’s better to go classic.
“I’d rather get an ice cream cake,” Mom says flatly.
“She’s kidding,” I tell Bubbe.
“Am I?” Mom says.
Bubbe ignores this. “I’ll tell them what we want,” Bubbe says. “And I’ll pay for it, no protesting. I’m the mother of the bride. You have to let me do something.”
She gets up and walks toward the bakery counter.
“I’m going to murder her,” Mom says quietly.
“No, you’re not,” I say.
“I’m going to drown her in champagne and choke her with strawberries.”
“Be nice,” I warn. “You wouldn’t make it in jail.”
“You don’t know my life,” she grumbles. She’s always so childish around Bubbe.
After Bubbe finishes putting in our final order, she walks back to the table. “What’s next?” she asks.
“I was hoping to go to this craft store, but it’s kinda far,” I say. Now that I know how skilled Eric is with his art, I have a few more ideas for signs I want him to make.
“What’s a long trip with family? I’ll drive,” she says. “Hannah, you always go too fast. It’s like you don’t care about your daughter’s safety.”
“I’ve been trying to get rid of her. I think they make them sturdier these days,” Mom says.
“I would never make jokes at your expense,” Bubbe tells me. “Let’s get you to that craft store.”
I should’ve come up with something else. Being trapped in the car with the two of them could end in disaster.
At least I can take care of some errands.
I should go to bed early. I barely slept last night; I need to rest. It’s the healthy thing to do, and I know how to make choices that are right for my body.
Instead, I’m sitting in the living room, working on the centerpieces.
I can hear Bubbe walk up the stairs before I see her. She’s already dressed for bed, hair set in rollers and a satin robe tied around her matching pajama set. I’ve only seen her like this a couple of times before when I stayed over at her house. It feels special to see her like that, as though she trusts me enough to let me see her no matter how she looks.
“Want any help?” she asks, sitting down next to me.
“I can’t tell if I want them all to look the same or if there should be slight differences, to differentiate the tables,” I explain. “It’ll be more work, but I think there’s a way to make them look purposeful and unique, yet still cohesive.”
“Why not try it out? We have all night,” she says. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee, and we can get to work.” She leans over and kisses the top of my head. “My perfect bubbeleh, such a hard worker.” She gets up and heads to the kitchen.
It’s small moments like this that make me love my grandma even more. She knows exactly what I need. Mom would probably complain or tell me that it doesn’t matter how her centerpieces look. Bubbe doesn’t just support me; she pushes me to be my best too.
We work on the centerpieces all night.
EIGHT DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
“Are you okay?” Mom asks the next morning when I walk into the kitchen. “You look like you’re coming down with something.”
“Thanks,” I say, annoyed. “You always know what to say to make me feel beautiful.”
She puts her hand on my forehead. “No fever.”
I swat her away. “I don’t have makeup on yet, are you happy?”
She squints at me. “That’s not it,” she says. “You’re definitely coming down with something. Take a nap today.”
“I’m not five,” I remind her.
“You’ll always be five to me.” She coos like she actually thinks I’m an infant.
I walk past her to get to the fridge. Maybe I should take a nap. Bubbe and I stayed up working on those centerpieces so late that the sun was starting to rise when I finally made it to bed. It’s just one night though; it’ll be fine.
Except that’s not right. I stayed up the night before too.
I decide I’ll just take it easy today. But Bubbe wants to run to the grocery store and then take a tour of the reception space and walk through the orchard, all before driving to a shoe store she found online that’s an hour away because I mentioned in passing that I still hadn’t figured out footwear.
We’re so busy, there’s no time for a break.
My head starts to hurt around noon. I’m sure it’s just the car ride because sometimes I get a little nauseous on long drives, especially if I’m looking at a screen. I put my phone in my purse and look out the window, but it doesn’t help.
It’s all in my eyes. The pressure starts to build as we drive, getting even worse when we’re back at the cottage. I imagine poking a little hole right between my eyebrows and just releasing all the pain in a poof of air, like some cartoon character. Is that a real thing doctors do? Should I look into that?
“Do you have any ibuprofen?” I ask my mom instead.
She’s standing in the kitchen, holding a spoonful of Nutella. She must be deep in her revision now if she’s eating right out of the jar. “What’s wrong? Do you have a cold? Is it the flu?” she asks. “I told you that you weren’t looking well.”
If I was feeling especially mean, I’d tell her that she sounds like Bubbe right now.
“It’s just my head,” I say.
“You don’t get headaches,” Mom says.
“Sure, I do,” I say. I’m not lying. I’ve gotten headaches before, from long car rides and staring at my computer too long.
“Not lately,” she points out. She walks over to the cabinets, takes out a glass, and heads to the sink. “Drink some water,” she says, already filling the cup.
“I don’t need that,” I say. “I can take something; it’ll be fine.”
“What about soup? Eric started the empanadas already, but I can ask him to make soup too. You should go to bed.”
“Mom,” I groan. “Drop it. You know what, I’m actually feeling fine.”
She gives me this look like she doesn’t believe a thing I’ve said and might attempt to swaddle me to sleep, just to be safe.
“Drink the water,” she says as she leaves the room.
It’s so condescending. I’m not allowed to have something as small as a headache without her freaking out. She doesn’t trust me, doesn’t think I know how to take care of myself. I do; I’ve shown her over and over again.
I take the glass of water and pour it down the sink.
I’ll push through this, I decide. I can head to my room after Shabbat and sleep it off.
By the time dinner rolls around, my vision is starting to spot.
It’ll be fine. How long can dinner take anyway? I think as I pull out my chair. People eat fast. I’m almost through the worst of it.
I haven’t had Shabbat dinner with Bubbe in years. The last time was at her house. She does it all, the prayers and the traditions that we usually skip over. We basically just have a weekly family dinner. She does the real thing.
“Where are the candles?” Bubbe asks as she sits down at the table. “And the kiddush cup? Do you even have any wine?”
“Yes, wine. I could use some wine,” Mom mutters, walking toward the kitchen.
“We don’t usually do that,” I explain to Bubbe. “We always have challah,” I add, like this might help.
“You’re raising my granddaughter without any faith? It’s like you don’t even care about our culture.”
Eric steps in. “We’re so happy you’re here, Judy. Can I get you something to drink?”
Mom puts a bottle of wine on the table. “I’ve got it covered,” she says.
Bubbe insists on blessing the challah and the wine. I feel like I’ve failed as a Jewish person since I don’t know the words by heart.
We start eating, slipping into the kind of silence that usually comes as a side with a delicious meal.
I take a bite of my mashed potato, pea, and onion empanada. The flavors feel comforting. I’d enjoy them a lot more if my head didn’t feel like it was going to burst.
I close my eyes. The worst is almost over. We’ll finish eating, and I’ll go to my room and turn out the lights. I can put on my pajamas and lie down. Maybe I’ll put on a podcast; I’ve been meaning to go through the latest season of Murder She Solved one more time to listen for any clues I missed the first time around.
I run through all of this in my head. Maybe I’ll just keep my eyes closed now and the pressure will get smaller and smaller until it’s gone. I’m sure no one will notice; they’re so focused on their food.
But then Bubbe speaks.
“I should meet the rabbi.”
I open my eyes and look over at Mom across the table. This one’s all on her.
Bubbe continues, “You’re getting married and I don’t even know the rabbi. We should go to the temple, at least.”
“Actually,” Mom starts. “We decided to go in a different direction.”
“A different direction,” Bubbe repeats. “Are you telling me my only child isn’t going to have a rabbi at her wedding?”
I knew this was going to be a fight, but I had hoped to be very much not in the room when it happened.
“Well, I like Eric’s family better, so we’re going with a priest,” Mom says. “Joking, sorry,” she adds quickly.
She should know better than to try to break the tension with something like that.
Bubbe is still focused on the rabbi reveal. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me. Did you tell your father? Oh, he’s not going to like this one bit.”
“Why would Dad care? He probably won’t even show up.”
I know Zayde works a lot, but there’s no way he’d miss Mom’s wedding. That’s just not something parents do.
Bubbe’s mouth drops open. “Of course he will,” she says curtly.
“It’s not like he did for anything else,” Mom says.
“That’s not true. You can’t be angry at your father for being a proper provider.”
“That’s a fun way of saying workaholic,” Mom shoots back.
I glance over at Eric. Poor thing, I wonder if he’s regretting attaching himself to all of this. I notice that he has his hand on my mom’s knee. She puts her own hand on top of his.
“I don’t need to sit here and listen to you talk about our family like this,” Bubbe says. “You’re always so disrespectful. No rabbi, raising Felicity without any tradition. I’ve failed as a mother.”
“Thanks, Mom. Glad to hear it. Why’d you even come here? Just to berate me?”
“No,” Bubbe says stiffly. “I came because I got Felicity’s email and I missed my girls.”
Mom looks over at me. “What email?”
No, this can’t be happening. I turn to Bubbe like maybe I can telepathically will her to stay quiet. It doesn’t work.
“About the internship,” Bubbe says. “She asked for my help with the application, and I just thought that she could use even more help. The wedding is so close, and I know how you are. Always irresponsible. If you couldn’t even read over her application, well, what does that say about everything else?”
Mom ignores the gibe. “What internship?” she asks, her gaze still on me.
Bubbe answers. “The fall internship at Hartman and Company. Remember, I added Deborah Segal to my list so she could see Felicity’s work and I could introduce them properly at the wedding. Hannah, we talked about this ages ago.”
“No, we didn’t,” Mom says. “Because if I knew anything about an internship, I sure as hell would’ve had a conversation with my daughter about whether or not she was up to it.”
“Up to it,” Bubbe repeats. “What does that even mean? Kids have to have full schedules. It’s like you don’t even want her to succeed in life.”
“I want her to not wind up in the hospital again!” Mom yells.
I hate this. I hate everything about this. They’re acting like I’m not even here, like I’m something breakable that needs to be controlled. Like I don’t know my own limits.
My mind flashes to the hospital. It feels like I’m there again, hearing the doctor say on a loop that I was at risk for a heart attack. Because I don’t know my limits, I can’t be trusted, I shouldn’t be in control.
And here I am, overworking myself again.
I know exactly why I didn’t tell Mom about any of this. Because I thought she would stop me. Because I thought that this might be a bad idea. Because I wanted it all so badly that I didn’t think I could take it if she told me no.
The pressure behind my eyes feels even worse. The lights are too bright, and my thoughts are too loud. I’m a risk to my own health, I’m in so much pain, I feel sick, I feel—
Which is exactly when I throw up.
Bubbe lets out a little scream and jumps up from the table. At the same time, Mom yells, “Lissy!” and rushes toward me. Eric immediately goes into cleanup mode, disappearing to the kitchen and returning with a roll of paper towels and disinfectant.
“I need to lie down,” Bubbe announces. She folds her napkin and puts it carefully on the table, then pushes her chair in before walking away.
Which leaves me sitting with Mom and Eric.
I attempt a joke to lighten the mood. “Would you believe it if I said I was pregnant?”
Mom ignores this. “Go to your room and lie down,” she commands. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
Right, because I’m something she has to deal with.
I get up and head to my room. With that, I’ve officially ruined dinner.
I’m about to turn off my lights when Mom knocks on my door. She doesn’t wait for a response before opening.
“Can we talk?” she asks. Her voice sounds a lot calmer than it did over dinner.
I nod.
She walks in and sits at the edge of my bed. Before saying anything, she hands me a bottle of Advil and a glass of water.
“I emailed Bonnie,” she starts.
Great, I’m such a mess she needs to consult with my therapist before talking to me.
She continues, “I don’t like that you kept this from me. I think you’ve been pushing yourself too hard again, but that’s on me. I should have been paying more attention. Which is why I also emailed my editor and told her that I need an extension.”
“Mom,” I start to protest. Because that feels too big. My choices shouldn’t affect her like that.
She puts up a hand to stop me. “I already did it. I should’ve done it sooner; I just thought I could manage it all. Some example I am, huh?” She pauses before adding, “If this internship is something you want, I support you.”
I can’t believe she’s being so calm about all of this.
“But,” she continues, “you still kept secrets. Which is not okay in this household. And you pushed yourself way too hard today. If I tell you to drink some water or take a nap, I’m going to need you to listen.”
I nod, then prepare myself for punishment time. I wonder what we’re talking here . . . no phone? No TV?
“No wedding planning,” Mom says. “For five days. If there’s anything pressing, I’ll do it. You can forward me any vendor emails, but that’s it.”
“Mom, that hardly sounds like—” I start.
“Nope,” she cuts me off. “My rules. You have some workless days ahead of you, child of mine. Rest, go spend time with Nancy. Play mini golf, go swimming in a lake, or watch a movie. Just have fun, enjoy the summer.”
She squeezes my arm and leaves the room.
Enjoy the summer? Like that’s possible now.
ONE WEEK UNTIL THE WEDDING
I wake up to a knock on my door. I sit up groggily in bed. What time is it? My alarm hasn’t even gone off.
Bubbe opens the door before I respond. “My perfect girl, I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She did, which is probably very obvious from the fact that I’m still under the covers. “It’s not a problem,” I say, propping myself up against the headboard.
“Are you feeling better?” she asks.
I nod. It turns out I really did just need a night of rest. The Advil didn’t hurt either.
Bubbe sits down at the edge of my bed. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I head out,” she says.
“You’re leaving already?” I ask.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” she says. “I’ll come back in time for the rehearsal dinner. I booked a nice bed-and-breakfast last night,” she adds. “Hopefully that will give your mother some time to calm down.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You know,” she starts, “I’m not as bad as she makes me sound.”
“I don’t think—”
Bubbe puts up her hand to stop me. “No, I know exactly what your mother thinks. It’s not the truth, Felicity. Is it a crime to want what’s best for your daughter?”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. Of course it isn’t. I’ve always known Bubbe wants the best. Isn’t that what I’m trying to give her?
She continues, “I had a lot to live up to with my ema. Your great-grandmother, she only ever wanted me to have a good life. A safe life. It was so different with her. There were a lot of secrets, a lot of things she didn’t feel like she could tell me. She escaped Poland during the war, you know. I don’t know a lot of the details. She wanted to protect me from them. I guess I wanted to protect you girls too. Nothing is a guarantee; we need to work to be successful. If I was hard on you, if I pushed you in the right direction, I knew you’d have good lives. Safe lives.”
