As Lisa womans the radio, Chen asks Carter, "So, are you taking the cheerleader?" Pfft. Rena wishes she were a cheerleader. In reality, she's gonna pump my gas someday. Carter doesn't know what Chen's getting at, so she clarifies, "To the wedding. Or are they carding?" "Et tu, Deb?" Carter whines. Chen cracks that Rena gives new meaning to the word "girlfriend." Carter, trying to deflect, asks who Chen's taking, but she says she's not going, since "someone has to hold down the fort" at the hospital. "Not invited?" Carter snips. Chen rolls her eyes. Lisa calls behind her and asks Amira to find Luka immediately. Carter sticks his nose in, asking why. Lisa tells him about the multi-victim trauma and explains that the dispatcher wants to know how many County can take. "Three major, ten minor," Carter answers immediately. Lisa's like, thanks, Armchair Attending, but I think I'll just sit tight and wait for someone with a little authority to make that call. (She conveys all of that by blinking once; I've come to know her moods.) Lisa doesn't move, and Carter's like, "Tell them." Lisa blandly says, "I should ask Luka." Carter tosses the chart he's been holding and strides over to the radio, where he all but shoves Lisa aside and manfully orders the dispatcher, "Three major, ten minor." Lisa has a bad feeling about this.
Ambulance bay. The Milquetoastmobile is getting towed. Mark manages to snatch his tuxedo from the jaws of certain inconvenience as the tow truck rolls off. Carter watches the whole transaction; he offers Mark the use of his car just as a rig pulls up. Carter helps Pam to unload the patient, who's suffered blunt chest trauma. Mark, uselessly standing by, gets a page: it's Rachel, and she's stuck in St. Louis because of the rain. I start to get the picture that the rain is the cheap-ass catch-all excuse for why we won't be seeing Rachel, Doug, Carol, Susan, Morgenstern, and many, many others at the ceremony. But dude, I'd think they could at least afford to pay Yvonne Freakin' Zima. Pay her scale! Actually, don't. Anyway, Mark scurries inside to phone Rachel back, and Carter attends to the patient.
Master bedroom at Valium Villa; Elizabeth's just finished getting dressed. And, see, now she looks beautiful. Her dress is stunning: it's a simple, Empire-waist sleeveless shift of a satiny (though not too shiny) brownish-greenish-grey, with a long, sheer, lacy, somewhat sparkly embroidered jacket over it. Her makeup is very understated and her hair is loosely curled and casually coiffed. She really looks fantastic. Mama Corday rolls up and stops dead in the doorway. "Well?" Elizabeth prompts her. "You're getting married," breathes Mama Corday, with a smile. Aw. Elizabeth clasps her hands over her belly for a moment, ruefully remarking that it's not exactly as she imagined it would be. She carefully takes a seat at the vanity as Mama Corday comes to her side, passing a sketch of a nude male hanging on the wall beside the door. Okay, that had better not be a sketch of Mark. Gross. Anyway, Mama Corday talks about Elizabeth's pretending to be a bride, as a kid, with her ballet tutu on her head as a makeshift veil. She adds, "Weren't you going to marry that little freckle-faced boy who lived down the street?" Elizabeth recalls that his name was Tommy Bradshaw, and says that he was indicted for insurance fraud. Mama Corday laughs that things have already turned out better than Elizabeth had expected. Then, because the pleasant moment has gone on just about long enough, she needles Elizabeth that it's too bad her father won't be there. Elizabeth curtly agrees, and supposes that he couldn't get another flight. Mama Corday says she's sure he has some excuse: "He always does." Elizabeth, miffed, looks down. Mama Corday won't let it go, marveling that he couldn't even be bothered to make an effort. Elizabeth's whole face puckers as she starts to cry, and Mama Corday gently chides her not to ruin her makeup. I could go into what great writing this actually is -- for once -- and how mothers do have that sixth sense of how to push their children just far enough to piss them off and then scold them for being pissed off, but we all have mothers, so I'll just assume you know what I'm talking about. Except, not my mom. She never does that stuff. I just mean I've read about things like this happening. In books. Mama Corday starts in with the compliments about Elizabeth's appearance, and Elizabeth regains her composure. Mama Corday particularly admires the colour of the dress, and Elizabeth mutters, "Well, I didn't have much choice, did I? Had I worn white, I would've looked like I could sink the Titanic." Mama Corday laughs, and says there's only one thing missing. Elizabeth asks what; Mama Corday hands her a small jewellery box and explains, "They belonged to your grandmother. She wore them for her wedding, as did I. Now, I know you're not much for tradition, but if you were thinking of something old, something new, something borrowed --" "They're beautiful," Elizabeth interrupts, holding one earring up to her ear. Okay, I am married, but we basically eloped and got married in the County Recorder's Office in Norwalk, California, before one witness; we would have done it in front of none, if we could have, because the whole thing was so strange and embarrassing. But even so, I wore something old (my watch), something new (the dress -- a blue polyester polka-dotted number I'd bought on sale at the Gap a couple of days before the ceremony), something borrowed (Glark's hair gel), and something blue (the polish on my fingernails and toenails). Before you judge, give me a break: I'd been a student until literally three weeks before my wedding day, and, at the tender age of twenty-two, I was a child bride, besides. So I couldn't afford a Vera Wang. Big deal. Why bother dressing up for a JP?