“I’M THINKING ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHS”
I assumed Margaret wanted to discuss table assignments.
Instead, halfway through dessert, she put down her fork.
“I wanted to ask about the ceremony.”
Adrian looked up.
“What about it?”
“The processional.”
Something in her tone made me put down my spoon.
She smiled.
“Is Ethan still walking Claire?”
“Yes,” I said.
Margaret nodded slowly.
Then she said:
“I wondered if perhaps we should rethink that.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
She took a sip of water.
“I’m only thinking practically.”
Adrian’s expression changed immediately.
“Mom.”
“Let me finish.”
She looked at me.
“Ethan is obviously invited.”
The word obviously irritated me.
“Nobody is suggesting otherwise.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
She hesitated.
That was the moment she still had a chance to stop.
She didn’t.
“Perhaps your mother could walk you.”
“No.”
“Or you could walk alone.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“Ethan asked.”
I kept my voice calm.
“I said yes.”
“That’s decided.”
Margaret’s smile tightened.
“I understand the emotional part.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think you do.”
She ignored me.
“I’m thinking about the photographs.”
Silence.
I genuinely didn’t understand.
“What photographs?”
“The processional.”
“The wedding album.”
“The framed pictures.”
“All of it.”
Adrian went completely still.
Margaret continued.
“If Ethan walks you, his face will be in virtually every important photograph of you entering the chapel.”
I stared at her.
I waited.
I thought there had to be another sentence coming.
Something that would make what she had just said less ugly.
It didn’t come.
She continued carefully.
“You and Adrian will have these photographs for the rest of your lives.”
“So?”
“So perhaps you should think about what you want displayed.”
My pulse started pounding.
Adrian said:
“Mom, stop.”
Margaret looked irritated.
“I am not saying anything cruel.”
I almost laughed.
“What exactly are you saying?”
She looked at me.
Then toward Adrian.
Finally, she said:
“I would prefer that the wedding photographs focus on the two of you.”
“They will.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“Say what you mean.”
Margaret looked uncomfortable now.
Good.
“I simply don’t want every image of Claire entering the chapel dominated by Ethan.”
There it was.
My brother’s name.
Finally.
But she still wasn’t finished.
“I’m imagining the large photograph we might hang at home.”
“The family album.”
“Forty years from now.”
I stared at her.
“You don’t want Ethan’s face in them.”
Margaret said nothing.
That silence was an answer.
Six different sentences exploded inside my head.
That’s my brother.
My father is dead.
What exactly about Ethan’s face offends your decorating plans?
Do you think Down syndrome ruins photographs?
Why does your hallway get a vote in my wedding?
Would you say this if Ethan were sitting here?
I opened my mouth.
Under the table, Adrian took my hand.
One squeeze.
Then he said:
“We’ll work something out.”
I turned toward him so quickly my chair almost moved.
Margaret relaxed.
For one horrible second, I thought Adrian meant what she wanted him to mean.
Then I saw his expression.
He was furious.
Not uncertain.
Not embarrassed.
Furious.
His thumb pressed against my hand.
Wait.
That was what he was telling me.
Not because Margaret deserved protection.
Because Ethan did.
If I exploded in that dining room, Margaret would become the story.
The argument would spread.
Phone calls.
Family gossip.
Someone would tell someone else.
Eventually Ethan might hear the truth:
Margaret didn’t want you walking Claire because she didn’t want your face in the wedding photographs.
I could not allow that.
Ethan had spent almost a year grieving our father.
He had asked for one thing.
A job.
Dad’s job.
And he believed everyone was proud of him.
I wasn’t going to let Margaret’s cruel opinion take that away from him.
So I smiled.
Actually smiled.
Then I picked up my fork.
“The salmon was excellent.”
Adrian nearly inhaled his water.
Margaret stared at me.
“What?”
“The salmon.”
“Very good.”
Conversation died immediately.
Dinner ended twelve minutes later.
We got into Adrian’s car.
He started driving.
For three intersections, neither of us said a word.
Then I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Pull over.”
