Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Forty-Six
Liam
Welp…Iguess this is how it all ends for me. Stabbed to death with a blunt serving utensil by my very own grandmother.
Yaya glares at me as she hate-shovels a second helping of potatoes onto Eliza’s dish.
I clear my throat and speak in a saccharine tone as I stretch my plate across the table. “I wouldn’t mind a second serving,” I say to the old lady with a smile. When she’s pissed at me, that’s always the way to win her over.
My Yaya loves taking care of me.
Not tonight.
She slams down the metallic tongs next to my plate. “Serve yourself.” She turns back to the women’s conversation, flashing an amiable smile as she settles the heaping potatoes in front of my wife. “Here you go, darling.”
Eliza accepts the refill with a smile and thanks my grandmother.
After chewing me a new one for getting married in secret, Mom and Yaya turned their attention on my bride. They welcomed her to the family without reservation and the women have all been chatting it up ever since.
I never intended for my family to find out about my nuptials through the gossip mill at the community center but what can I say? It happened. Sometimes a business man has to make difficult decisions. I wouldn’t expect my family to understand.
But the least my traitorous brothers could have done was give me a heads-up that Mom and Yaya were coming for me with their pitchforks.
I kick Anthony under the table. Again.
He flinches and nearly chokes on the toothpick wedged between his lips. “Bro, Yaya came at me with a rolling pin,” he hisses. “I wasn’t about to take a beatdown for your stupidity.”
Andrew pours orange juice into a glass of my 100-year-old whiskey and stirs it with his fork. Blasphemy at its worst. “Well, at least the spotlight is off you. I think Yaya has found a new favorite person to fawn over.” He nods his chin to where my grandmother is showing Eliza the contents of the locket she wears around her neck.
My wife listens intently as my family matriarch spills all my embarrassing childhood stories, probably as some passive aggressive retaliation strategy against me. But I don’t mind because I just love the way Eliza’s face lights up when she laughs deep in her belly at Yaya’s stories.
The women are huddled over their plates, talking and bonding and it all seems so natural. Eliza just fits.
But when my mother asks my wife about her own upbringing, she’s evasive, expertly side-stepping all the questions like a verbal dodgeball master.
It worries me. More and more, I feel a sense of urgency to find out exactly what my blushing bride is so desperately trying to hide. I’ve tried to ignore it but I just can’t do that anymore.
The yellow flags from weeks back start to turn red in my mind. But nevertheless, an overwhelming need to protect Eliza hits me.
A few hours later, Dad shows up in his truck to pick everyone up. I’m proud to introduce him to my wife. My father warmly welcomes Eliza to our crazy clan and gives me a nod of approval.
As I’m escorting my overbearing uninvited guests out to the driveway, I dare to loop my arm through Yaya’s. “Hypothetically speaking, what are the chances of you spiking my apple pie with denture paste next time I show up for family dinner?”
She pats my arm. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Liam, the odds are not in your favor.”
I guffaw. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
As my mom and brothers say their goodbyes to Eliza, my grandmother and I pause, face to face, at the front passenger door. “All I ever wanted was for you to find happiness. Meaning and purpose outside of your work life.” The old lady cups my face in her cold, soft palm. “Do I like how you went about this? No. Would I have loved to plan you a big, grand wedding? Of course. But at the end of the day, a wedding is a celebration of love. So as long as the love is there, really, you’ve got the most important piece.”
A choking emotion surges in me so I bend down and gather her frail body into a consuming hug. “Thank you, Yaya. Hearing that means a lot to me.”
“Your Eliza is a good woman…” She whispers quietly so only the two of us can hear. “But sometimes, even good women have dark secrets.” The perceptive old woman pulls back and pats my cheek. “Be careful.”
When she turns toward the vehicle, I hold the door open for her. A heavy weight sits on my chest as I help her climb inside and I wave to my family as they drive off.
My wife comes and loops her arms around my waist, sighing contentedly against my chest. “You have such a cool family. You’re so lucky to have them.”
“Yeah. They’re pretty special.” I hug her back, kissing the top of her head, enjoying the feel of her body against mine, praying that whatever secret she’s hiding from me doesn’t tear us apart.
I’m tired of not knowing. I’ve tried to get the truth from her. I can see she’s been too afraid to cooperate. I hate that I’ll have to use alternative methods to uncover her secrets.
At this point, it’s urgent.