when the vow breaks
by Christie Ellen
(During)
‘Just say the word and we can get in the car and drive to Mexico’. Your maid of honour’s eyes don’t blink as she waits for you to respond.
You say nothing. Pull the understated, plain white dress over your head and let your best friend zip up the back. You wanted something simple, rejected the idea of an extravagant gown. It slides on like a dream. In the floor-length mirror you flash back to playing dress-up as a little girl.
Are you still playing?
You already turned his delicate heart black and blue once before, and promised yourself that this time would be different.
The scent of lilies is heady. Inescapable. You look for the door with the dark wood trim and then down at the hardwood floor, scuffed and worn and slightly uneven. The old character home turned wedding venue had been your dream. Your grip is too tight on the long stems of the cala lilies in your hands. Your palms sweat.
The din of chatter from the other side of the wood door fills your ears. Drowns out the voice that whispered from somewhere distant. Run.
Your mother in the long pink dress with the vintage cape sits in a white chair on the other side of the wall. She’d looked everywhere for the perfect thing to wear for this day. Your father, just a few feet away in the suit with his arm bent just so, ready for you to thread your arm through his elbow so you can begin your walk together.
Time slows. You will remember this moment. This precipice.
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(Before)
She twists off the cap of the small brown glass bottle with the dropper. Her hand shakes as she places 3 drops of the calming remedy on the tip of her tongue.
She’s lost count of how many drops it’s been so far and it’s not even noon.
The hair salon is busy so no one notices her tilting her head back. Good, she thinks.
She sits in the waiting room until it’s her turn, a small dish of berries balances precariously on her lap. She tries to eat, but the few berries she has managed to swallow aren’t sitting well. Her stomach flips and drops like she’s on a trampoline. She wonders if this is what it would feel like to have a small animal trapped down there. Running, running. Going nowhere.
Just nerves. This is normal. Just nerves. Everyone feels this way.
An hour later and her hair is almost done and then she can get up from the hairstylist’s chair. For now, she can’t fidget or she’ll get burned. Only a few more minutes.
Another drop of her stomach, another drop for her tongue.
As she stands, curls rest on her shoulders in perfect waves. The other stylists and clients are all congratulating her. Very excited, she is all smiles. Can’t wait. The words are like bricks in her mouth.
The heat from the hairdryers and the fumes from the hairspray stick in her dry throat. As she moves toward the glass door, the sun is blinding. White.
She pictures the white lilies of her bouquet and wonders how much longer until their edges will begin to turn brown.
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(After)
The tree-lined streets of the neighbourhood are covered in a navy blue blanket. Pools of light spill across the asphalt in soft yellow circles, lighting the way.
Just push down. The door will open.
I hesitate, but only for a second or two. This is the right decision. Doubt no longer claws at my insides. It’s been cast out. Replaced by the nag of guilt because I know that the relief swirling in the air (mine) is getting tangled with disappointment (my parents, my in-laws), and grief (his).
This is not the outcome they were hoping for.
This is the outcome I always knew was waiting for me - the one I tried to fight. Push down over and over. Each new wave getting wider and stronger. Until the day I nearly drowned from the force of it. The day I opened my mouth and the words poured out that ended my suffering and became the beginning of his.
Enough.
I shove the door handle down and walk out into the night. Get in the car with the last of the boxes, the house plant my mother gave me, and back out of the driveway. Take one last look at the door with the glass window. The panel is mostly frosted but from here, I can see a corner of the kitchen cupboard through the clear glass filigree pattern etched into the window. I used to stand inside the kitchen and peer out through the glass and marvel at how picturesque the street looked after a fresh snowfall. Storybook-perfect.
You’re on the other side now.
I shift the car into drive and leave the scene, feeling like an outlaw on the run.
Photo of Christie Ellen
BIO: Christie Ellen (she/her) is a mom of two, living with metastatic breast cancer on Canada’s east coast, on the traditional unceded territory of the Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) and Mi’kmaq peoples. Her writing often meanders between the perforated lines of humour and heartbreak. In her professional life she is a copywriter and content strategist. Follow her on Instagram @christie.ellen.content.