Photographic artwork by Kris Saknussemm
I was a mess at Bill and Shauna's wedding, but it wasn't entirely my fault. Blame the exhaustion of raising two kids with a husband who works too much. And the open bar. And the THC gummies I ate that morning with the rest of the bridal party on our way to the spa. They were supposed to wear off in four to six hours. I don't think they did.
But more than anything, blame the guy with the long hair. If it weren't for him, I would've been fine.
I first saw the guy at the ceremony. He stood to the side and tried to rile the congregation like it was a basketball game. When the priest said, "Peace be with you," and everyone responded, "And also with you," the dude jumped up and made us do it again, louder and more passionate. On that last "you," he pointed at the priest like the old man was on the free throw line. It was really funny, but I was the only one laughing. I couldn't stop.
A weird cousin or an old high school friend—that's what I assumed. Thick glasses, long hair. A tweed suit a half-size too small and the sort of poodle's-butt beard guys think looks cool. One of those class-clowns who has yet to grow up. You know the type.
I had an anxiety attack during dinner, and the maid of honor took me to the bathroom until it passed, down a hallway off the main room. When we emerged, the guy was there, standing at the water fountain, filling an empty Stoli bottle. He nodded and said something vaguely creepy: "Hey ladies, stay close and I'll make sure you have an amazing time." We returned to the head table, and he followed a couple minutes later with the bottle and a stack of plastic shot glasses. He poured one for everyone in the wedding party. The maid of honor and I giggled—we were in on the joke. But it wasn't water. It was vodka. The guy kept pouring, and we kept drinking until the bottle emptied again.
The whole reception felt... frantic? That morning, while the other bridesmaids and I got ready, my husband dropped off our one- and three-year-old boys for their first overnight with my parents. Most of the guests were in the same boat. We all had to make the most of the evening: friends forced friends to dance, tablemates admonished each other for checking phones. People who had too much to drink tried to convince other people who had too much to drink not to drink so much. Nothing is less fun than the obligation to have fun.
One of the groomsmen was doing the running-man on the dance floor when he lurched into the ice sculpture, which shattered as it came down on top of him. An ice shard stabbed him in the pupil, and within a minute his eye swelled shut. The music stopped and a scrum of attendees gathered, shouting their treatment suggestions over each other, until the long-haired guy floated into the circle and knelt next to the groomsman.
"Looks like it hurts," the guy said.
"A ton," the groomsman said.
"Just relax." The guy rested his palm on the victim's eye.
Thirty seconds later, the groomsman sat up, totally fine. He shrugged and went back to the running man; the DJ restarted "Hey Ya"; everyone gave the long-haired guy high-fives and grabbed more drinks.
About the time I was crying in the corner by the coat check (I missed my kids, but mostly I was mad my husband didn't), the caterer packed up and left, apparently over a fight about undisclosed ingredients and someone's allergic reaction. Whatever happened, everyone was so intoxicated, the loss of mid-dance snacks constituted a major crisis. The groom assembled a posse by the front door, ready to chase down the caterer and steal the food back. Then out of nowhere, the long-haired guy appeared in the middle of the dance floor with stacks of pizza boxes in each hand. Everyone cheered.
That's when I said it: "Who is this guy? Jesus?"
"That's really ethnocentric," said the mother of the bride. "Why not Vishnu? Or Zeus?"
Once again, people I thought were friends were scowling at me, but not Jesus (I'm just going to call him Jesus). He laughed and pointed out which pizzas were supreme, or veggie, or plain cheese. When I came forward to grab a slice, he winked at me. Anyone else and it would have been weird. But with him, it felt good.
A half-hour before the DJ played "Stairway to Heaven" as the last song of the reception, Jesus collapsed in the middle of the dance floor. He wasn't the first. Wedding guests had been passing out left and right since the dollar dance. But Jesus's situation was different. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. He kept telling us not to worry, right up until his voice gave out and the ambulance arrived. Then, he was gone. Finally I asked the bride and groom who he was.
"No idea," the bride said.
"Never seen him before," said the groom.
The following morning, after Carter spilled his juice, Mason started crying, and my husband's hangover forced him back to bed, I picked up my phone and called the hospital.
"Can I check on someone who was admitted last night?"
Name?" the receptionist asked.
"This is going to sound stupid." Mason's crying escalated into hiccups, Carter stomped in the puddle of apple juice. "Jesus?"
The woman hung up, of course, but it didn't matter. My head throbbed, nausea roiled my stomach. I'm not religious, never have been. But the thought of someone out there who cares about me, selflessly trying to make my life easier? That's as close to a miracle as I was going to get.
