A nurse helped Eleanor into a simple white dress. Someone brought flowers from a nearby shop, and Rebecca arrived carrying a cake decorated with white roses.
She hugged me before the ceremony.
“You look ridiculous,” she whispered.
“Thank you.”
“Your tie is crooked.”
“It’s a wedding, not a job interview.”
She straightened it anyway.
Then she looked at Eleanor, who was waiting beside the flowers in her wheelchair.
Rebecca’s expression softened.
“Take good care of her,” she said.
“I will.”
Eleanor insisted on standing for the ceremony, though the nurse warned her not to exhaust herself.
She held my arm as she rose.
“Don’t let me fall,” she whispered.
“I won’t.”
“And if I do, make sure the photographer catches my good side.”
“You have a good side?”
She pinched my arm.
The ceremony was brief and beautiful.
When the priest asked whether I took Eleanor to be my wife, my voice caught.
