Five Minutes Before My Wedding, My Father Chose My Sister

My phone started vibrating beside my bouquet, and Rebecca whispered, "Don't wait for Dad."

Ethan stepped into the hallway moments later and found the vintage-car key box sitting open on a side table.

Inside the velvet lining was a fresh indentation where the key should have been.

My father was gone.

And Rebecca was laughing.

Five minutes.

That was how long remained before the music would begin.

Five minutes before the double doors downstairs opened.

Five minutes before I was supposed to place my hand through my father's arm and let him escort me toward the man who had taught me something my own family never had:

Love did not have to hurt before you were allowed to trust it.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

For one ridiculous second, I thought the woman staring back at me belonged to somebody else.

Her blonde hair had been pinned into a loose bridal updo. A delicate tiara rested beneath her veil. The lace of her gown caught the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows of the Whitmore Public Library.

She looked ready.

I didn't feel ready anymore.

"Rebecca?" I said.

My sister gave a little sigh.

Not a frightened sigh.

Not the shaky breath of someone sitting in an emergency room after a terrifying accident.

It sounded almost impatient.

"Don't hold your breath waiting for Dad."

I tightened my fingers around the phone.

"What?"

"He made the choice to stand with me."

My mother, Linda, was behind me.

Her hands had been adjusting the edge of my veil when she froze.

I looked at her through the mirror.

"Where's Dad?"

Mom's eyes dropped.

That was my answer before Rebecca even spoke again.

"You really should have known your place, Natalie."

Then came the sound that broke something inside me.

A laugh.

Small.

Satisfied.

I had heard that laugh my entire life.

When Rebecca got the larger bedroom.

When Rebecca got the new car.

When Rebecca somehow ended up wearing the necklace Grandma had promised me.

When Rebecca destroyed my prom dress and somehow I became the one who had "provoked" her.

The laugh always meant the same thing.

She had won.

Again.

"Rebecca," I said quietly, "you said you were in an accident."

"I was."

"Are you hurt?"

A pause.

"I'm in the ER."

"What hospital?"

Another pause.

This one was shorter.

"St. Catherine's."

Something moved across Mom's expression.

I noticed it.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"I needed Dad."

My stomach twisted.

"You're telling me you called him five minutes before my wedding because you're in an emergency room?"

"I didn't make him leave, Natalie."

There was that sweetness in her voice now.

Rebecca's favorite weapon.

"I simply told him what happened. Dad made his own decision."

I closed my eyes.

Twenty-eight years collapsed into five seconds.

At twelve, I had fallen from a bike and broken my arm.

Dad had looked at his watch and told me the clinic was only twelve blocks away.

Rebecca had an audition.

They couldn't be late.

At seventeen, Rebecca poured red nail polish over my prom dress because the boy she liked had asked me to dance at a school event.

Mom slapped me when I yelled at her.

"Look what you've done," she had said.

Not to Rebecca.

To me.

Three nights ago, at our rehearsal dinner, Dad had stood to make a toast.

For ten minutes he talked about Rebecca.

Her courage.

Her beauty.

Her difficult year.

Her resilience.

Ethan had reached under the table and squeezed my hand.

I had smiled because I was trained to smile.

The reasonable daughter.

The easy daughter.

The daughter who understood.

"Natalie?"

Mom's voice brought me back.

Rebecca was still on the line.

"You should probably get going," she said. "Wouldn't want to keep everyone waiting."

I looked at myself again.

Then I did something Rebecca wasn't expecting.

I didn't beg.

I didn't scream.

I didn't ask her to put Dad on the phone.

"Okay," I said.

Silence.

"What?"

"I said okay."

"Natalie—"

"I hope you're all right."

I ended the call.

My hand was trembling so badly I nearly dropped the phone.

Mom moved closer.

"Oh, sweetheart."

"Did you know?"

Her face changed.

"Natalie—"

"Did you know Dad left?"

"He got a call. Rebecca was crying. She said she'd been in an accident."

"And he left?"

"He panicked."

"Five minutes before he was supposed to walk me down the aisle?"

Mom reached for me.

I stepped away.

"Natalie, your sister said she was alone."

"So was I."

The words landed between us.

Mom looked as if I had struck her.

A knock came at the door.

"Two minutes!" the wedding coordinator called.

My chest tightened.

Two minutes.

My father wasn't coming back.

I thought I might collapse.

Then someone appeared behind the coordinator.

Mr. Howard.

My elementary school principal.

He was seventy-two now, retired, and had driven four hours to attend my wedding.

He had been the adult who stayed with me after school when my parents forgot to pick me up.

Twice.

He had written my college recommendation.

He had mailed me a twenty-dollar bill every birthday until I graduated.

He looked from Mom to me.

Then he seemed to understand.

"Where's your father?"

I swallowed.

"Gone."

Mr. Howard didn't ask for details.

He simply offered his arm.

"Would you like some company?"

That nearly broke me.

I pressed my lips together.

Then I nodded.

"Yes."

Mom whispered, "Natalie..."

I looked at her.

"I'm getting married."

I wiped beneath my eyes.

I picked up my bouquet.

And I walked out.

The music began.

Every face turned toward me when the doors opened.

There was a tiny ripple through the guests when they realized the gray-haired man beside me wasn't my father.

I didn't look for Dad.

I looked at Ethan.

He was standing at the end of the aisle.

And the moment he saw me, his expression changed.

He knew.

I don't know how.

Maybe love teaches you to recognize the exact shape of another person's pain.

His eyes filled.

Not with pity.

With fury on my behalf.

But he smiled.

And I walked toward him.

Mr. Howard placed my hand into Ethan's.

"Take care of each other," he said.

Ethan squeezed my fingers.

"Always."

We said our vows.

My voice cracked only once.

When the officiant pronounced us husband and wife, everyone applauded.

For the first time that day, I breathed.

I had done it.

My father had abandoned me.

Rebecca had tried to remind me of my place.

And I had still walked down that aisle.

Outside the ceremony room, Ethan pulled me close.

"What happened?"

I told him.

His jaw tightened.

"She said St. Catherine's?"

"Yes."

"And your dad went there?"

"Apparently."

"Why didn't he tell you himself?"

I laughed bitterly.

"Because that would require him to explain."

Ethan kissed my forehead.

"We'll deal with it later."

"I don't want this ruining today."

"It won't."

The photographer approached.

"We're ready for the getaway-car photos."

For the first time in twenty minutes, I smiled.

The car had belonged to Ethan's grandfather.

A restored 1967 convertible.

Cream body.

Red leather interior.

Ethan had spent two years rebuilding it with his grandfather before the older man died.

We weren't actually leaving the reception in it until later, but the photographer wanted sunset photographs.

Ethan reached into his pocket.

Then stopped.

He checked the other pocket.

"What?"

"The key."

"You gave it to my dad."

His expression hardened.

I'd forgotten.

Dad had volunteered to move the car after the ceremony.

"I'll get the spare."

The spare wasn't there.

The little presentation box in the bridal suite was open.

Empty.

Mom followed us inside.

"Linda," Ethan said, "did Richard take the car?"

Mom stared at the box.

"I... don't know."

My phone buzzed.

A message from Dad.

Sorry. Emergency. Rebecca needed me. We'll talk tomorrow.

Ethan read it over my shoulder.

Then he looked through the window toward the reserved parking area.

The space was empty.

Our car was gone.

Dad hadn't simply left my wedding.

He had taken Ethan's grandfather's car.

Without permission.

To rush to Rebecca.

Something in Ethan's face became very still.

"What exactly did Rebecca tell you?"

"That she had a car accident and was in St. Catherine's ER."

"What kind of accident?"

"She didn't say."

"Ambulance?"

"I don't know."

He glanced at the clock.

"What time did she call you?"

"Ten twelve."

He nodded slowly.

"Show me."

I opened the call log.

10:12 a.m.

Ethan stared at it.

Then he asked a strange question.

"Did she call Dad before she called you?"

"I assume so."

"How long before?"

"I don't know."

He was thinking now.

Not as my husband.

As a paramedic.

"Ethan?"

"Something's wrong."

"Besides everything?"

He didn't smile.

"St. Catherine's emergency department has a specific intake process. If she arrived after a significant crash, there are details she'd probably know immediately. And if she was stable enough to call your father and you, why couldn't she answer one basic question about what happened?"

"Maybe she was shaken."

"Maybe."

But his voice said he didn't believe it.

He took out his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking something I can check without asking for anyone's private medical information."

He walked toward the hallway.

I grabbed his arm.

"Don't ruin our wedding chasing Rebecca."

He looked at me.

"I'm not chasing Rebecca."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm making sure your father didn't just drive away in a valuable vintage car because somebody lied to him."

He kissed my forehead.

"I'll be back."

The reception started without him.

Guests laughed.

Glasses clinked.

Music played.

I stood beneath strings of warm lights while people congratulated me.

Nobody knew that my stomach was turning.

Ten minutes later, Ethan came back.

He wasn't angry anymore.

That scared me more.

He looked pale.

I crossed the room.

"What did you find?"

He guided me away from the guests.

"Rebecca isn't where she told you she was."

"What?"

"I can't access patient information, and I didn't try. But I verified enough about the circumstances she described to know her story doesn't line up."

I stared at him.

"Then where is she?"

His phone vibrated.

He looked down.

A message had arrived from my father.

There was a photograph attached.

Ethan opened it.

Then his face went completely still.

"What?" I whispered.

He turned the screen toward me.

The photograph showed our vintage car parked somewhere I didn't recognize.

And standing beside it was Rebecca.