Lucky Eleven
By Lisa Johnson
They said it was every woman's dream, a fairy tale wedding, planned to perfection. The most fortuitous day was chosen by her mother, 11/11/11. Sarah's mother would not trust a wedding planner, preferring to coordinate every aspect herself. She sent out 111 invitations, prompting guests to arrive ahead of the 11:11 a.m. punctual ceremony. For the most part Rachel was an easygoing mother, but when it came to the number eleven, she was seriously superstitious. Ever since she won a huge windfall playing craps, those charmed dice radiating the number eleven, it was like a talisman. In her mind it was no coincidence that Sarah's horoscope promised eleven to be propitious.
No expense would be spared: her daughter would have fine freshwater pearls dangling from her ears, no plastic imitation pearls like Rachel’s. Her daughter wouldn't have to wear the yellowish hand-me-down gown that both Rachel and her mother wore, that old rag that smelled of moth balls. Sarah's dress would be contemporary, one of a kind, with 111 beads hand embroidered into the highest quality silk. There would be no Kodak 3x5's in Sarah's album. The photographer would cost more than Rachel's entire wedding (which wasn't much), but that's what charge cards were for. Only the best for her one and only child. No common carnations, only the freshest of white roses, 111 to be exact.
Everything went as clockwork, as far as Sarah knew. The mouse in the kitchen incident would go to Rachel's grave with her, as would the mix up with the cake. Rachel shrieked when the bakery delivered another
party's cake, but fortunately the guests were duly impressed by its form and flavor. At the eleventh hour the musicians had called to cancel, but luckily Rachel found some stand-ins whose performance was first-rate.
Like her father, Sarah was pragmatic. She would have been satisfied with her mother's simple vintage dress in place of the extravagant gown that would sit in her closet and collect dust for years to come. But like her father, she stayed out of the planning, humoring her mother. She'd have spent the money for the wedding on a down payment for a condo; she would have thrown on a pair of jeans and paid $95 to the justice of peace. But her mother had sacrificed so much, never missing a swim meet, always patiently helping her with algebra, that rumble jumble of numbers that numbed Sarah's brain, not to mention Rachel’s ultimate sacrifice, gifting one of her kidneys when Sarahs' failed to function. To Sarah, what mattered most was that she would be spending her life with a man she loved as much as her father.
It was the perfect wedding, the wedding her mother had always dreamed of, and that made Sarah happy.
- - -
Bio: Lisa Johnson has recently published several articles in newspapers and magazines. She is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Adelphi University, a former Psychotherapist, and the winner of a full Iron man triathlon.
By Lisa Johnson
They said it was every woman's dream, a fairy tale wedding, planned to perfection. The most fortuitous day was chosen by her mother, 11/11/11. Sarah's mother would not trust a wedding planner, preferring to coordinate every aspect herself. She sent out 111 invitations, prompting guests to arrive ahead of the 11:11 a.m. punctual ceremony. For the most part Rachel was an easygoing mother, but when it came to the number eleven, she was seriously superstitious. Ever since she won a huge windfall playing craps, those charmed dice radiating the number eleven, it was like a talisman. In her mind it was no coincidence that Sarah's horoscope promised eleven to be propitious.
No expense would be spared: her daughter would have fine freshwater pearls dangling from her ears, no plastic imitation pearls like Rachel’s. Her daughter wouldn't have to wear the yellowish hand-me-down gown that both Rachel and her mother wore, that old rag that smelled of moth balls. Sarah's dress would be contemporary, one of a kind, with 111 beads hand embroidered into the highest quality silk. There would be no Kodak 3x5's in Sarah's album. The photographer would cost more than Rachel's entire wedding (which wasn't much), but that's what charge cards were for. Only the best for her one and only child. No common carnations, only the freshest of white roses, 111 to be exact.
Everything went as clockwork, as far as Sarah knew. The mouse in the kitchen incident would go to Rachel's grave with her, as would the mix up with the cake. Rachel shrieked when the bakery delivered another
party's cake, but fortunately the guests were duly impressed by its form and flavor. At the eleventh hour the musicians had called to cancel, but luckily Rachel found some stand-ins whose performance was first-rate.
Like her father, Sarah was pragmatic. She would have been satisfied with her mother's simple vintage dress in place of the extravagant gown that would sit in her closet and collect dust for years to come. But like her father, she stayed out of the planning, humoring her mother. She'd have spent the money for the wedding on a down payment for a condo; she would have thrown on a pair of jeans and paid $95 to the justice of peace. But her mother had sacrificed so much, never missing a swim meet, always patiently helping her with algebra, that rumble jumble of numbers that numbed Sarah's brain, not to mention Rachel’s ultimate sacrifice, gifting one of her kidneys when Sarahs' failed to function. To Sarah, what mattered most was that she would be spending her life with a man she loved as much as her father.
It was the perfect wedding, the wedding her mother had always dreamed of, and that made Sarah happy.
- - -
Bio: Lisa Johnson has recently published several articles in newspapers and magazines. She is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Adelphi University, a former Psychotherapist, and the winner of a full Iron man triathlon.
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