Just Cause

"If anyone can show just cause why this man and woman may not be lawfully joined together, let him speak now or forever hold his peace."
 
Rev. Laird looks up expectantly. Last night, at the rehearsal, he called this the longest moment in the service, but it's something I am required to do.  He said he would silently count to twenty before continuing. I asked if anyone ever actually objected, and he said not in his twenty-seven years of experience. He added, with a reassuring smile, that if someone just wanted to make trouble, they would be asked to leave immediately, and the service would continue. A valid objection had to be something legal, like bigamy or consanguinity, which is a fancy name for being close blood relatives. Just a formality. Nothing to worry about, unless you lied when you were getting your wedding license.
 
So I'm standing there in my grandmother's wedding gown, renovated and restored and refitted for my less than hourglassy figure, trying not to twitch, praying that my sweat isn't melting my three hundred dollar make-up job. I'm counting mentally, hoping to match Rev. Laird's pace.  8...9...10...11...12... I think I hear a cell phone jingling somewhere in the congregation. Is this whole thing just a big mistake? 13...14....15...16... Someone is coughing. Single life has treated me well. Clark probably has flaws that I know nothing about.  It’s not too late to trade my spiked wedding heels for running shoes.
 
17...18...19 Relax. It's almost over. We will live happily ever after, just like we planned. We're perfect for each other. We used a premium hi-tech dating site whose algorithms are infallible.
 
"I OBJECT!"  
 
A deep male voice booms out, filling the whole church. Shocked silence, followed by whispers, murmurings, and nervous giggles.. Rev. Laird carefully sets his book down on the lectern, face down, so it will stay open at the correct page. Consternation is pasted on his face.  
 
I want to turn around and see who the troublemaker is, but I'm afraid to move.  
 
Clark takes my hand and looks into my eyes. "Are you adopted, by any chance?"
 
"No. Are you?"
 
"No." He squirms with embarrassment. "Is there something I should know about a ... previous relationship?'
 
I want to slap him. I though he knew me better than that.  
 
A tall, nicely constructed thirty-something fellow decked out in a navy three-piece suit brushes past me and confronts Rev. Laird, waving a piece of paper. I have never seen him before in my life.
 
"Linda is my wife.”
 
Clark and Rev. Laird are both staring at me. I'm sprinting desperately down memory lane, wondering if I have gone insane. Even if it was just a one-night stand, surely I would remember the blond highlights in this man’s magnificent mane of curls spilling over his shoulders. I wish he would turn around so I could get a better look at him. Maybe I was drunk the night we got married, and didn’t have a clue what I was doing. That sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen, but it does, although it might be grounds for an annulment later.
 
“We were both very young,” my alleged husband explains, his voice deep and melodious, drenched in nostalgia. “We quickly realized that we weren’t ready for that kind of commitment. We went our separate ways, planning to get a divorce later, when we had the time and money, but…”
 
It's just nightmare, I tell myself.  Prenuptial jitters. Any minute now, my alarm will start chiming, and I'll wake up. My mother will bring me one of her organic smoothies, and we'll start going through the wedding check list together. She has sublime organisational skills. If there ever was a perfect wedding, this is going to be it.
 
I remember the workshop I attended on lucid dreaming. If I concentrate, I don’t have to be victimized by the antics of my subconscious. I can interact, take control, make it turn out to my liking. I’ve never tried doing that before, but I can’t think of a better time to start.
 
“May I see the document, please?” I interrupt.
 
The man turns around, waving the paper in front of my face. I try to take it from him, but he refuses to let go. I grab his wrist to steady it so I can read the ornate print.
 
It looks like a bona fide wedding certificate. Alistair Marquand allegedly married me, Linda McCutcheon, exactly eight years ago.
 
“That’s not my signature.” 
 
“You were a little shaky that day,” Alistair says gently. “We both were.”
 
I look past him, at Rev. Laird. “This is a forgery. Can we get on with the ceremony, please?”
 
Alistair stares at me with wounded puppy dog eyes. “You forgot? How could you forget? I wrote poetry for you, sang under your window, brought you wildflowers every day!”
 
“Nonsense,” I say firmly, dropping his wrist. “None of that happened. Please leave us alone.”
 
Alistair seems to shrink in size. He sighs and hands the paper to Rev. Laird. “I’ve done what I can. Everyone here is a witness.”
 
 He retreats, shoulders slumped. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. Obviously, he is some poor romantic soul suffering from a delusional disorder. Or a figment of my imagination. If this is a dream, what does it mean?
 
I turn my back, face front. “Can we get on with the ceremony?”
 
Rev. Laird looks pained. “I’m sorry. We have to check this out. Even if there is no record of this marriage, you will have to provide a certified affidavit. It will probably take a couple of weeks before we can get everything in order.”
 
“I want to get married now!” I shout. “NOW!” Surely my subconscious mind will take the hint!
 
Rev. Laird nods sympathetically. “I know, my dear, but that is impossible. I’d like to stay and help you work through it, but I have another ceremony booked in less than an hour.” He picks up his book and retreats to the vestibule.
 
My mother, ever unsinkable, stands up and faces the crowd. “The reception begins at 1PM at the Sunrise Event Centre.  Buffet lunch. Champagne and desserts. Live chamber quartet. Everything is paid for, so you might as well come and enjoy it. You’ll have the opportunity to reclaim your gifts if you like. When the real wedding happens, it will be immediate family only,”
 
People begin drifting out. A few come up to me to offer their condolences. My mother is at my side, doing her best to make everything seem normal. When everyone has moved on, I realize that Clark has disappeared.
 
“Poor dear,” my mother explains. “His face was positively green when he rushed off to the bathroom.”
 
She shepherds me to her house, settles me on the couch, makes me lavender tea, gives my feet a reflexology massage. Dad hovers helplessly, asking how he can help. He uses some strong language, but neither of us bother correcting him. Sometimes you just have to tell it like it is.
 
An hour later, there is still no sign of Clark. Both Mother and I have texted, phoned, messaged, all for nothing. I am slowly starting to realize that this is no dream, lucid or otherwise. This is my real-life nightmare, and I have to own it.
 
Mother asks if I feel well enough to go to the reception. Some stubborn bit of me answers damn straight. As of this moment, I am going off my diet. I am going to gorge on those exotic pastries until I can’t eat another bite. I strip off my wedding finery and put on my hot pink velour going-away outfit, which will accommodate overindulgence with ease.
 
I am still hoping that Clark will show up at the reception and provide some moral support. No such luck.
 
“What about the honeymoon?” I ask my mother.
 
“I have all the receipts and paperwork. Two weeks of heaven, with anyone you choose.”
 
“Will you come with me?”
 
She laughs. “I think you can do better than that.”
 
A few glasses of champagne and some hors d’oeuvres later, I’m starting to feel more philosophical. Everyone seems to be having a good time, groom or no groom. Maybe I can too.
 
Then, out of the blue, Alistair Marquand appears and sits down beside me.
 
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should never have gotten involved in this.”
 
“You are a sorry shitface,” I snarl. “You’ve derailed my life. What possessed you to say that we were married?”
 
“Clark asked me to.”
 
I stiffen. “Clark?”
 
“He got cold feet, and was looking for an easy way to let you down.”
 
It takes me a few minutes to absorb that.  Easy for Clark, maybe. If he had no regard for my feelings at all. Would someone who loved me even a little bit ever consider leaving me to deal with the horror of a solo wedding reception?   
 
I shake my head. “So the algorithm wasn’t infallible after all.”   
 
“People are people,” Alistair says. “Unpredictable. No algorithm will ever be able to predict all the variables  Actually, I think that’s a good thing, don’t you?”
 
I giggle. “Without your help, Clark and I would be married now.’ I burp and tears start to flow. “I was such an idiot, thinking a computer could optimize my love life.”
 
I put my head on Alistair’s chest and cry and cry. He pats my back gently.
  
When all my emotions are purged, Alistair’s beautiful suit is covered with make-up stains. He doesn’t seem to notice. 
 
I pull a towelette out of my purse and scrub my face.  Then I start working on his suit.
 
“That make-up was like a mask,” Alistair says while I’m scrubbing his chest. “I like you much better without it.”
 
My personal algorithm kicks in, and I decide that I like him. A lot.
 
“Would you like to go on my honeymoon with me?” I ask. “The Belmont tonight, then off to a dude ranch in the Rockies for a week, and another week in Parksville, by the ocean. Nothing too intense. We were going to save our big romantic cruise for our first wedding anniversary.”
 
Alistair raises his eyebrows, then breaks into a grin. “I’ll check my schedule.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ve got a couple of meetings, but nothing I can’t postpone. My team will grumble, but I know they will manage just fine. I might have to spend a couple of hours on Zoom.”
 
“Great. You can drive me home to pick up my suitcase, and then we can go to your place so you can pack. We already have a reservation for a late dinner at the Belmont.”
 
“Are you absolutely sure?” Alistair asks. “What if Clark turns up?”
 
I wrinkle my forehead, looking as pensive as I can, masking the giant smile that is building in my chest, filing my whole body with warm fuzzies. “Clark? Clark who?”