Roseanne
2018
Déjà vu.
It translates to already seen, but really it sort of means the opposite: that you haven't already seen the thing, but feel like you have. I once asked Jaehyun if he thought they actually call it déjà vu in France or perhaps keep a better, more accurate expression for themselves. He laughed and said, "you think about the weirdest shit sometimes."
Which is so much truer than he knows.
"Everything okay?" he asks now, as we follow my mother and his into the inn where we will marry in seven short weeks. I've been off, somehow, since the moment we pulled into town, and I guess it shows.
"Yeah. Sorry. I've got the start of a headache." It's not entirely true, but I don't know how to explain this thing in my head, this irritating low hum. It makes me feel as if I'm only half here.
We step into the lobby and my mother extends her arms like a game show hostess. "Isn't it cute?" she asks without waiting for an answer. "I know it's an hour from D.C., but at this late date it's the best we're going to do." In truth, the lobby reminds me of an upscale retirement community—baby blue walls, baby blue carpet, Chippendale chairs—but the actual wedding and reception will take place on the lawn. And as my mother pointed out, we can no longer afford to be picky.
Jaehyun's mother, Abby, steps beside me, running a hand over my head, the way she might a prize stallion. "You're being so calm about this. Any other bride would be in a panic."
It's posed as a compliment, but I'm not sure it is. Losing our venue two months before the wedding should have made me panic, but I try not to get too attached to things. Caring too much about anything makes perfectly reasonable people go insane—just ask the girl who burned down the reception hall her ex was about to get married in...which happened to be the reception hall we were getting married in too.
My mother claps her hands together. "Well, our appointment with the hotel's events coordinator isn't for another hour. Shall we get some lunch while we wait?"
Jaehyun and I exchange a quick look. On this point we are both of one mind. "We really need to get back to D.C. before rush hour." Are my words coming out as slowly as they feel? It's as if I'm on delay somehow, two steps behind. "Maybe you could just show us around?"
My mother's smile fades to something far less genuine. She wants giddy participation from me and has been consistently disappointed with my inability to provide it.
She and Abby lead the way back to the porch where we entered. "We've already been discussing it a bit," Abby says to me over her shoulder. "We were thinking you could walk down the stairs and out to the porch, where your fa— uncle, I mean, will wait." She pauses for a moment, blushing at the error. It shouldn't be a big deal at this point—my dad's been gone almost eight years—but I feel that pinch deep in my chest anyway. That hint of sadness that never quite leaves. "And then we'll do a red carpet out to the tent."
Together we step outside. It's a gruelingly hot day, as are most summer days anywhere near D.C., and this thing in my head only gets worse. I vaguely notice my surroundings—blinding sun, a technicolor blue sky, the rose bushes my mother is commenting on, but all the while I feel displaced, like I'm following this from far away. What the hell is going on? I could call it déjà vu, but it's not really that. The conversation occurring right now, with this group of people, is wholly new. It's the place that feels familiar. More than familiar, actually. It feels important.
