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"I write to discover and to remember," Lauren says about her fictional stories, which are based on her own family history. She lives and teaches composition and creative writing in Cullowhee, North Carolina, and recently finished her MFA in creative writing.
"Beneath Our Skin"
It's the Ides of March and I'm standing in my parents' backyard, stuffed into a dress that makes me look like a Las Vegas mermaid. Lord only knows what it's made of -- it's cinched so tight at my ankles that I wobbled to the arbor more like a penguin than a geisha, the turquoise netting flared out over my feet, turning them into fins. My grip tightens on the bouquet of daffodils as the fake minister rambles on about honor and sacrament, to love and cherish and whatnot. My sister is her own Greek goddess, wrapped in a heap of loose white fabric that reminds me of the curtains in our parents' living room.
Her phony gown. Her fake vows.
Behind us, a make-believe reception is about to happen, where Chloe will cut her pretend cake with her very real husband. There's a cigarette shoved into my bra, one that I'd hoped to be smoking by now. I picture it crumpled against my skin, taste the cloves on my lips. With each sigh, the dress tightens like those Chinese finger traps we used to play with in elementary school. I'd put them on Chloe's fingers and let her run around the house for hours, trying to gnaw them off when she couldn't pull any more. I suppose this is her way of paying me back.
The dress squeezes my ribs. Could someone please end this charade? Our parents are perched in folding chairs, my mother dabbing her eyes while my father pretends he's warring with his allergies. When I look at my sister with her perfectly smooth hair, she smiles a smile that, for a moment, seems like the real deal. She always was a spot-on liar. No one will admit this but me.
I have to say, though -- this fake wedding, it's a good con.
The groom looks exactly like the little plastic guy planted on top of the cake. He's got orange hair like meringue, eyes too big for his head. He's wearing a navy suit that's a size too small, someone else's skin he's tried to claim as his own. Though I've only met him a few times, he's been my sister's husband for six months. I can't bring myself to call him my brother-in-law. Water trickles down my wrist, tiny droplets from the daffodils' stems. When I look at this man, he winks at me like he has an old car to sell me. Jeff is his name, though my sister calls him Jeffrey. I try to see what she sees, but then imagine a crow diving down from the crisp sky, plucking the plastic groom from the make-believe cake and carrying it off. Maybe pinching off his head as she drops it into her nest.
