A Little Crossed in Love

“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.”

-Jane Austen

I.

I will not kill my mother.

I will not kill my mother.

I will not kill my mother because it is one, highly illegal to kill any human being and is especially frowned upon if said being is one's mother and I doubt that any judge and jury would be merciful upon my poor soul and two, because once convicted and sent to my death I'm fairly certain that I'd drop straight to hell for an eternity of damnation because, again, mercy on my soul doesn't seem likely. I mean, if Cain can be cursed for life for committing fratricide, I can certainly be damned for matricide. Is that even the right term? Fratricide, patricide, matricide…has to be; the Latin word for mother is 'mater'. I think. Honestly, that Latin course I took in junior year was the most pointless thing in the history of pointlessness—the only thing I retained other than the odd root word was the sentence "Grumio pavonem coquit" which translates to "Grumio cooks the peacock", which I'm sure will boost my social capacity tremendously.

"Eden, are you listening to me?"

I blinked and refocused on my mother, who was guzzling her third glass of Chablis, which was causing her to become revoltingly talkative. Stifling a sigh, I discretely glanced over at the clock on the restaurant wall—it was 10:14. My sister was late for brunch, Mother was halfway to plastered, and I was starting to wonder how much I'd really suffer is I slit my own wrists with my grapefruit spoon.

I dragged my eyes back to my mother's face and smiled a smile that felt forced and tight, like the ones frequently seen on newly-Botoxed fifty year old socialites. "Of course I'm listening, Mother."

"I thought so, dear," she replied as she motioned vaguely for more wine, oblivious as always. A waiter darted over and splashed the appropriate amount of wine into her glass, refilling it slightly less than halfway. Mother rolled her eyes impatiently and waved her hand in the 'go on you pansy, pour me more' gesture until the wineglass was filled nearly to the brim. I bit back another sigh and toyed with my fruit salad.

"Where in the hell is your sister?" Mother asked indelicately—and loudly enough to attract the attention of everyone dining around us. A few of the braver souls even turned around and looked.

I ignored them. "Haven't the foggiest, Mother," I murmured, wondering the same thing, but without any semblance of surprise. My sister Delilah, older than myself by nearly four years, was perpetually late and chronically forgetful. The chances of her remembering our brunch engagement—although she was the one who requested the meeting of 'just us girls' while Mother and Daddy were in town—were slim, and the likelihood of her showing up on time were practically nonexistent. As far as I was concerned, her lateness only perpetuated a long-standing tradition that would, if broken, disturb me more than words can express.

"So," said Mother, suddenly breaking from her long-winded monologue about the goings-on in my small East Texas hometown. "Tell me how school's going."

I gazed at her in mild surprise—it wasn't like her to take an interest in anything except my dress size and the amount of makeup I was wearing at the time. "Fine," I replied warily, not sure where this conversation was going.

"Met any nice boys yet?"

Ah. The truth is revealed. I should have known. "A few," I said with a shrug. "I haven't dated anyone, if that's what you're wondering."

Mother sighed. "Eden, honestly. What am I going to do with you? You were shy and timid all through high school, and that was fine—it was a phase. But you've been in college for nearly three months now. When are you going to get over these ridiculous insecurities and find a proper boyfriend?"

Yes, because we all know that 'finding a proper boyfriend' is the ultimate incentive for overcoming deeply-instilled insecurities. How could I have missed that? "I don't know, Mother. I imagine they'll magically evaporate sometime next week."

"Good," she replied, clearly not listening again as she sipped at her wine. "It was getting quite out of hand."

"What was getting quite out of hand?" my sister asked, materializing out of nowhere and plunking down in the empty seat next to me. Without waiting for an answer she continued. "Sorry I'm late."

"Never you mind, dear," Mother replied, reaching across the table to pat Delilah's hand. Any and all of her previous irritation, it seemed, had vanished, which didn't really surprise me. Delilah was, after all, the favored child at the moment, what with her ability to be the only one of my parents' children to secure an engagement. I glanced at the ring on my sister's left hand, finding it amazing that years of rebelling, parties, and promiscuity could be erased by three shiny rocks on a platinum band—never mind the fact that Delilah had gotten engaged after knowing her fiancé, Brady, for less than three months, and had subsequently been engaged for nearly two years.

The waiter came over and took Delilah’s order—a glass of ice water and a bowl of strawberries. As he moved away, she glanced at Mother’s wine glass and made a face. “Mother, really,” she said in her raspy voice, sounding just as irritated as I’d felt all morning. “It’s not even noon. Couldn’t you have had a cup of coffee with Bailey’s in it to at least keep up the pretense of normalcy?”

“I’m too old to be lectured by my daughter, thank you,” Mother replied, motioning for more wine. The waiter returned with Delilah’s order and set a full bottle of Chablis next to Mother’s wine glass. For the first time that morning, Mother actually smiled in satisfaction. As she poured herself a glass of wine, she trained her gaze on Delilah and her eyes narrowed. “What have you done to your hair?”

I glanced over at my sister, unaware of any changes in her appearance. She looked just like she had the last time I saw her, and the time before that, and the time before that, and, indeed, every time I’d seen her since she left for college three years before. Her hair was still dyed black and cut into long, choppy layers with side bangs. She still straightened it so that it fell just so into her icy green eyes, which were as always lined with too much black eyeliner. She was still bones thin, still pale as a ghost, and still looked slightly awkward without a cigarette in her mouth. The only change in her appearance was the rock on her finger and the slight gleam of contentment lurking beneath her eyes.

“I haven’t done anything to my hair,” Delilah replied, confirming my suspicions. “It’s been this color for years now, Mother, so stop acting so surprised.” She fished around in her purse and extracted a cigarette. “Besides, I didn’t ask to have brunch with you so that you could insult my appearance,” she continued calmly, torching her cigarette and ignoring the glares from our fellow diners. “If I wanted that, I would have just called you or gone back to Liberty for the weekend. I asked you here because I have something important to tell you.” She sucked hard on her cigarette and looked at my mother significantly. “About the wedding.”

“Oh, Lord,” my mother cried dramatically, her theatrics probably fueled by the wine. “He’s broken it off, hasn’t he? My poor baby…it’s okay, honey, you’ll—“

“Mother, shut up,” Delilah snapped, intentionally blowing smoke in our mother’s face. “He hasn’t broken it off.”

“You’ve broken it off?” asked Mother, her voice incredulous. “You stupid girl, how could you? You finally find a boy who’s willing to marry you and you throw it away?” She sat back hard in her chair, staring off blankly into space. “I’m never going to have grandchildren. My oldest daughter is an idiot, my youngest daughter goes completely stupid around men, and my son is an…an…” She gulped and whispered the last word as if it were some sort of disease. “An artist. I’ve failed as a mother.”

Delilah looked over and me and I shrugged. “She did this a lot after you left,” I said.

“Have you talked to her doctor about upping her medication?”

“Didn’t think it was my place. I’ll mention it to Daddy.”

“Good girl.” She turned back to Mother, who was staring into space. “Mother, the wedding isn’t off. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve picked a date.”

“Picked a date?” Mother repeated, sitting up with shining eyes. “You’ve picked a date!” She beamed and reached across the table, grasping my sister’s hands with her own. “Oh, you beautiful girl, you! I always knew you were smart. So, when’s the blessed event to take place?”

Delilah stubbed out her cigarette, looking amused. “July thirty-first. It’s a Saturday.”

“Fantastic. July thirty-first,” Mother repeated, looking dazed. “One of the James children finally gets married. I have to go tell your father.” She positively leapt from the table and dashed off, waving at us over her shoulder. “Goodbye, darling. I always knew you were smart!”

I buried my face in my hands and rubbed my eyes as Delilah shifted and took Mother’s seat. “Her behavior is becoming more and more erratic,” she remarked calmly, taking a sip of wine and making her face. “As is her taste in wine. Can you take this away?” she asked a passing waiter. He nodded and took the bottle and glass away, looking relieved to have my mother out of the picture. Delilah turned her attention on me and smiled her real smile for the first time. “So, Eden, how’ve you been?”

I shrugged. “Fine, aside from the occasional insane family member.”

“School going well?”

I nodded and she left it at that. Despite the fact that Delilah and I attended the same university, lived in the same town, and had apartments within two blocks of one another, we’d seen each other exactly once since I’d moved to Austin in August. It wasn’t for lack of closeness, although Delilah and I weren’t fantastically close, or lack of sisterly affection—we simply didn’t have that much in common…not that that was anything new. Even at a young age, Delilah had been outgoing, temperamental, rebellious, and downright brave. I was just the opposite—shy, easy-going, and too afraid of the consequences to even think about going against the rules. She was talkative and good with people (when she wanted to be), I was nearly taciturn and often came across as stuck up or pretentious. We had little in common and therefore, it seemed, little to say to one another.

“So you’ve set a date,” I remarked after a moment of silence. “Have you picked a place? If you say Liberty I’ll shoot you.”

Liberty was our hometown—it was a tiny cattle and oil town in East Texas, known for its Wal-Mart, which was the biggest in the nation, and backwater ideals. Delilah and I grew up on the ‘rich’ side of town, which was informally reserved for oil men and their families. The other side of town, which wasn’t exactly poor but certainly wasn’t marked by big white houses and sprawling green lawns, was where the cattle men and their families lived. Delilah’s best friend Regan was from such a family, and their friendship had spawned all sorts of disapproval in high school—a disapproval that probably lasted today, given my mother’s ability to judge with the same sentiment for years, despite evidence to the contrary. To her, Regan would always be white trash; Mother refused to believe that anyone from ‘that side’ of town could ever amount to anything, a sentiment that Regan found highly amusing.

Delilah, fortunately, looked horrified at the prospect of getting married in Liberty. “Oh, God, no. I’d rather rip my own eyeballs out, thanks,” she replied, biting into a strawberry. “I was actually thinking New Orleans. In fact…I already talked to Brady about and he thinks it’s a great idea.”

“Would that decision have anything to do with New Orleans’ reputation as a notorious party town?” I asked with a slight grin. Brady was a recreational pothead who found more time for recreation than for much of anything else in his life, Delilah being the exception. He’d dropped out of school the previous year to open up a combination record store and skate shop and, against all odds, seemed to be well on his way to actually becoming a success…which didn’t at all stop his desire to be surrounded in a permanent purple haze.

Delilah laughed and shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It certainly isn’t the historical aspect of the city, I can assure you that much. I showed him a picture of the church I want us to get married in and his contribution to the conversation was ‘Dude. Fuckin’ trippy’.”

I snorted. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. What church do you want to get married in?”

Grinning, Delilah reached for her purse and rummaged around in it for a moment before pulling out a stack of papers. “I knew you’d ask that. Take at look at this,” she commanded, handing me a picture. “Do you recognize it?”

Our family had taken a trip to New Orleans when I was ten, Delilah was fourteen, and our older brother Cain was seventeen. I didn’t remember much from the trip—all the historical sights started to look the same after a while—but one place stuck in my mind, and I wasn’t surprised to see it in the picture Delilah had passed over the table. “Delilah, this is St. Louis Cathedral. Of course you want to get married here. Everyone wants to get married here.” I handed the picture back to her. “You’re outta your mind.”

“It’s taken you this long to figure that out?” she asked, lighting another cigarette. “And besides, not everyone wants to get married there. You don’t. Regan doesn’t.”

“Regan’s getting married?” I asked, surprised. Regan had been dating a medical student named Grant for nearly as long as Delilah and Brady had been engaged—I hadn’t heard anything about their plans to get married.

Delilah shook her head. “No, she’s not. Not yet, at least. It was a hypothetical statement; you shouldn’t take me so seriously. Speaking of Regan…I hope you’re okay with not being the maid of honor. She told me she’s perfectly willing to step down if you’d like to—“

I cut her off with a shake of my head. “Tell her I wouldn’t dream of it.” It was true. The idea of performing all of the maid of honor’s duties—most notably the toast at the wedding reception, which would require me to speak in front of a huge crowd of strangers—made my blood run cold. I was more than happy to let Regan have that dubious honor.

“Just thought I’d make sure.” Delilah eyed me speculatively. “Do you want to go shopping with us tomorrow?” she asked, surprising me. “We need to start looking for bridesmaids’ dresses, and since you and Regan make up half of my bridal party…well, there’s no harm in starting early, right?”

I hesitated, looking across the table at my sister. We hadn’t been shopping together in years, and although the idea sounded fun, there was something that made me hesitate. Some memory lurking in the back of my brain, not quite clear but pulling enough warning bells to make me wonder. Still, as I studied my sister’s face and saw nothing other than earnest excitement and honesty. I tacked the feeling down to paranoia and returned her smile. “Sure, why not?”

Delilah grinned and we returned to our respective brunches, she twiddling absently while I wondered where in the hell that feeling of apprehension was coming from.

So, um, yeah. I decided to write a sequel. I think this first chapter is a bit odd, but my brain’s been on the blitz recently, so I could be imagining it. Anyway, let me know what you think!