No Day Like Today Read online

  Before he had moved into this old person’s community, Marshall had plenty to keep him occupied and fill his days. Sometimes he would spend all morning in his garden, and then afternoon fixing a leaky faucet. He had even gotten pretty good using YouTube to learn how to do more advanced plumbing. But since his wife had died, and his kids gently prompted him to sell the house and move to this empty, colorless place where he had no yard and everything was done for him … he could not bring himself to be interested in anything.

  Each year is worse.

  “Good morning, Mr. Page!”

  Marshall slowly walks down the narrow cement walkway that runs the length of his building. Just ahead, one of the gardening crew waves hello with his green glove from where he is kneeling by the flower bed. Marshall recognizes him, though his face and dark hair are shaded by a wide straw hat.

  “Good morning, Edgar. Beautiful day for some weeding.”

  Edgar laughs. “No rest for the wicked, Señor Page.”

  “Can I help you at all? You know, there’s a trick to getting all the roots out when you pull them up. And I mean all the roots. My wife and I used to have quite the garden back when we had our house. I spent many Saturdays kneeling in the grass just like you’re doing now.”

  “Oh, no. Thank you, Señor. That’s what they hire me for. So you don’t have to kneel in the grass.”

  “I really don’t mind.” Marshall takes two steps off the path toward the work.

  “No, no.” Edgar waves him away. “I just have a little bit more to do. You enjoy your walk, Señor.”

  “Alright … Have a good day.”

  Marshall likes that he calls him Señor. The slip into Spanish feels more informal somehow, and less like Edgar is staff. When he first moved here, Marshall had been lonely, sure, but also a little excited about all the books and reading he could catch up on since there is no lawn for him to mow. He could finally relax. He had been looking forward to all the money he would save not having to fix his own appliances.

  Instead, he felt ‘caught up’ in only eight or nine months. Now he regularly finds himself bored out of his mind, even after so long being away from the home that he had lived forty-six years with Carol. He has had to get rid of more than half of his things, and the pieces that are left don’t fit right in the new space. Nothing feels like it belongs. For eleven years he has lived in an apartment that has felt temporary.

  Marshall’s wife Carol died twelve years earlier. Cancer. Of course. Seems like it’s always cancer. It’s taking all his friends. Since then he has kept on going only because he has to. For his kids. He loves his kids — two girls and two boys. They’re his whole life now. But Michael died a couple years ago, Susan got divorced and they all lost touch with her.

  Carol would have loved today, he thought. When each of their kids had gotten married — even the boys — she had thrown herself in whole-heartedly. When Susan got married, Carol spent the entire spring season leading up to the July wedding personally planting, growing, and caring for roughly fifteen dozen daisies for the reception’s centerpieces. Marshall had hinted that it would have been less expensive to buy them, but Carol wanted to be involved. It was her way of showing love. She met with caterers or put together centerpieces or even hemmed bridesmaid dresses. She had been an amazing mother and Marshall missed her more every day.

  He has made the full walk around the courtyard. There was just forty feet or so left to his building’s door.

  The whole family structure had fallen apart without Carol. Marshall can not remember why he keeps making an effort day after day. Books are nothing compared to conversation. A walk around the apartment complex is nothing compared to traveling with her. All the vibrancy had gone out of his life when she died.

  Today is different. Ryan is getting married. But tomorrow will be a return of the same.

  11:42am Leah

  Leah stands in the shade, checking her phone surreptitiously. 11:42am. Right on schedule.

  She shades her eyes against the sunlight. The backyard is bright this early in the day, but beautiful. Once the sun is a little lower, later in the afternoon, it will be breath-taking. Cypress trees line the back wall, a row of sentries protecting guests from the sun and curious neighbors. In a few hours, the sun will move to the far side and cast shade over the partygoers. The whole space is green and lush this time of year. A little hot, maybe, but by the time guests arrive the evening will have cooled pleasantly. June in Los Angeles? Incomparable Southern California? Ryan and Lindsay chose the perfect day for a wedding.

  The table and chair delivery is almost all unloaded. Fourteen large round tables have been placed throughout the backyard, strategically allowing both a clear path to the dance floor and a clear line of sight to the head table. Chairs are just beginning to be set up, eight spaced equally around each table. Other members of her day-of team are at work laying out the tablecloths and a third group following shortly behind with the centerpieces. Team work.

  Leah glances at her checklist, even though she has already memorized it. Basic set-up by noon. Let them all have a break for lunch, and then make-up artist, photographer, florist and cake will all be arriving within a short time frame. She’s ready. Her weddings never veer from the timeline until someone else gets involved. Never.

  She stands in the middle of the patio, holding her clipboard and admiring what her team has accomplished. She is confident they can have everything set up by noon as originally planned. She sighs with satisfaction. The wedding will be beautiful. Perfect. Exactly what Lindsay and Ryan have asked for. There is nothing she loves more than seeing the most intricate, layered plans through to fruition. This will be a good day, she’ll have two more happy clients, and then she’ll go home and crawl into bed —

  — And Joe would not be there. Leah stops short. Someone had been walking directly behind her and jostles her as he tries to pass.

  She had let herself forget for a few minutes. How could she have forgotten? It all comes back in a flash. Her husband is moving out of the home they share while she is here working. He could be loading his car at that very moment. He isn’t interested in talking about it and she has no recourse. She has to remind herself of these things since they had completely left her brain. Has he talked to Dylan? Will she have to explain it to him when she sees him?

  How can she go to bed alone tonight? She hasn’t been alone in eighteen years.

  Leah looks at her phone again. No texts from Joe. Well, she thinks. I suppose it is still early in the day. He probably needs more time to think about what a crazy idea this is. I’ll just put it out of my mind and worry about when I get home.

  Where had they gone wrong, she wonders as she meticulously spaces the chairs around the tables that had already been set up. They have been together for so long — why does he have a problem now? Has he really changed that much?

  Or has she?

  “Leah?” One of her team, Sean, calls from the driveway. “How many extra chairs did you want?”

  Chairs? What chairs?

  Leah looks around. Oh! Extra chairs for the guests. She does a quick count of tables, a little math and calls back, “A dozen should be plenty.”

  She must focus. She is grateful Sean is at a distance and has not seen her momentary confusion. She should have had that answer ready. She should have been the one to tell Sean to get chairs before even being asked. This issue with Joe has thrown her completely off.

  Darn him, she thinks. Of all the days to drop this on her. He couldn’t have brought this up yesterday, when she had been home all day working? Or tomorrow, when she plans to take off work? No, he had to do it today, when she’s out of the house all day, busy and almost completely unreachable.

  Leah walks the perimeter of the yard. Her eyes are watching her team work but her mind is at home. Where would Joe find the boxes? How much can he pack today? It won’t all fit at his sister’s. Is he getting a storage unit? Does he plan to take any of the furniture? Has he even thought that far? W
hy hasn’t she thought to ask him that? Maybe she should text him — there are some empty boxes in the garage.

  No. Stop it. Leah shakes her head. Stop trying to fix everything.

  She glances one last time at her phone. No texts. She walks back to the table closest to the house where she has left her tote bag full of emergency things. The phone fits perfectly in an inner pocket, where she can not reach it easily, so she cannot obsess over the lack of communication. She tucks it away, out of sight, out of mind.

  Focus is what is needed now.

  She can think about all of this later.

  11:52am Ian

  Ian wanders up one of the aisles of Party City. What is it he’s supposed to get? Fuck.

  How the hell Ian got suckered into running this errand he will never know. Somehow in between his shower and checking out of the hotel, it had been impressed upon him the need for someone to go to Party City and the reality that all the other groomsmen had their own responsibilities. Stu had pulled him aside, handed him a fistful of cash and told him four or five things they need to decorate Ryan and Lindsay’s going-away vehicle. The other guys all have families to get ready, and Ricky had to go get the table for lunch. There was no one else to do this all-important task.

  So now Ian is wandering up yet another aisle, absently looking at the rainbow of paper plates, napkins, cups, plastic silverware, matching tablecloths, streamers and literally more party supplies than would ever have occurred to him to exist. Racking his brain to try to remember what it is he is supposed to buy.

  Something to decorate Ryan’s car for when they leave the wedding tonight. Ian knows that much.

  But that could be anything. … Probably not these weird lime green plastic butter knives. But this store was crazy. Who could possibly want all this stuff?

  “Fuck,” Ian says out loud. The middle-aged woman in mom-jeans browsing next to him glares.

  The store is enormous and evidently most of the parties in the surrounding area are short plates, or balloons or something else. Saturday late-morning is probably the worst time for Ian to be here. Ricky probably fucking knew that when he made Ian come.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  Rescue in the form of a teenaged redheaded girl appears next to Ian. The black shirt and shapeless khakis are doing nothing for her figure, but Ian can imagine.

  “Hey, thanks … Felicia,” he reads off her name tag. “I don’t really know what I’m looking for. What do you recommend?”

  She giggles. “For what? I mean, what kind of party are you having?”

  “Oh, you know. Just a party. My name is Ian, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ian.”

  Ian flashes his most charming smile at her and forgets why he is there.

  12:00pm Amber

  Amber sits in the next chair over from the bride, her left hand being lotioned and massaged. She watches while the nail technicians fawn over Lindsay. One on each hand, one bringing her a mimosa, one sitting nearby just to talk to her from what Amber can tell. She can’t really blame them. Lindsay is petite and pretty and bubbly and blonde and she is wearing one of those cheap white and sequined sashes that says ‘Bride,’ for goodness sake.

  And, of course, this is Lindsay’s day. Of all the days, today Amber can not begrudge her the attention. How many other times in my life have I just watched while people fawned over Lindsay, she thinks. I’m used to it. And she deserves it today.

  When they had walked in to Sunshine Nail & Spa — just the two of them, a special little best friends ritual before the wedding — it had taken a full five minutes for someone to notice Amber was standing there and get started with her own manicure after Lindsay had been coddled to. And that only after Lindsay said something to her from the chair.

  But even before today, Amber is used to this. It is one of the side effects of being Lindsay’s best friend. Worth it, of course. Lindsay is amazing. Of course. But Amber has had about ten years of living in her shadow. Amber is dark to Lindsay’s blonde; she is tall and athletic to Lindsay’s delicate petiteness. She is Rizzo to Lindsay’s Sandy. Elphaba to her Glinda. Amber’s best friend is pretty and popular and smart and always saying the right thing. She even looks a little bit like Kristin Chenoweth, which really isn’t fair at all.

  Lindsay tells the women surrounding her about the wedding details and her new husband.

  “His name is Ryan. He’s a lawyer. We’ve been together two years.”

  Noisy exclamations echo through the room. Amber has seen this many times before. Women whose husbands are construction workers, retail managers and underpaid teachers are always excited about the prospect of anyone marrying a lawyer and all the opulent fantasies that inspires.

  “I’m just not sure about changing my name.”

  Amber swoops in to do her maid-of-honor duty: shoring up confidence. “Really? I thought you had already decided. Lindsay Rowe is a great name! Mister and Missus Rowe? Ryan and Lindsay Rowe?"

  “Really? Better than Lindsay McKay?”

  “Not better. Just different. Rowe seems more … professional somehow.”

  Lindsay looks thoughtful. “You’re probably right. Besides, my brothers will both carry on the McKay family name. Well, Blake will at least. I can’t imagine Ian ever settling down. Can you?” She laughs, expecting Amber to share the joke.

  I should have made out with Blake instead, Amber thinks. Too bad he has a girlfriend.

  “What happened to you last night? You left dinner kind of early, didn’t you?” Lindsay asks.

  Amber flushes and bends her head down to look more closely at her nails. “No. No, I don’t think so. Most everyone was getting ready to leave when I left.”

  “Didn’t you come in after me?”

  “Yeah. I … I went back to the hotel and took a walk.”

  “In your heels? After margaritas?” Lindsay laughs. Amber flushes again.

  “Yes, I, uh … I mostly just walked to the pool, I guess. Stuck my feet in?”

  “Huh. Weird I didn’t see you since our window overlooks the pool.”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “Weird.”

  Amber closes her eyes, leaning her head back and willing the whole day to be over. She almost pulls her hand away from the manicurist to chew on her cuticle but stops herself just in time.

  The bell over the door tinkles and three girls walk in.

  “Stacy! What are you girls doing here?”

  Stacy, Gabriela and Brooke, three of Lindsay’s bridesmaids, greet the girls with hugs and exclamations. Brooke hands Amber a to-go coffee cup, with a smile.

  “Well, we were just next door getting coffee on our way to the hotel.” Stacy hands Lindsay a coffee as well. “We recognized your car and thought we would say hi.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming here,” Gabriela says. “I just adore this place.”

  The nail technicians on either side of Lindsay look pleased. “You girls want something done?” asks one of the women. “Wedding party discount?”

  “No, no, thank you. We have a couple other wedding errands to run,” Gabriela says. Stacy looks meaningfully at Amber behind Gabriela’s back, blocked from Lindsay’s view.

  Amber has no idea what those errands could be. She racks her brain, trying to remember some moment in the last week that anything had been mentioned.

  Shit, thinks Amber. I am a terrible maid of honor.

  12:22pm Sophie

  Sophie lies sprawled on the couch, one arm hanging off the side. She finished breakfast long ago and has watched all of Home Alone 2 and a whole bunch of My Little Pony. Too much maybe. Her eyes hurt. Sophie turns off the television and turns to check the clock on the microwave: 12:22. Probably she should start getting ready soon? Her mom always says it took twenty minutes to get anywhere, but Sophie doesn’t know if that means twenty minutes to great-grandpa Marshall’s and then another twenty minutes to the wedding, or if it means twenty minutes total.

  It doesn’t matter anyway, because she d
oesn’t know what time they are supposed to be there.

  Sophie thinks she might check on her mom, and then she’ll get dressed and ready to leave. She doesn’t want there to be any delay at all in leaving.

  It is supposed to be her weekend with her dad, but because Mom’s cousin is getting married and Sophie is in the wedding, they switched. Dad has promised to make it up to her though. Next week she gets to choose between the beach and the zoo. She loves both, and will spend all of the next seven days trying to decide which one will be better.

  This is her first time being a flower girl. The rehearsal last night had been so fun. Mom had been working, so Uncle Tory and Aunt Callie had picked her up after school. They took her to the park, and for a snack (“Don’t tell your mom! Ice cream before dinner!”) and then they had all gone to the big pretty white house to practice for the wedding.

  Sophie is so excited! She is going to be a good flower girl. Aunt Callie has told her all about it. She got to meet her new cousin Lindsay and see her grandparents and carry a silly pretend bouquet made of ribbon. She even got to be the only kid eating with all those grown-ups. There’s no ‘kids table’ when you’re the only one.

  That’s what I’ll do, thinks Sophie. First make sure mom’s not awake, just in case. Then get ready. Mom can just zip up my dress right before we leave, but I think I can do everything else.

  Sophie tiptoes down the hall to her mom’s room. Very, very slowly she turns the knob so the click of the handle won’t be too jarring. It takes forever, but this is the best way. Once she’s in, the room itself is brighter than she expected — her mom had left the light in the bathroom on. Mom is turned away from the door, but Sophie knows she is asleep. She is still snoring softly. Sophie steps carefully over some dirty clothes on the floor by the bed, edging her way delicately through the room. There is a yucky sour smell coming from the bathroom, so Sophie doesn’t look. She just reaches in a hand and fumbles at turning off the light. Four empty brown bottles on the nightstand. Mom had collapsed on the bed without even changing her clothes.