‘Good,’ he says and laughs, and I decide that now is the best time to give a little of my bad news.
‘By the way,’ I say as casually as I can, ‘Jake wants us to have a commitment ceremony.’
‘A fucking what?’
I nod, trying to keep the amusement from my face. ‘You heard correctly.’
‘You better be kidding me …’
I shake my head slowly, not daring to say another word, laughter bubbling inside me.
‘The paranoid motherfucker.’
The laugher spews forth.
‘You’re enjoying this aren’t you?’ he accuses.
‘I have to drink the brew too, you know.’
‘So what you are laughing about, then?’
‘If you could see your face.’
‘When does he want this ceremony to take place?’
‘Tomorrow night. It’s a full moon. Good for spells.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. I don’t believe this shit. Did he have one with Lily?’
‘That’s exactly what I asked him.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said Lily isn’t his sister, but if she was he would have insisted on it.’
He shakes his head in wonder. ‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. We sit inside a circle at some outdoor location and make promises to each other in front of some shaman.’
‘And drink a potion.’
His eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘Exactly what’s in the brew?’
I chew my lower lip. ‘I think articles of our used clothing, animal lung of some sort, definitely liver, fat, and probably salt. It’s usually put into love charms to ensure the duration of the attachment.’
He folds his arms. ‘All right. If it makes you happy and you’re OK with it, then I am too.’
I laugh. ‘Actually, Jake says since I am pregnant I only need to have a very small sip. A taste were his exact words. You’ll have to drink most of it.’
‘I knew it,’ he bursts out. ‘This is to punish me, isn’t it?’
I’m dying to laugh. ‘A bit.’
‘Other men get a stag night with booze and strippers from their brother-in-law-to-be and I get this!’
‘We can get some strippers for the ceremony if you want.’
‘You find this all very funny, don’t you, Miss Eden?’
And I can no longer hold back the laughter. Eventually he laughs too. When we stop, he looks into my eyes and his voice is very serious. ‘Jake knows nothing. I’d walk over hot coals for you. Drinking fat, liver, and lung, I could do it every day for the rest of my life if it means having you.’
‘I love you, BJ Pilkington. I really, really do.’
‘By the way, can they make that article of clothing one of your used panties? It might make the lung, liver, and fat a bit more palatable.’
‘Oh, you disgusting man, Mr. Pilkington,’ I scold, but I am laughing and so crazy in love with him, I could pop him between two slices of bread and eat him for lunch.
Despite the fact that Jake glowers all through the commitment ceremony, it turns out to be something different and more precious than I imagined it to be. One day I will tell my grandchildren about it. BJ’s mother gives me an antique shawl. My mother gives me a gold chain with a sapphire pendant.
It’s a cold night and we all dress in warm clothing. The moon is very bright, hanging like a lantern in the sky as we drive out to a wooded area and walk to a clearing.
The shaman is already waiting for us.
God only knows where Jake found her. She is an ancient creature, straight out of the witches’ scene in Macbeth. Hunched underneath an old, black cloak, her face in the moonlight is craggy with deep groves and her skin is mottled with coffee-colored spots. Her hair is silvery and surprisingly thick. One eye is completely white, the pupil covered over with cataract, and the other is jet-black and alive with an animal-like alertness. She wears a red rose tucked behind her ear.
Her body is thin and pitiful, but her movements are as stubborn and headstrong as that of a wild boar. When she extends a withered hand from the inky folds of her cloak, I see that every one of her bony fingers is heavy with an assortment of large and intricate rings. There are ancient symbols carved into the stones.
She tells BJ and me to take off our shoes, pull our prayer shawls over our heads, and sit cross-legged inside the circle that she draws with a chalky stone. Then she half-squats on a low, four-legged stool and surrounds herself with the tools of her trade. Feathers, a fan, shells, and red and black candles, which she lights and shades with glass coverings. She unrolls a long ribbon and ties an end to both our wrists.
‘Are you ready?’ she croaks.
We nod.
She starts by inviting and welcoming helping spirits and the spirits of deceased loved ones. She looks at me directly. There is something enchanted and mysterious about her dark, bottomless eyes. Her mystique is bewitching. I have the impression that I am staring into the eye of an ancient mystic feline. Timeless and weightless. That my spirit has intertwined with hers in an invisible sublime dance.
‘Think of them, all the ones who have left you and they will come.’
I think of Father and call him to come.
Her black eyes fix on me again. ‘It is always as forecast and necessary,’ she says intriguingly.
Then she begins to sing in a language I do not understand, plaintively, as if she is calling to a lost love. Her voice echoes through the night. Afterwards, she burns some sweet herbs and offers rice to the spirits who have come to witness the ceremony.
BJ and I exchange bracelets made of twine with each other. Afterwards, we make our vows of fidelity and loyalty to each other. First to go is BJ. By the light of the candles, he recites the vows we have both chosen to make.
‘I, Billy Joe Pilkington, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee Layla Eden to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to be my chosen one. To desire thee and be desired by thee. To possess thee and be possessed by thee without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for thee. I promise to love thee wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy people, and thy ways as I respect myself.’
Staring into his eyes, I repeat the same vow and it feels as if my heart will burst with the love I have for him.
Then it is time to drink the thick brown brew. It is truly disgusting. Even the tiny little sip I consume coats my tongue and makes me feel downright queasy. BJ is the real hero of the piece though. He drinks it all without fuss.
Later he whispers in my ear. ‘I’m gonna need to forget this taste. Get ready to have your pussy in my mouth for a very long time.’
I try to suppress the giggles, but I am not very successful. I feel a great wave of love wash over me for this wonderful man.
‘Jeez, Layla, don’t look at me like that unless you want me to drag you behind some bushes and rape you.’
‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gone into your bedroom and tried to take your tiepin?’
He shudders. ‘No.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Layla
After the ceremony my life becomes a whirl of frantic activity. There are so many things to decide: locations, bridesmaid dresses, shoes, music, caterers, invitations, photographer, the cake, videographer, invitations, stationery, rings, favors, transportation, and, of course, my dress. BJ hires a wedding planner. She is so brilliant that I can’t even imagine doing it without her. It’s a great comfort to simply call her if I have a query or worry and know that she is already on top of it.
My mother makes an appointment with Thelma Madine, the dress designer. Thelma Madine is exactly how she is on TV. Warm, talented, and a practical businesswoman to the core. She would have made a good gypsy.
?
?How big do you want your dress to be?’ she asks.
‘Big,’ my mother says. ‘She’s my only girl. My Princess.’