The Mafia King's Bride

2 | Always

Eloise

The second-last thing I remember is the vehicle ambling along the quiet streets. Dominic and I do not speak, the radio plays no music, and no pedestrians take the chance of a midnight stroll. This isn't the type of city for night walks. When I was a child it was not uncommon for people to be jogging all hours of the night, with or without a dog, but by the time I was a teenager that era had come to an end. The city is dangerous everywhere now.

I wake up in a foreign room in a foreign house. The ceiling is popcorned, the walls are pastel green, and the bedding is gray. A large framed monochrome landscape is centered above the headboard, and at the front of the room is a walnut-stained dresser with a large clover-shaped mirror that almost extends up to the ceiling. The dresser matches the stained doors of the adjacent built-in closet. It has the potential to be such a beautiful room if not for the impersonal feel of it. Instead it feels eerie and somewhat unwelcoming.

It occurs to me rather suddenly that this is not Dominic's room but the spare room. The room smells stale, unused, unoccupied. I feel like an intruder who has fallen asleep during the robbery. Slowly, nervously, I pull myself into a sitting position, just now remembering that I am still in my wedding apparel. Something digs into my butt and when I pull it out I discover it's my veil. Jokingly I put it on, pantomiming a robotic dance, and blush as I rest the veil back on the bed.

How did I get here?

The last-last thing I remember is pulling into the driveway and being blinded by the motion-sensor lights. I certainly did not get myself into this room. Dominic must have carried me here himself. The thought makes me blush and cringe at the same time, burying my face in my hands, groaning under my breath. I have an abundance of energy in the morning and throughout the day, but when I take my antidepressants at night I crash and I crash hard. After a few weeks it will be better.

Collecting myself, I decide I cannot stay in my wedding dress forever—I cannot pretend to be my mom forever. Grief comes out often in strange ways. To have dressed like my mom, and to have vaguely resembled her for an evening, was grounding. Now it is time to allow my head to drift up into the clouds again, to escape, to engage in an alternate reality only I am allowed to visit.

My nonidentical suitcases have been laid on their backs in front of the bed. Although I have packed them I cannot remember which suitcase holds which genre of items. I bust into all of them, finding what I need between each of the three suitcases, and scold myself for not packing more efficiently. Regardless, I scavenge all that I can into my arms and head to the door. It occurs to me that I don't know where the bathroom is and I do not wish to have being nosy as a first impression in his home. Backtracking, I decide to change into a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

I step outside the room emptyhanded and am hit with the smell of breakfast: bacon, French toast, eggs, hashbrowns. Walking into the kitchen, there is a large bowl of fruit salad in the middle of the table: strawberries, honeydew, cantaloupe, pineapple, blueberries, green grapes. Is this our variant of a honeymoon? I'm not much in the mood for celebration. Even breakfast feels too much of a celebration too soon.

"Good morning, Eloise," Dominic greets, glancing at me as he flips the bacon and stirs the hashbrowns. Cubed. My favorite. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did," I nod. It is true. "Did you?"

"Yes. Believe it or not, I am already dreaming about you."

I raise an eyebrow. Dominic tells me to make myself at home, help myself to some fruit, and that breakfast is almost done and then I can serve myself buffet style. It feels like he is embodying my role: the homemaker, the cook, the nurturer. He doesn't seem to mind. I am all the more relieved. Eventually I will have to give him some potentially inflammatory news. I will tell you this much, dear reader: I didn't go to school just for education. I went there, as well, to help build a career for myself. I get a flood of anxiety as I sit at the table, scooping a helping of fruit onto my plate.

"What did you dream about?" I ask shyly, popping a pineapple into my mouth.

"I had a dream that we were honeymooning somewhere mountainous, and that we were on a boat all by ourselves just off the beach. You could hear the waves lapping against the hull. The sunset was like a distant conflagration. Your arms were around me, and you asked permission to kiss me."

"Did you grant me permission?"

"I'm not a stupid man, Eloise," I glance up at him, worried I have offended him, but see instead that he is smiling to himself. "Of course I did. I always will."

I pick up another piece of pineapple and pop it into my mouth. It occurs to me that I haven't thought to closely inspect my reflection in a mirror since I have woken up...maybe it's for the better that I didn't because I think I'd have been reluctant to show my face given that Dominic is already showered and dressed not fancily, but decently, in a pair of dark jeans and a black shirt rolled up to his elbows. I look like a vagrant who has wandered in. I feel like one, too. What a place to wander into, however...

"Breakfast is ready, Eloise. Come dish out. Ladies first, chef eats last, whatever convinces you that I am a gentleman."

Cheeky, maybe even a little cynical. Cautiously I stand, taking my plate with the half-eaten pile of fruit on it, and try to ignore the way Dominic hovers behind me as I serve myself. My cheeks still burn, creeping into my ears and then into my hairline. By the time I have served out as much as I feel comfortable eating my whole body feels red. My hands shake as I set down my plate. In this moment I can't tell the difference between scrutiny and judgement.

Dominic joins me, makes fun of my small portion, but otherwise begins small-talk. He asks me innocuous questions about myself as if trying to make sure that he is not trying to frighten or overwhelm me. He asks me what my favorite color is, what classes I took in university, what I enjoy doing with my friends, what my favorite movie and book is. Of course, I reciprocate the questions, making sure he recognizes my own curiosity, but realize that we have nothing in common. We have none of the same loves, passions, hobbies, or interests. A wave of sadness washes over me. What a humdrum life we have signed up for, it seems. I fear we will grow bored of each other before we are able to find points of interest.

We finish eating. Dominic offers me more fruit and I am too nervous to tell him that I am full to the brim. He scoops a helping onto my plate then gets up and starts tidying. My eyebrows must fly into my hairline. I shovel the rest of the fruit on my plate into my mouth without so much as chewing it, preparing to take over the dishes. Sexism aside, I was told it's polite to clean if the other person cooks and that if one cooks the other person is obligated to clean. I have no idea what Dominic expects from me, however, as a wife.

I put my plate on the counter, standing next to Dominic, sizing him up. Such a strong and tall man. He could crush me with his thumb alone. I make a promise to myself that I will do my best to never upset him...something that seems like an impossible challenge. I am not willing to give up everything, after all.

"Eloise, I can handle this. Go have a shower. Your clutch is by the front door by the way," stunned, I stare up at him, a dishrag in my hand which he takes back from me. "I'm serious. This isn't a trap, Eloise. Go shower and when you're done getting ready I will do my best to help you feel like you are home."

I am still stunned. Dominic does the only logical thing he can think of to snap me back into action: he kisses me gently. Just a peck. Perfunctory, almost, if not for the way he looks me up and down after then turns away to resume the dishes. Foggy, in a dreamlike state, I tap my index finger to my lip, track down my clutch, exchange it for my clothes and toiletries on the bed, and sneak into the bathroom.

Regarding myself in the mirror, it is no wonder Dominic sent me to the shower. I look like a clown with my makeup smeared all over my face. There is nothing beautiful, charming, or presentable about the way I look.

Dominic wants me to resemble a wife before I settle in as one.