The Grand Ballroom of the Edison Mansion is a study in gold: gold velvet curtains, gold pillars, gold candelabras from which amber-colored flames flicker and flare. Brandon Pendersen, my colleague and fellow Broadview Hospital lifer, fits right in with a gold satin tie that matches his new wife Leila’s golden beach waves. I still remember his first wedding, fifteen years ago, under a sagging drop ceiling in the basement of Chicago’s city hall — Brandon in an ill-fitting navy suit, Winona, his ex-wife and my best friend, in a vintage tea-length dress she’d thrifted from Goodwill two weeks earlier. They’d had nothing between them but five hundred thousand dollars in student loans, thirty cumulative hours of sleep that week, and a promise to love each other forevermore… which Brandon broke two years ago when he fell in lust-love with the twenty-something-year-old device rep with whom he is currently swaying to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”
Under the table, I text Winona.
Winny. You sure it’s okay for me to be here? It feels wrong.
Winny’s response is immediate.
Of course I’m sure. I asked you to go. And besides, Sophie needs an ally out there.
My eyes flicker to Sophie, Winny’s twelve-year-old daughter, who is sitting at the head table in a burgundy cap-sleeved dress and examining her black fingernails with the determination of a preteen who can be forced to sit still but not to put on a show.
Well, if it’s any comfort, Brandon’s hairline looks like someone drew it on with a marker.