6 QUESTIONS EVERY BRIDE SHOULD ASK
I’ll end the suspense before this enters romcom territory: I married her.
I’d been accepted sorry-ass past and all by a woman who, in a rational world, would have been more rational. Woody Harrelson’s dad had been a hitman. Keanu Reeves’s dad dealt heroin. And Charlize Theron, her mom shot her alcoholic father right in front of her. They’d done okay, and I could too.
Cori had her own take: “Any man so forthcoming about something so horrific on a first date has to be a keeper.” I did not question her reasoning. I did not stop to ask what could be in it for her.
As it turned out, dead or almost dead dads were something we had in common. And the good news kept coming: Her mom was dead too. I could not have asked for more. Taking me home to meet the girlfriend’s parents had long been a worry.
“So tell me, young man, what line of work might your father be in?”
“Serial killing, sir.”
“How interesting! And your mother?”
“She’s a comic book.”
We were sitting on her bed when Cori got around to the details of her parents and their ends. “There were no signs of violence. No suicide note. I think they might have been going at it in the backseat, if that makes any sense. I mean they weren’t kids.” Her voice quavered. “My babysitter found them. The car was in the garage. Windows were shut. Engine running. They’d been out Christmas shopping. I still have Dolores Bea, the Cabbage Patch doll they bought that night.”
“Gosh, Cor.”
“It was inevitable, I suppose. They were both recovering alcoholics. They met at AA.”
“I can’t believe you never told me.”
“You have your own issues.”
“Yeah, but still . . . ”
“My aunt, she took me in, you know, after . . . without her . . . I was lucky, really. Eden Prairie was a good place to grow up. Aunt Maureen, she saved my life. I owe her everything. She’s why I went into dentistry. I wanted to be everything she was.” Cori searched her closet, exhumed Dolores Bea. The doll resided upright in the box she’d come in, her eyes wide and watchful, as she came to grips with the shock of meeting her big sister’s husband-to-be.
I had never been much good with people who opened up to me. Never knew what to do or say, how to position my head, purse my lips, or where to place my hands. I had my own junk to contend with and the sob stories of others came off anemic by comparison. Cori changed this, to the extent she could.
The closer we grew, the more in tune I became with the intimacy guidelines, hanging in for as long as she needed, never too quick to break away. Where I came up short was on the consolation side. I struggled to distinguish genuine compassion from the Hallmark variety, and I’d self-censor in lieu of dribbling the mush aloud. My forte was empathetic silence. I worried I was failing her; Cori claimed my concern made her love me more. “It’s how you hold me, Rob.” My drug was the nearness of her. A marathon stay at the Betty Ford could not have weaned me from the scent of her Violet Blonde.
Our wedding was small. Loony Scoopers on my side—part-timers Dawn, Jenna, Amber, Justin, Oliver; co-glaciers Patsy, Louise; consultant and co-packer Darryl. Oral Corral Dental associates on her side, only two I knew well enough to name—Laurie the dental assistant and the head guy, Dr. Fred Beckman, the Dr. imperative.
No family attended. Aunt Maureen from Minnesota, Cori’s surrogate mom, had died the year before we met. (Yeah, I was three for three.)
BAR-B-QSA catered.
Cori wanted to know if I had told my father about her.
“Why would I?”
“I just thought . . . ” She was hurt.
“Please, Cor, when it comes to my father, don’t. Just don’t.”
My mother was a no-show too. Here, Cori was upset for me. “You did ask her, didn’t you? You said you did.”
“I did. I swear.”
As for the wedding gift Mom sent, I kept silent; I’d yet to figure out what to make of it, never mind what to do. I toed the storyline, how she was off in Europe, how she’d lived there for years without visiting home, how we didn’t talk much.
“Where in Europe?” Cori asked, sensing her groom was being less than truthful. I had no answer. All these years later, communication between Mom and me continued to be filtered through her New York lawyer. Money too.
“She never was the same, you know, after my dad . . . ” I’d created a backstory for Mystery Mom, a collection of alibis and excuses for all occasions. My sick sad life was Cori’s aphrodisiac of choice. Why dilute it? Besides, my father was millstone enough for any bride. No point throwing Heather Blythe-Blessing into the mix. Murder is one thing, sex and murder a whole new horror.