Page 5

“He’s got a busted-up nose just in time for the wedding,” Lisa said with half raised brows that expressed her annoyance.
Debbie hardly let her finish before she mumbled under her breath, “Bummer.”
Contrite, Donja dropped her head.
Yeah, I hear ya and it’s all my fault.
Wedding Bells
“Your mom looks beautiful.”
“Yeah, she does,” Donja whispered as she flashed her dark eyes at Debbie. They shared a brief look before Donja turned her gaze back to her mother, dressed in a peach colored, knee length sleeveless dress with matching pumps, hand in hand with Carson Hampton, Donja’s soon-to-be stepfather.
She took a breath, the smell of gardenias wafting.
Debbie leaned into her ear. “Everything’s so perfect.”
Perfect?
Donja felt her pulse quicken as she cast a fleeting glance to the sky; a perfect collage of silver and white, painted upon a bright, blue dome. She lowered her head, eyes locked on the bride and groom.
For everyone but me.
She squirmed in her chair as a sinking disquiet settled upon her. She fought back trembling lips, shaky hands, fearful of crying.
“I can’t believe that there’s so many people here,” Debbie whispered.
Jerked back to reality, yet unable to escape her misery, Donja exhaled, tears welling in her eyes. She surveyed the domed white tent which was to accommodate thirty guests. It was packed full and others could be seen milling about the grounds of ‘The Knot,’ a popular 1800’s farm used exclusively for outdoor weddings.
“And do you, Lisa Bellanger take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband,” Reverend Carol, a longtime friend of the family asked.
“I do,” Lisa’s voice rang past the rows of white folding chairs filled with friends, family and half the staff of Lakeland Homecare, where she worked as a registered nurse.
Donja, feeling a bit guilty, gazed across the aisle to behold her paternal grandmother, Anna Bellanger, seated beside Frankie who was sporting a badly bruised nose. Doleful, she furrowed her brows, aware that she should be there, seated with them, but she and Debbie had sneaked off to have a smoke and when they got back, all the seats were taken on her mom’s side forcing her to sit on Carson’s. Her Grandma Anna, who was full blood Chippewa and seemed to possess a sixth sense, must have picked up on her guilt, for she flashed her dark eyes which glistened with tears. They shared a deadlock which lingered for the longest time. Finally, Anna, whose face was stolid, broke the tether and turned her misty eyes back to Lisa and Carson.
Donja exhaled, unaware she had been holding her breath. She knew of her grandmother’s pain, it was palpable. She dropped her head, and everything suddenly felt too soon. It had been only six years now since Anna lost her only son, her mom lost her husband, and she and Frankie lost a father.
Her eyes veiled, the wounds as fresh as yesterday. Her father, Donald Frank Bellanger, while on official government business for the Michigan Department of Agriculture, was killed by a car bomb placed next to the government towers in Norway.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the reverend stated, drawing Donja from misery. She glanced up just as Carson kissed her mom.
“You have a new dad,” Debbie whispered.
“Yes,” Donja said, unable to find a smile. She fluttered her misty eyes, thick black lashes forcing tears to streak her cheek and though part of her hated Carson, hated everything he stood for, a far greater part was grateful. He was a good man, successful, kind, considerate and most importantly, he loved her mom desperately. In the beginning, she despised him, stranger that he was, but he stepped into Frankie’s life as if he were his own, baseball, fishing, you name it Carson Hampton was there. He not only spent every moment of vacation, but traveled the seven hundred and forty-four miles round trip every weekend from his home in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, just to be there. He’d tried with Donja and though she resisted him at first, eventually they had settled into, if nothing else, mutual acceptance.
“Your liner’s running.” Debbie whispered, offering up a tissue.
Donja, wound tighter than clockwork, took the white fluff contrasted by her long, black nails and dabbed at her eyes as they rose to their feet. She lowered her hand to inspect the tissue which was smeared black. Leanne, the photographer’s assistant with short cropped blonde hair, made her way toward her, pushing at the folding chairs. “We’re gonna need you and your brother for pictures out by the carriage.”
“Sure.” Donja said with a forced smile.
“You’ll need to clean your face,” Leanne smirked. “Your eyes are dripping black.” She scurried away.
“Now that’s a judgmental bitch if I ever saw one,” Debbie mumbled.”
Donja rolled her eyes, though she knew it was true. Half the people she knew were judgmental in one way or another. In the beginning, around age eleven when she found herself obsessed with gothic style, even her mother had fought her tooth and nail. The desire for anything black, followed by falling grades, loud music and horrific nightmares about terrorists, escalated to a point that her mom forced her into counseling. A year and eight months later, the counselor mentioned in family session that the gothic makeup was just a shield to hide from what she could not face. She suggested that their weekly sessions continue to work through her father’s death, but Donja rebelled and finally her mom gave in, and why not? What do counselors know of pain anyway?
She turned to Debbie. “Is it bad.”