Eleven Journeys

The Wedding

It was a radiant day when I arrived in Liverpool, NY, a place deep in my memory. The sun beamed warmly, the temperature hovering in the 80s, and my direct flight from Miami landed right on schedule. I planned to stay a week, not just to celebrate my niece's wedding but also to spend precious time with my mother. The town where I was raised welcomed me back, and I looked forward to our breakfasts and lunches together, savoring each day's beauty from Wednesday through Friday. But then came Saturday, the day of the wedding.

Unlike the sunny days before, Saturday dawned under weary overcast skies, as if waiting for the rain to pour upon us at any moment. Despite the gloomy weather, the day buzzed with joy and excitement for the wedding. Yet, beneath the celebration, I sensed a moment approaching when unresolved family issues would emerge, as if to release the rain being withheld from the clouds from downpouring upon us, bringing an undercurrent of tension to the festivities.

"What time do we need to be at the wedding?" I asked my mother as the anticipation built.

"4:30 sharp!" she replied, her voice tinged with urgency given her significant role in the ceremony.

As the clock neared 4 PM, we piled into her car—my mother, Aunt Maryjane, and me. Mom handed me the keys, trusting me to drive. Our destination was only 15 minutes away, according to my GPS. Settled comfortably, I pressed the brake, started the car, and paused to consider the fire hydrant at the foot of the driveway. It had been a fixture there since I was ten, a silent reminder since I first learned to drive.

Mom's car was a newer model, and over the past couple of days, I had adjusted to its modern quirks, especially the button-operated gear shift, which felt strange at first. Gone was the familiar lever, replaced by a simple button marked with an "R." Confident in my familiarity, I pressed the button, mindful to steer clear of the fire hydrant.

As I released the brake and gently pressed the accelerator, I didn't bother to look behind me or at the screen showing the rearview from the camera. My confidence was misplaced. Within moments, I heard a loud, ominous hiss—a sound like water bursting forth.

I stopped immediately, my heart sinking. Stepping out to assess the damage, I braced myself for the worst. To my mixed relief and dismay, the hydrant remained intact, but our car had a gaping hole in its tire, the wheel's rim lowered upon the driveway.

The loud burst I heard was just the tire deflating, not water spraying everywhere. A flood of frustration and a wave of relief washed over me simultaneously. The fire hydrant had been spared, but our journey to the wedding now had an unexpected and unwelcome detour.

Instantly, my mother's phone began to ring. First, it was my brother Paul calling, then my other brother David. Both had apps on their phones that monitored every detail of my mother's car, alerting them to even the slightest issue. They knew about the flat tire before we did and were calling to check on us.

"Is everything okay?" I heard Paul say as I retrieved the phone from my mother, his voice tense with concern.

"Yes, we're fine," I assured him. "Just a flat tire."

As we spoke, the information flow was a two-way street. My brothers learned we were safe, but we discovered something far more pressing—the wedding was scheduled to begin at 4 PM, not 4:30 as we had thought. We were already late.

With my mother and Aunt Maryjane flustered and desperate, I knew I had to take charge. I quickly pulled out my phone and opened the Uber app, selecting the nearest available car to pick us up. It was only a five-minute wait, but each second felt like an eternity.

During the ride to the wedding, I texted Paul every five minutes, updating him on our progress according to my GPS. Meanwhile, my mother, seated in the front, struck up a conversation with the driver, her anxiety channeled into curiosity about his overseas heritage. Her calm demeanor in the midst of our chaos was oddly comforting.

We arrived at the venue at exactly 4:30, the time we had originally planned to be there. But as we knew, we were thirty minutes late. My heart pounded as we hurried inside, fearing the worst.

After the ceremony, Amber, Paul's wife and mother of the bride, approached me with a smile.

"Other family members from out of town were late too," she said, her tone reassuring. "The delay worked out for the better."

Her words were a balm to my frazzled nerves. Despite the mishap, everything had fallen into place. That is, until I learned of the plans for our return home after the wedding. With no need to rush, my mother and other family members discussed our arrangements. Soon, I discovered that my aunt, mother, and I would be riding back with my brother David and his wife, Dianne. But there was a problem: I hadn't spoken to David in over a year. The last time I saw him was at our nephew Jacob's graduation, where a refusal to shake his hand led to his attempt to have me thrown out of the church.

Despite the tension, we loaded into David's car and began the journey back to my mother's house. Dianne, ever gracious, started warm conversations, especially with my aunt, ensuring everyone's comfort. Gradually, I joined in, though David remained silent.

As we neared our destination, the conversation turned to David's daughter, Audrey. I learned she hadn't attended church in years, along with other updates. Dianne noticed my surprise and questioned why I didn't know these things. Bluntly, I explained, "Since there's a rift between her father and me, she no longer speaks to me." David heard me but remained silent.

Dianne already knew about my strained relations with the family, especially with David. As an atheist in a devout Christian family, I faced ostracism based on fabricated stories by my father. Audrey, however, had given me the benefit of the doubt, having never met me and only hearing stories about me when we first met, the week my father died. It was the same week he finally agreed to meet me after decades, introducing me to David's grown-up family.

I wondered what David thought when he heard my words about Audrey. Did he remember his own decision to be estranged from me due to my rift with our father, and that of our other siblings? Some call it a generational curse; I see it as another sad day in a family divided by lies, deceit, and misconceptions based on stringent dogmas needing to be reevaluated and assessed.

In those moments of silence and reflection, I realized the profound impact of unresolved conflicts. The generational divide, the lingering grudges, and the unspoken truths had shaped our relationships. The pain we carry from the past can ripple through generations unless we face and address it. Healing begins with honesty, and reconciliation starts with the courage to confront the lies that divide us. Only then can we hope to break the cycle and build a future grounded in truth and understanding.