Clinking Glasses
by Erin Mincks
I closed my eyes. The sound of people clinking glasses was beautiful, almost like wind chimes. Why, then, did I feel so unbearably sad? When I opened my eyes and looked around the table, I saw looks of pity. Looks of embarrassment. Looks directed at me. It wasn’t until then that I realized that I had tears running down my cheeks. Hot tears stemming from a rising anger that would soon stifle and overtake the sadness. Not wanting to attract more, unwanted attention, I quietly downed the remaining champagne in my glass and excused myself from the table to get some fresh air. Nearly outside of the reception hall, almost to the temporary comfort of the patio, I found myself face to face with none other than Ana and Ella, my newly-acquired sisters, who were obviously treasuring this fine occasion. Not only was their mother the new wife of a wealthy and admired attorney, they remained oblivious to the fact that I was absolutely miserable and tortured by the entire thing. They were quickly making themselves at home with complete disregard for the fact that my mother’s poor body wasn’t even cold yet.
“Whatcha doin’?” they yelped in almost comical unison.
“Oh, you know. Same as you… celebrating the wonderful bond of marriage connecting our families following the untimely death of my mother, under suspicious circumstances, might I add, while trying to convince my loved ones that I am in fact mentally stable and handling everything with the grace and maturity one would expect from a single 31-year old woman with no dreams or aspirations other than the current unmistakable desire for whiskey and a cigar. Did I miss anything?”
They stood there with their vacant eyes and plastic smiles plastered across their faces for what seemed like forever, before Ella responded, “Are you going to try the cake? I made it myself!”
While I should have been taken aback by this unrelated and absent-minted question, I wasn’t. After muttering something about not being able to conceal that gluten-free bullshit under frosting, I brushed by them and headed to the bar, leaving them with their thoughts. Gus, a close friend and resident bartender for the evening, must have overheard the conversation, because he had a nice glass of Irish single malt waiting for me. Tossing myself onto the stool and releasing a momentary sigh of relief, I grabbed for the bowl of pretzels, hoping for a taste of anything that wasn’t gluten-, yeast-, or sulfite-free, but of course I found the pretzels to be just that and they immediately disintegrated into dust. Conceding to defeat, I settled in with my glass and surveyed the room.
“How you holding up, Cyn?” Gus questioned, with the same pity in his voice as in the others’ eyes. He had been there through everything and I was lucky to have him in my corner.
“Fine, I suppose, considering the circumstances. My dad has no idea that he just married a blonde, gold digging version of Lucifer who may or may not be a murderer. And on top of that, her spawn are the absolute worst. Harmless, but still. Did you know Ana is a Yankees fan? I mean you live in Dorchester, for God’s sake. Have some dignity! And Ella?! This bitch thinks that Snow White is a lipstick color and that Papa Roach is the spokesperson for Raid. I mean, come on.”
“I once asked her if she’d seen Scarface and she said no, but that she should watch more documentaries about burn victims.”
“She likes the Chainsmokers.”
He cringed. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. Can’t make this stuff up. Nothing I can do now. I tried, but now it’s too late.” I said with a grumble and sipped the last of the whiskey.
“MOM! Mom, what’s wrong!?” I glanced over to where the cake cutting situation was going down to see Ana on her knees beside her mother, who was turning a variety of shades of blue while pointing to her throat, a gesture straight from the Help Me, I’m Choking to Death Handbook. Having not read this particular literature, Ana blinked and looked around for assistance. Eventually, amongst the concerned gasps and bellows for someone to call 911, one of the guests caught on and came to her aid. Shortly after, the sound of Barry White and murmurs from the crowd were drowned out by the sirens.
I asked Gus for another drink, neat this time.
********
After the cops were done interviewing witnesses and the body was shipped off to the morgue, there was a mixed shroud of sadness and confusion enveloping the remaining folks. I wandered over to comfort my father, who sat on the dance floor, staring off in disbelief. One minute he’d been carefully stuffing cake into his new bride’s mouth, and the next he was watching the life slip away from her eyes. As much as I despised the woman, I felt bad for the man. Glancing around, I noticed Ella consoling a sobbing Ana. She was lovingly, and oh so tactfully, telling her that it wasn’t her fault that their mom had choked to death. Surprisingly, this seemed to make the poor girl feel better. As I shook my head, taking in everything that had occurred over the last hour, I noticed the paramedic making his way through the crowd over to us, presumably to inform my father that his wife had suffocated on their wedding cake in an unfortunate accident and that he was sorry for our loss. However, he stated that she had in fact died after going into anaphylactic shock, due to a food allergy, and that if she had ingested any nuts during the evening. My dad slowly shook his head and told the paramedic that his wife was very particular about what she ate and that nuts were one food she avoided, in case of allergy, since she wasn’t actually positive (apparently the gluten allergy took precedence here). The EMT shrugged and walked off.
After the hall was cleared out and cleaned up, and I was able to talk my father into getting some rest, I found Gus still in the bar, wiping down the counters and counting his tips.
“So,” I said, with lack of a better phrase for the occasion.
“Yeah. So. Everyone alright?”
“I guess so… Dad’s still in a little bit of shock. Not sure about Barbie and Skipper.”
“They actually stopped by not too long ago. They were trying to figure out what happened… getting input from the cooks and staff.”
“And?”
“And they weren’t making any progress… ‘No gluten, yeast, or sulfites’ in anything,” he replied, pointing to the little reminder card the staff were all required to carry around. “The cooks all claim that they followed the guidelines to a T… not a rogue grain anywhere. The only thing they weren’t positive about was the cake.”
“Oh, the light green, lop-sided mess Ella made?” I laughed.
“Yeah. I believe she referred to it as pistachio.”
I looked up, ”What?”
“The color of the cake. She said earlier that it was a white sponge cake with a pistachio cream cheese frosting. Said that shade of green was her mom’s favorite. Whatever. Sounds gross, if you ask me.”
I agreed and popped a cardboard pretzel into my mouth.
