Torn

by Angelica Williams

Whitney has just torn her veil into two separate parts. Her sterling silver tennis bracelet latched onto the dainty fabric and ripped it apart thread by thread. This is exactly what she figured would happen. “Fuck, mama. I just tore my veil. This is a sign. This has to be bad luck or something, right?” She questions as she stares at her mother, Shonda, through the full-length mirror.

“Awe, baby. It’s okay.” Shonda massages her daughter’s shoulders. “This is nothing that can’t be fixed.” Shonda is used to this, the dramatics. She watched her daughter grow up being emotionally susceptible to nearly everything. If she brushed Whitney’s hair too hard, she would whine. If there was a math problem too difficult for Whitney to solve, she would get frustrated and give up. If Shonda raised her voice even a little bit, Whitney, no matter the age, would fill those big brown eyes with tears.

It got exhausting at times, trying to keep her daughter afloat, but ever since the day she was born, and the day that Whitney’s father decided to stop being one, she promised to be her daughter’s anchor.

“No mama. This…this shit ain’t right. I can’t go down the aisle like this. How is he gonna flip it up when it’s torn in two? This just ain’t right.” Whitney can’t hold back what’s bound to happen next. Tears. Lines and lines of single tears will flow from her eyes her, run down her face, and ruin her makeup. A torn veil and smeared mascara. This is the sign that she prayed for this morning. She asked God to show her what to do, and if this morning has proven anything, it’s that she needs to run. She should run as far away as this white princess cut dress will allow her to.

“Now look here Whitney,” Shonda says sternly. “You better stop with all that cussin’ in the Lord’s house.” She reaches over and grabs Whitney by the shoulder, turning her so that their faces meet. There they are. Tears. Falling from underneath her closed eyelids. Wetness settling in between her curled lashes. Shonda believes she tried her best to raise her daughter to be stronger than she is. Not that she thinks Whitney isn’t strong at all, but that she feels her weaknesses often outweigh all else.

Fearful and emotional. Those are the two words that best describe Whitney. Shonda could never quite figure out where it all stemmed from. She was never this emotional growing up, and she’s the same way today.

Her mother never once told her that she loved her, but Shonda didn’t — doesn’t cry about it. Shonda also didn’t get upset when she found out that she was pregnant and that her husband wanted a divorce the same day. She just signed her signature along the dotted line and pushed her eight-pound baby out months later. Shonda didn’t have time to cry or sit around and sulk because sulking does not pay the bills. Tears can’t help you raise a child on your own.

“Look sweetie, I think I have a sewing kit in my car, okay?” She carefully dabs the tears from her daughters’ face with the pads of her fingertips. “I’m gonna go get it and Mama will patch this right on up, alright? I’ll be right back. Just try and relax. Everything will be fine. I promise.” Shonda plants a kiss on the lines of Whitney’s wrinkled forehead. Before stepping out of the room, she takes one last look at her daughter, sorrowfully beautiful and staring at herself in the mirror.

In a room at the very end of the hallway, Dontaé gets help from his older brother with tying his tie properly. He isn’t used to dressing up and having to wear anything but a work uniform; however, he’s more than willing to make an exception today. Today he is sure of everything. Dontaé is sure that his suit compliments Whitney’s dress perfectly despite having yet to see it. He is sure that his best man, Chris, has the rings safely secured in his coat pocket. He is sure that his soon to be wife will look breathtaking walking down the aisle. Dontaé is more than sure, in fact he is certain, that this will be one of the best days of his life.

Alexis is unsure of what to say to Whitney. Having been her best friend since college, she figured she’d have more encouraging words for her. Her eyes bounce back and forth from one end of the room to the next as she follows Whitney’s pacing.

“I just I — I don’t think I can do this. What if he decides he doesn’t love me anymore and just leaves? What if he gets me all barefoot and pregnant and abandons me and the baby? Huh? Then I’ll be out here raising him or her or them on my own because you know twins run in my family,” Whitney pauses to bite her nails. “Fuck man!”

This is just too much. An endless number of possibilities and “What If’s.”

Alexis realizes that Whitney is not so much talking to her as she is just vomiting at the mouth. This is what she does, and it’s often followed up by or begins with, tears. These kinds of outbursts are how she found out about Whitney’s relationship with her father.

One drunken night, in Alexis’s dorm room, Whitney went on and on about how much of a piece of shit her father is. She talked about how she had never even met him. Questions like Why didn’t he want me? and How could someone not love their own blood…. their own child? slurred from her lips. Whitney then grabbed a wallet sized picture of him she had been keeping up with all those years and stared at it for several minutes. Alexis couldn’t figure out why she still had it, but before she could even ask, Whitney’s fingers had fumbled with the photo, tearing it in half.

Alexis is snapped back to present day by Whitney’s sudden request for a bottle of water. She tells Alexis that it will help her to stop freaking out. At the idea of her best friend calming down for at least once this morning, Alexis gladly obliges.

With Alexis now behind the wooden door and click clacking her way down the hall, Whitney makes her move. She can finally escape out of the window like she had been fantasizing about since she walked in. Whitney gathers the fabric of her dress and sprints towards the door, twisting at the bronze knob and locking it. She turns back around and walks swiftly to the window. Whitney opens it and throws one leg across the window seal.

With one perfectly manicured foot dangling above the dewy grass and one planted on the carpeted floor, she prepares for the crossover. However, when she urges her muscles to move, they don’t. They don’t move an inch. Whitney is stuck there between two worlds. Two outcomes. Two what ifs.

There is a loud knock at the door.