The more you marry, my cousin Rachel said to me, the better you get at it.
She was about to make her fourth trip to the altar. The small country church was decorated with wildflowers and candles and the scent of potpourri was almost overwhelming. Rachel was glowing in her pale blue silk dress and a single strand of pearls, her auburn hair artfully arranged so that it framed her face carelessly and hid the scars behind her ears. She was humming softly as she drew on her gloves, checked her makeup, and pulled down her veil. Nervous is for newlyweds, she advised me with a smile.
She had married at sixteen, twenty-two and thirty and I had watched her progression from teenage bride to grown married woman with awe. She had, so she claimed, loved them all but she was easily bored, restless for the next adventure, always curious about the next man. Her divorces had been amicable as she had invested so little in each marriage, and her husbands seemed to understand and accept her butterfly ways. She had always been financially independent having worked since she was twelve at her daddy's lumber mill and inherited it when he died. She was intentionally childless, declaring that no one had the right to produce children then leave them behind like discarded candy wrappers. Life, she said seriously, is too short to be tethered. Her mother shook her head in despair at this remark by her child. They loved each other and had always gotten along well but in many ways they were strangers, as if Rachel were the product of some anonymous, unremembered fling. Her mother took the "til death do you part" of the wedding ceremony literally while Rachel visibly cringed each time the words were spoken.
She was about to make her fourth trip to the altar. The small country church was decorated with wildflowers and candles and the scent of potpourri was almost overwhelming. Rachel was glowing in her pale blue silk dress and a single strand of pearls, her auburn hair artfully arranged so that it framed her face carelessly and hid the scars behind her ears. She was humming softly as she drew on her gloves, checked her makeup, and pulled down her veil. Nervous is for newlyweds, she advised me with a smile.
She had married at sixteen, twenty-two and thirty and I had watched her progression from teenage bride to grown married woman with awe. She had, so she claimed, loved them all but she was easily bored, restless for the next adventure, always curious about the next man. Her divorces had been amicable as she had invested so little in each marriage, and her husbands seemed to understand and accept her butterfly ways. She had always been financially independent having worked since she was twelve at her daddy's lumber mill and inherited it when he died. She was intentionally childless, declaring that no one had the right to produce children then leave them behind like discarded candy wrappers. Life, she said seriously, is too short to be tethered. Her mother shook her head in despair at this remark by her child. They loved each other and had always gotten along well but in many ways they were strangers, as if Rachel were the product of some anonymous, unremembered fling. Her mother took the "til death do you part" of the wedding ceremony literally while Rachel visibly cringed each time the words were spoken.
The day after her 42nd birthday, Rachel slipped out of bed and onto a plane for Reno. The divorce was finalized before her husband realized she wasn't coming back and when served, he gracefully packed his things and cleared out. She had always made it a point to marry the kind of man who would return her freedom before she asked and without a trace of bitterness or acrimony. A year or so later, she came home again, announcing that she had met her next husband and would be married the following spring. Her mother wept and the minister was appalled but again the small church was readied, a dress was chosen, a wedding party planned, and Rachel took her vows in a standing room only service on a sunny Saturday morning in June. She had just turned fifty. After that, there were three additional weddings, when she was fifty-six, sixty-one and finally, 70. Eight husbands in all, a record by almost standard.
When Rachel died and her house was cleaned out and put up for sale, we found eight photo albums and eight diaries. She had meticulously kept a separate and detailed account of each of her marriages, complete with pictures. In her last diary, she had written of growing old, of her few regrets, her many adventures, her husbands, and her own feelings. I was meant to be a bride, never a wife.
No comments:
Post a Comment