Talk Vomit

By Hannah Engler

Everyone I went to high school with is named Erin, except Annemarie, whose wedding it was. Erin and I had been on the same flight from New York. Erin and Erin I hadn’t seen since Erin’s wedding three years ago. Erin was a bridesmaid; she stood a little ways away, sweating into her dress of mushroom-colored satin, and couldn’t join the conversation. 

“Is it supposed to thunderstorm?” asked Erin, peering out at the paper-white sky beyond the tent. “At least then it wouldn’t be so humid,” said Erin, whose hair had gone fuzzy at the edges. 

“Rain on your wedding day is good luck,” mused Erin. “But what’s a thunderstorm?” 

Annemarie was doing her sweep of the tent, damp-skinned and heavy-lashed. Everyone fell silent as she approached, nervous, for some reason. “Oh, girls, thanks for coming,” she said, and gave us all straight-armed hugs, sweeping her skirts out of the way. “Can you believe it?” 

“Everything is perfect,” said Erin. 

“What a fun town,” said Erin. 

“You look so beautiful,” said Erin. 

“Thank you,” said Annemarie. She lowered her voice, we leaned in, the old intimacy restored, sort of. “Though, of course it feels insane to have a wedding, with everything going on in the world.” 

“Of course,” we murmured, “Oh, well.” She beamed at us again, then drifted away to greet an older couple who had just caught her eye from the bar. 

“What the fuck is she talking about?” said Erin, when Annemarie was out of earshot. 

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To be with the Erins again was to be home and not home. Not home because we were not from here, and because my name was not Erin. Home because we had once been children together, or teenagers, which is the same thing. We had played field hockey together, sniggered together during weekday Mass. There had been the time that no one had read Don Quixote, and Mr. Lewis let us all sit in terrible silence instead of yelling. This was the rst time a man had ever frozen us: an experience that bonds. 

All the Erins looked the same as they had then, except Erin, who had had a little bit of work done. Nobody looked older. 

The speeches began. The best man told a story about catching Annemarie upstairs with her husband at the Sigma Chi house. A clap of thunder sounded; the Erins grinned nervously at each other, their teeth slick with spit and white in the lamplight. 

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The rain had not started, but the wind had picked up. As Annemarie raised the knife to her cake, a ash of lightning glanced o the blade. 

“I feel so bad for her,” said Erin. “Can you imagine spending all this money, and then it storms?” I knew how she felt. The tent we were in had a laminate dance floor, and chandeliers; subtle fans were placed in the corners, dispelling a cool silent breeze; there were citronella candles for the bugs and monogrammed flashlights for the walk back to our cars. Every element of nature had been considered, prepared for, protected against. They had done everything they could to keep us all in comfort, and they could do a lot. The idea that even this could be futile shouldn’t have been novel, but it was. Or we were just disturbed by the reminder. 

“There’s no fucking service out here,” said Erin, jabbing at her phone with a beige fingernail. “I’m trying to see the forecast.” 

“How about you use your eyes and ears to see the forecast?” Erin snapped. The bottom layer of her hair was now a mass of sweaty curls. Erin looked up at her, eyebrows raised. 

For a moment I held my breath. I felt sixteen again, swinging open the door to the seventh-floor bathroom to hear sobs coming from the handicap stall. Some of us back then were skinless, and every blow seemed to strike a vital organ. Mostly, though, Erins were strong: limbs roped with muscle, steady expressions, fingernails that never broke. They could tip the whole world on a shrug; they were brutal in their nonchalance, impenetrably good-tempered. 

After a moment, Erin laughed. “Fair enough,” she said. She flipped her phone upside down on the table and cast her restless eye on the bride and groom. “Poor Annemarie.” 

Across the tent, Annemarie looked back at us and smiled, a bit tremulously, as if she had caught the scent of our pity.

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How long could this go on? I wondered, the air heavy, the music trembling and dull under the sound of the wind. With everything going on in the world, Annemarie had said. The Erins had not understood her. Their world was beautiful: the years turned over when the cherry blossoms bloomed, they marked time in promotions and manicures. It would never storm at an Erin’s wedding. The sky wouldn’t dare. 

I had been waiting for the fall, I realized, snapping photos of them under the quaking chandeliers, the crack-up, the schism. I had thought, one day, the girl’s trip would go awry; the ski lift would strand them midair. Would it ever come? They could not let go of each other, and I could not let go of them. Every few years I had to go see if the Erins were all where I’d left them. They always were. 

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“I hope they have a plan,” Erin whispered to me. Her breath was hot and smelled of sauvignon blanc and spearmint gum. “If the wind picks up, this tent is going to blow away, look.” 

She was right. The walls and ceiling were rippling, making hard slapping noises. It looked like the whole scene was about to dissolve.