Chapter 7
Vanessa made her first repayment on the first of the month.
She sent a short message afterward.
I know money isn’t the whole apology. I’m keeping my promise.
I replied, I received it. Thank you.
We were speaking, though not every day. Ethan and Vanessa were seeing a counselor together. They had not chosen another wedding date.
I tried not to ask about it each time we met.
Then Ethan called to tell me they had booked a small ceremony for winter.
“We want you there,” he said. “Only if you want to come.”
“Where?”
“At the botanical garden. Twenty guests. Dinner afterward in the greenhouse.”
I smiled despite myself. Vanessa used to love the greenhouse when we were children. She said the warm air made every day feel like summer.
“Did she ask you to call?”
“She knows I’m calling. She wanted you to have room to answer me without watching her face.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Take all the time you need.”
A week later, Vanessa brought me a draft invitation. She had not printed it yet.
My name was not on the guest list; invitations did not list guests that way. But she had written a note for me, asking whether I would stand beside her during the ceremony.
I read it twice.
“I’m not asking you to do it because you rescued me,” she said. “I’m asking because you’re my sister.”
“I don’t know if I can stand next to you while everyone looks at us.”
“I understand.”
She did not rush to fill the silence.
“I also don’t know if I want to say no,” I admitted.
“Then wait until you do know.”
I put the draft on the table.
“Who is taking photographs?”
“The same photographer we booked before. I apologized to her for lying about what she said.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me the people in her pictures should decide how they want to be seen. She said she would speak with you directly if you came.”
Vanessa watched me carefully.
“She won’t edit your scars,” she added. “I won’t ask her to.”
I thought about the word edit. I had spent four years explaining to people that my face was healed skin, not a mistake in a picture.
“I’d like to meet her,” I said.
The photographer, Jo, came to my office the following week. We sat beside the front window while she showed me her work. Some portraits were posed. Others caught people mid-laugh, eyes closed or hair out of place.
“I won’t promise you won’t notice your scars in a photograph,” Jo said. “They’re part of you. I can promise you’ll see the rest of yourself too.”
I appreciated her honesty.
“Vanessa told you what happened?”
“She told me what she asked me to do and what she said I’d said. She apologized.”
“I’m still deciding whether to stand beside her.”
“That choice is yours. If you do, I can show you the photos before anything is shared publicly.”
“Would you do that?”
“Yes.”
I thanked her and went back to work.
When I met Vanessa again, I told her I would come to the wedding. I also said I wanted to stand beside her, provided she understood that I might need a moment alone during the day.
Her eyes filled.
“I’ll make sure you have one.”
“I don’t need you to manage everyone’s reactions. I need you to speak to me if something feels difficult.”
“I can do that.”
We practiced sooner than expected.
Mom called Vanessa two days later and said she wanted “one traditional photograph” with the bridal party arranged so my scarred side would face away from the camera.
Vanessa told me herself.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I told her Jo would take the pictures we chose, and you could stand however you liked.”
“Was she angry?”
“Yes. She said I was making the wedding about the fire again.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That she was the one who brought it up.”
I laughed, then felt tears rise.
“That must have been hard.”
“It was. I did it anyway.”
Mom called me that evening. She did not mention the photograph. Instead, she asked if I wanted her to sit with me during the ceremony.
“I’ll be standing with Vanessa,” I told her.
There was a pause.
“I’m glad,” she said.
“So am I.”
She began to say something about how beautiful the garden would be. I let her talk. We could discuss flowers without pretending everything else was settled.
A few days later, Renee and I went shopping for a dress. I chose a deep blue one with an open neckline. My scars would show.
Renee held it up beside the mirror.
“You’re smiling,” she said.
“I like the color.”
“Then get it.”
At home, I tried it on again. I looked at my face, my neck, the line of my shoulder. I could still remember the first year when seeing myself dressed for an occasion made me cry.
This time, I adjusted the sleeve and wondered what shoes to wear.
My phone buzzed.
Vanessa had sent a message.
I found Grandma’s photograph from her wedding. Would you want her bracelet back before ours?
May you like
I opened the drawer and looked at the silver box. I had never given it away.
I wrote back, I still have it. Maybe we can decide together what to do with it.
