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It’s a peculiar thing to be the mother of the groom when you’ve never been a mother. And it’s not that she doesn’t want to be, really. Monica quite likes her son. It’s the mothering part that’s always been the problem.
But little Newton is all grown up, and getting married to that nice young physicist who stood by him through the end of the world, and they invited her, so of course she’s making the effort. Even though Jacob is also there.
It’s a lovely venue, out in the country in a part of England Monica once visited as a young, rising star, before she became too big for such a small stage. And she sees a good bit of it in her efforts to avoid Newt’s father.
Jacob is a good man. A very good man. Whatever little Newt might think of her, she would not have left her only child to be raised by anyone less. But Monica doesn’t love him, and if she couldn’t stand to hear his talk of running away together when she was twenty-two and easily swept off her feet, she certainly hasn’t got it in her to be gentle with him now that she’s pushing sixty and thoroughly enjoying the maturity of her career.
Jacob Geiszler is a good, sweet man, and he might have made some other woman a good husband. But never in a million years could Monica have made him a good wife.
She slips away from him each time he approaches, even though it isn’t in her nature to avoid a confrontation. She’s trying to be good here. If she has to tell Jacob that, even though the husband she refused to leave thirty-seven years ago is dead and gone now, she still doesn’t want to run away with him, she’ll break his heart. And, look, Monica is not a good mother, but she isn’t going to do a thing like that on a day like today. She’s not going to ruin Newt’s wedding.
It would be easier if she knew anyone here. Her friends would have run interference if this were her own event, but no one involved in her life knows Newton well enough to be invited to his wedding. Her own fault, for never having him around when he was young, even when Jacob begged her to dig down deep and find her mothering instinct. As if she had such a thing. She’s never been the person Jacob imagines her to be.
Monica slips down an empty hallway in search of someplace quiet where she can sit and take her shoes off for a while, away from the man she loved for a few hours decades ago, and the crowd of strangers who’ve come here for her son.
But from behind the first door she tries comes the sound of crying. Not big, noisy, dramatic sobs, but the muffled gasping of a creature in pain and desperately trying to shove it down.
She should keep moving. This is none of her business.
She opens the door. Monica never has been able to resist the pull of curiosity.
The storage room is dim, crammed full of boxes and cleaning supplies that leave little room for the man sitting huddled on a wooden crate. Monica has never met her son’s fiancé in person, but she recognizes him instantly. Hermann Gottlieb has a very distinctive face, all harsh angles and frown lines, and she’s seen him and Newton on television so many times, she half expects an interviewer to leap out of the shadows to shove a microphone in his face. She has seen this man shouting, and scowling, and petulantly enduring the spotlight, and even, just once, looking at her son with the tenderest of smiles unfurling like a bud in spring. But she has never seen him cry.
“Do you need a tissue?” Monica asks briskly.
“Oh, God,” he says, scrubbing at his eyes. “Please go away. I’m fine. Don’t need any help.” He makes a grab for his cane, only to knock it to the floor. Monica steps over it, digging through her clutch for something useful.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she says. “I cried my eyes out on my wedding day. Completely ruined my makeup. My mother was furious. Here.” She comes up with a handful of crumpled tissues and presses them into his hand. “Blow.”
He does, a great, undignified honk, and then whispers miserably, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She takes a seat on the box facing him, perched on the very edge to avoid getting any dust on her skirt. “So, what’s the matter? Cold feet?”
“Of course not!” He stiffens up, all prickly offense. “This is the happiest day of my life!”
Right…this is the face of a man who doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Is it Newton? Don’t tell me he’s left you at the altar.”
“No!” He’s less vehement now, but still sure. Newton is not the problem.
“Then the wedding’s still on? I only ask because I don’t want to have stuffed myself into this awful dress for no reason. I look like someone’s mother.”
The young man tactfully does not point out that that’s exactly what she is. Monica’s one regret today is that she allowed herself to be persuaded that a “matronly” look was most appropriate. She still has the figure she did thirty years ago, and it’s downright silly not to show it off.
“I apologize for the dramatics,” Hermann says. “There is nothing I want more than for Newton to be my husband.”
“But?” she prompts.
“But…my father…” He swallows hard. “Has opinions about my life choices.”
Monica nearly laughs, which would be extremely unkind of her, but what a relief not to be the one to ruin the wedding after all!
“What did he say to you?” she asks carefully.
“I…don’t like to repeat it.”
“Whatever it was, I’m sure you didn’t deserve it.” Monica knows a little about Lars Gottlieb’s opinions, and Newton has told her about his falling out with his son. How he never gave Hermann the respect he deserved, never gave him his approval. And she’s heard the man is an awful homophobe as well. At least Monica can say she doesn’t have that particular moral failing. She wouldn’t have lasted all these years on the stage if she did.
“It—it’s not about me,” Hermann says. “He got all that off his chest years ago. He just…wanted me to know what a mistake I’m making, tying myself to…” He looks away guiltily. “To someone like…” His face flushes. “He doesn’t even know him! I knew I would never be good enough, but—I’m sorry, it’s just too much, my own father, saying these unspeakably unkind things about the man I love. And I do love him, ma’am, I love him so much, but I don’t want him ever to be in a position for my father to say these things to his face…”
“What things?” Monica asks. Hermann shakes his head, shoulders hunched, but Monica insists, “Tell me.”
“That…he’s going to leave me,” he whispers, staring down at the hands clenched in his lap. “If not because he loses interest and wanders off, then he’ll die young, because…” He shakes his head again, unable to force the words out, but Monica can guess.
“Do you want him to witness the ceremony?” she asks. “Or would you prefer he be thrown out now?”
“I want him to be my father!” Hermann says. His frown deepens. “And he never will be. I suppose it doesn’t matter if he’s here or not, as long as I can be sure he won’t take the opportunity to object when Tendo gets to ‘speak now or forever hold your peace.’”
“He won’t,” Monica promises. She gets to her feet, and moves the cane closer so Hermann can have it when he’s ready. “They’ll come looking for you in a few minutes,” she advises. “Better splash cold water on your face if you don’t want to look blotchy in your wedding pictures.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Monica.” All that formality makes her feel so old.
Hermann smiles uncertainly.
“You sound just like Newt,” he says.
And Monica may not know her son much better than she knows the man who’s about to become her son-in-law, but that sounds like a compliment, so she’ll take it.
“You really do love him,” she says. Monica has never felt that kind of love herself, but she knows how much it’s worth. “You’ll be good to each other. I hope you have a long and happy life together.”
And then she goes out and finds Lars Gottlieb, grabs hold of his lapels and drags him into an empty hallway where she throws him up against a wall.
“You listen to me, you vile, self-righteous prick!”
“Who are you, and why are you creasing my suit?” Gottlieb asks coolly.
“I’m the mother of the groom, can’t you tell by the dress?” She tugs at her demure neckline, then looks up to find his attention captured by the heaving of her bosom.
Okay, she already knows she still has a killer rack. Flattering that he’s noticed, but that’s not what she’s here for. She shoves him into the wall again.
“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Monica snaps. “Fucking cruel, not just to my son, but to yours. Be like that in your personal life if you must, but if you didn’t want to be a decent father, you shouldn’t have had so many kids.”
“I am not taking parenting advice from the whore who bore that brat out of wedlock and left him to run wild and corrupt my son,” Gottlieb says with a sneer.
And Monica wants to claw that sneer right off his face. Smug, superior asshole! He’s managed to insult all three of them all in one breath. The depth of his shittiness is almost impressive.
“You self-righteous pig! How fucking dare you.” She grabs him by the collar and drags him down to eye level. “You don’t know a damn thing about me, or those boys.”
Lars Gottlieb is a tall drink of water, much taller than Monica, and deceptively strong for such a whip-thin, silver-haired old man. With a look of icy disdain, he pries her hands away from his collar and holds her off by the wrists.
“I know Hermann, and his tendency to throw away the best of opportunities in favor of worthless flights of fancy. I know he’ll never find success if he ties himself to that person. And I know trash when I see it.”
Something comes over Monica then. Trash, is she? Heart racing, pulse pounding in her ears so that she couldn’t hear him even if he kept pouring out his snooty insults one by one, she wants to sink her claws into this arrogant bastard and tear him down. A whore, he says? She’ll show him a whore!
It’s not about protecting the happy couple, not anymore. Now Monica has her sights set on him.
Newt’s parents should have escorted him to the chuppah, but after all the disappointments of his childhood, he knew better than to ask his mom to do anything more than just show up. So instead, it’s Dad on one side and Uncle Illia on the other.
It’s not that big a deal. Newt would have been happy going down to the courthouse to sign a piece of paper and be done with it, but his dad got all weepy at the idea of a ceremony, so here they are. They’ve incorporated enough religious elements so Hermann can feel like it’s the real deal, but they’d have had to do a certain amount of creative interpretation no matter what, what with the whole two grooms, no bride thing. And Newt likes that. They’re making this thing their own, taking what feels right and discarding what doesn’t fit. Like having their super Catholic friend officiate, because Hermann doesn’t have a rabbi and didn’t feel like trusting this to a stranger.
Tendo flashes a brilliant smile as Newt’s parental escorts peel off, leaving him to stand alone under the white canopy, fluttering softly in the spring breeze. Music is playing, but for once Newt doesn’t hear a note of it.
“Moment of truth, brother,” Tendo says.
Newt can’t speak. He’s shaking, why is he shaking, what the fuck? He’s ready to come apart, filled with as much awe and terror and possibility as the day he came face to face with a living kaiju, but this time the thing he loves is not going to eat him alive. This time, it’s Hermann, with a promise to love him back.
Newt takes a deep breath and turns to face the crowd.
Mako and her blond guy are front and center, both of them looking chic and happy. Mako gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up, and Newt has to smile back at her. Hermann’s brother Bastien is next to them, holding hands with his own fiancé, with Dietrich’s wife and Karla’s partners, and a couple of Newt’s old friends from MIT. Alison is at the end of the aisle, in case the baby acts up and she needs to make a hasty escape, but the little dude is chill enough for now.
And then Newt loses all interest in the guests when Hermann appears, flanked by his older brother and sister.
It was supposed to be his father. Lars fucking promised he would step up and do this one thing Hermann asked of him, no matter his personal feelings about this wedding. He promised, and Hermann, knowing what that promise was worth, arranged for his siblings to step in if necessary, but Newt had hoped that Lars would be decent to his son, just once in his life.
And Hermann is upset. Maybe not so that most people would notice, but Newt knows him.
He starts down the aisle to sweep his partner up in his arms and make everything all better, but Tendo grabs the back of his suit jacket and yanks him back into place.
“Let him come to you.”
Right. Right, right, right, he’s in the middle of a wedding ceremony and he can’t just go running around, can he? So Newt waits, and Hermann comes to join him under the canopy, delivered by his siblings right into Newt’s hands.
“You okay?” Newt whispers.
Hermann hooks his cane over his arm and takes both Newt’s hands in his. His eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile chasing all the shadows away.
“Perfectly,” he says. “Now.”
That’s right. Everything is fine now that they’re together. Newt gives his fiancé’s hands a squeeze.
“Let’s do this thing,” he says.
Newt is barely aware of the ceremony, making the right responses only when prompted by the pressure of Hermann’s fingers against his own. They exchange rings. Tendo reads out the marriage contract they wrote together, and they each make their individual vows. Mako and Bastien come up from the front row, to join Newt’s dad, Illia, Karla, Dietrich, and Tendo in reciting the wedding blessings. There’s wine. A glass broken under two feet coming down in tandem. A kiss.
They’re married. Right there under the chuppah that stands in for the home they’ll build together, Hermann Gottlieb becomes his husband. Newt has him now for life.
He looks out over the audience of all their friends. All the people who love them. Everyone who has come here today to watch them step forward into their future.
Newt’s heart sinks when he realizes his mom isn’t there. Her distinctive figure is nowhere to be seen in all that crowd. But with Hermann’s hands still in his, it almost doesn’t hurt. Everyone who matters is right here.
Monica Schwartz steps out of a broom closet in an empty hallway, straightening her age-appropriate dress. Matronly wasn’t such a bad choice, after all. She’s Monica goddamn Schwartz, and she’s still got it, even if she is someone’s mother. Now she’ll just have to fix her hair, touch up her makeup, and go and be her most charming self at the reception. She’s in a mood to be charming now.
The high and mighty Dr. Gottlieb follows her out a few seconds later, looking faintly shellshocked, wine-red lipstick smeared across his mouth, bruises purpling up across his throat, his suit crumpled beyond repair. Monica deigns to look him over, with a frown of disapproval.
“Clean yourself up before someone sees,” she orders.
Gottlieb just stares. At a loss for words, is he? Well, he hasn’t been able to say much beyond “give it to me” and “filthy, filthy whore” for at least the last half hour. Maybe she shouldn’t expect too much of him.
“Are you going to behave yourself at the reception?” Monica asks crisply.
At that, he looks offended. As if he thinks he has the right?
“You’ve somehow managed not to entirely destroy your son’s regard for you. He still wants you here. So I expect you to be on your best behavior. Shake his hand, congratulate him, and try to pass yourself off as a good father. You don’t have to pretend to like my Newton, but if I hear that you’ve said or done anything to upset the boys, then I’ll have to come back around and let everyone know what kind of low-class behavior you get up to behind their backs. Hooking up with some trashy slut at your own son’s wedding?” She shakes her head in mock disgust. “Really, Dr. Gottlieb. I would have thought you were brought up better than that.”
She kisses her fingertips and slaps them against his cheek, then turns away without waiting for a response. She doesn’t need one. He’ll toe the line.
Monica heads off to the ladies’ room to see what can be done with her hair. That man has no respect for a coiffure, but he does have his good points after all. She’s in such a good mood now, she won’t even mind facing up to Jacob at the reception.
Poor, sweet Jacob. He deserves better than he’s ever gotten from her.
But Monica wasn’t made for nice men, anyway.