* * *
Ten years later, Christine looked down at her Rosa Clara lace gown with its chapel train flowing behind her, and she soaked in the glory of the moment, the processional music, the hundreds of flowers on the altar, the white rose petals on the runner in the long center aisle, and the bright faces of her loved ones and friends in the church, all eyes on her. It was perfect.
The perfection of a wedding day takes many months of planning, and even then it’s never fully perfect. Something would go wrong tonight, Christine knew. Maybe the catering would fall flat. The photographer would be too pushy. The best man would drink too much and embarrass someone during his toast. It might be difficult, but Christine would be okay with whatever happened. Imperfection, she knew now, was what moved life forward: in a jagged, painful line, but still… forward.
In a few moments she would become Mrs. David French. David was her guy. She loved him to pieces. They’d met at a sorority charity function in her junior year at Stanford. Other guys were asking her to head to the bar after; David suggested a trip to the coffee bar in the campus bookstore. That was the first sign that he was the one. He proved to be a gentleman by his manners and his thoughtfulness. He proved his faithfulness when Christine had needed to cancel plans to join him and a few of their friends on a EuroRail trip through Spain, France, Switzerland, Italy and Germany in the summer after their senior year. Rather than be upset with her and storm off in a pouty funk, as she was sure some guys would, he rented a room for two months in a place on the outskirts of Coeur d’Alene, and he helped Christine take care of her dad while he was recovering from brain surgery. What sealed the deal, though, was David’s humility. He admitted his mistakes, said sorry, and shared his weaknesses, often poking fun at himself. He knew he wasn’t perfect, and this helped Christine to remember that she wasn’t either.
Experience had taught her a few things. Neither Alexis Winger (Christine could finally say the name again) nor the scout, Kerry Anderson, went to jail; Christine convinced her mom not to press charges since both women had attempted to return the money and Mr. Winger had paid the ultimate price. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that Christine figured out that the strange shorthand charts of numbers she’d discovered in a file in Coach Alexis’ desk added up to more than one count of scholarship fraud with more than one girl at the gym.
Christine knew she did not want to go back to Excel Gymnastics. At first she figured she needed time to recover from the shock of the recent events before joining another gym and returning to the sport she had given half of her life to. She focused on her studies. She also went to a few parties and tried some other extracurriculars. During her sophomore year she tried and failed to win the role of Belle in Beauty and the Beast, yet she enjoyed playing the part of Featherduster. Around this time she gave up on the thought of returning to gymnastics. Too many bad memories. In her junior and senior years she joined the tennis team as a mediocre all-court player with no real weapons. She did become valedictorian, and at Stanford she majored in pre-law, graduating magna cum laude, then landing an internship and eventually a paralegal job at a major law firm, occasionally conducting research and investigations, skills she’d come to realize suited her exceptionally well. Some day, she thought, she’d study for a private investigator’s license, learn the ropes and open her own agency. Right now, though, she was focused on David.
As she walked the aisle toward her husband-to-be, Christine waved to Joanie, who was waving back with a princess wave, and regarded her mom and dad with 21-year old Ben in the front row. Seated beside Dad in his wheelchair – since the beating that night he’d been reduced to the mental and emotional state of a small child – Mom seemed as always to be grim and frowny, very small and somehow only half present. She was wearing a blue dress appropriate for the mother of the bride, but she might as well have been wearing the black dress and veil of a grieving widow. Christine had forgiven her long ago, but Mom had never forgiven herself. It was terribly sad. Christine wished that her mom could bring herself to move out of the darkness of her self-imposed prison of guilt. Staying there was helping nobody.
“Thank you,” Christine said to Peter as they walked down the aisle, “for being here for me.” Arm in arm they stepped, Peter playing the part that her father could not do, “giving her away” to David.
Christine saw Peter once a year at Thanksgiving. After dinner with her family, she’d drop by his small bungalow and enjoy coffee with him and his wife. They’d never been able to have kids and couldn’t afford to adopt.
“I am so proud,” he said. “I call you daughter today, okay?”
“From now on, please do.”
She leaned into him, a sort of sideways hug.
She pictured having her own kids in the not-too-distant future. She hoped she’d have at least one boy and one girl.
“Live a long time, mister, okay? I need you around to teach my kids to ‘go and be strong.’”
“I try,” he said. “If I don’t, you teach them for me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
About the Author
Brett Cooper is a middle school Literacy teacher and the award-winning screenwriter of Snoop. He lives in Wheaton, Illinois, with his wife, four boys and mini golden doodle.
Connect with Brett
For more information, check out my blog at brettcooperwriter.com. Thanks for reading!
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