Helene Bridgewell only led the parade of eccentric people Arless encountered during her adventure in the extravaganza that was the Bridgewell family Thanksgiving. Miranda’s father was obsessed with parking arrangements for the ever-growing number of cars that delivered houseguests to the compound. He spent most of his time moving vehicles from the circular driveway to other areas on the estate. One afternoon Arless watched a BMW weave around a rose bed and skim past the gazebo before coming to rest at the edge of the swimming pool. Within twenty minutes, Gerald Bridgewell drove six more cars through the garden and parked them nose-end to the pool apron. A Mercedes S-Class, two Jaguars, three Lexus sedans and a lowly Jeep were wedged between pool furniture and statues of naked cherubs. He emerged from the Jeep through a window and crawled out onto a wrought iron table that sat a scant six inches to the left of the driver’s side door.
Using the table as a stage, the chairman and CEO of Bridgewell Industries International yelled, “Now THAT’S how you do it!” before leaping to the ground and heading off to find more cars.
And then there was NoNo, Gerald Bridgewell’s mother. Miranda said her grandmother was called ‘NoNo’ because twenty years ago, baby Brandon couldn’t say ‘Nana.’ Arless wanted to ask Miranda why her parents hadn’t considered the possibility Brandon would grow up with the verbal skills to say ‘Nana,’ but of course, she said nothing. Despite being beautifully dressed and groomed, NoNo seemed to mentally occupy another plane of existence, staring off into the distance through pale, empty eyes. She sat passively in a wheelchair and only spoke to periodically shriek “DONALD!” at the top of her lungs. These outbursts didn’t alarm anyone other than Arless.
Helene propelled her mother-in-law into every gathering of more than two family members. “NoNo just loves company,” she would trill as she pushed the wheelchair with the hapless old lady into the center of a group. The appearance of NoNo never slowed the conversation; the Bridgewell family just made room for the wheelchair and kept going, everyone talking at once and making no effort to follow each other’s conversations. While NoNo usually appeared catatonic, she would yell, “DONALD!” at the punch line of every joke or story. Her family would laugh, pat her and plunge on into the next topic.
One evening, during the post-dinner sharing of hundreds of pictures and iPhone videos of the two newest Bridgewell babies, Arless noticed NoNo, hands folded in her lap and vacant expression on her face, was being used as a serving tray. A platter of cookies and cupcakes had been placed over the arms of her wheelchair. Her family helped themselves to the desserts, giving NoNo a smile or a pat in the process. Arless watched dumbfounded as everyone else proceeded with what was obviously a commonplace arrangement. Her own grandmothers had passed on, one in death and one to Miami, but she was sure neither of them had ever been used as a dessert tray.
By Wednesday, Arless counted at least thirty houseguests and, according to Miranda, all except Arless and Ruby were Bridgewells by birth or linked to one degree or another by marriage. The house, with its guest wings and detached cottages, easily housed the crowd, but every time one group of Bridgewells encountered another group of Bridgewells, the noise in the area became unbearable for Arless. Bridgewell women squealed and talked over each other, while the men ignored them and hijacked a new decibel level to make themselves heard.
Guests were gathered for every meal and planned event, a house rule that seemed to be accepted by everyone except Brandon and the real Ruby. The lovers only occasionally appeared for food before slipping away again. They were afforded this luxury, because Helene Bridgewell kept Arless firmly in her sights. If Arless tried to slip away in search of quiet, a singsong call of “Ruby Dear” pealed out of the air and reeled Arless in to Helene’s side. Miranda thought this was enormously funny. She waived away Arless’s concerns, telling her to enjoy the attention and the gifts that Helene lavished on her in the mistaken idea she was bonding with a potential daughter-in-law.
Arless found Helene’s hovering painful, but the gifts! A Louis Vuitton weekender was waiting for her as a welcome present. It was topped with a large gold bow and a card that read, “For all the visits to come – Love, Mother Bridgewell.” When she could breathe again, Arless placed the bag on the leather luggage rack and tossed her battered duffle bag under her bed, tucking it behind the lace dust ruffle.
The next morning when Arless returned to her room after breakfast, she found a cashmere sweater with another ‘Mother Bridgewell’ note. A pair of Prada sandals materialized on Wednesday. The sweater was a little too long and the sandals a little too small, but Arless wore them anyway.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she heard her mother say as she studied her new self in the full-length mirror of her bathroom. Surely, that didn’t apply to brand-new designer clothes? After a few deep breaths, she squared her shoulders and headed downstairs, telling herself she had to take advantage of all her opportunities and work harder if the new Arless was going to succeed.
About Cheril Thomas
