Avery sticks her hand out and stares at her engagement ring, a veritable carat overload, and makes sure Kayla sees it.
“Not too shabby,” Kayla says, looking at Avery. And we have ourselves a timely truce.
A sulky girl named Marisa ushers us up a winding staircase, her stilettos stepping softly on fluffy beige carpet. Upstairs, Marisa points to a white leather sofa. Everyone plops down except for Michael, who disappears into white horizons. Marisa balances a clipboard in her left hand, pen cocked, ready to take my vitals. Location. Head count. Vision.
“Vision?” I ask. “Not great. I wear contacts.”
“What kind of bride do you want to be?” Marisa asks, ignoring my failed attempt at matrimonial humor. And I half expect her to hand me a menu.
“The kind who gets married and gets on with her life,” I say.
Avery frowns.
Kayla nods.
And Mom smiles. “That’s my girl.”
“Okay. Let’s start over. Are you familiar with the rainbow?” she asks me.
“No. I’m a rookie.”
“Well, you have antique, ivory, eggshell, ecru, blush, champagne…” she says.
“And then you have the fun stuff,” Michael says, reappearing. “The jewel-encrusted tiaras, antique brooches, supersized bows, oddly placed strings of pearls. Some of the dresses this season even have color, Q. Touches of eggplant and turquoise, splashes of bright burgundy and rose.”
And finally, we have a smile from Marisa. “Thankfully, someone’s clearly done their homework.”
“His homework,” I correct her. “Guess you don’t need good grammar to sell a princess costume,” I whisper to Mom.
“Quinn!” Avery chides.
“How about ivory?” I say. “How will ivory look with a tan suit, one surreptitiously purchased by a very thoughtful mother of the groom?”
“The battle rages on. Why not pure white? Is white a little too pure for our little bad girl?” Kayla pipes in, eyes glued to the tiny screen of her BlackBerry.
“Brides historically never wore white,” Mom says. “Not until Queen Victoria. The white-as-tradition thing is another Western myth. Like the one that equates diamonds with love.”
“Ah, the big bad De Beers conspiracy,” Michael says.
“No complaints here,” Avery says, flashing that ring again. “A Diamond Is Forever.”
“More like A Diamond Is for Now,” Kayla says. “Thanks for the history lesson, Mrs. O’Malley. What color was your wedding dress?”
Mom doesn’t answer.
Now Michael grabs Mom’s left hand. “And check out the rock,” he says, pointing to Mom’s engagement ring, the lone diamond, still sparkling after all these years.
Mom shrugs her shoulders. “More like a pebble.”
We all laugh some more.
“Lace?” I say, lamely. Back to business.
Avery smiles big. “Ooooh, I always imagined you’d wear ivory lace. There is something so classic and timeless about that,” she says. Avery’s wedding dress is ivory lace. “Yes, I pictured you as a classic and timeless bride. Sure, antique lace is a bit old-fashioned, a tad grandmotherly, but in my daydreams as a little girl, that’s what I envisioned.”
“I didn’t daydream about my wedding as a girl,” I say.
“Start now then,” Avery says, smiling.
Michael and Marisa leave us, divide and conquer in the quest for ivory lace. They return under ivory piles. Marisa comes into the dressing room with me and stands there as I undress. Up close, I can see the wrinkles around her over-lined eyes, the rebel strands of gray amidst coiffed hair. I see for the first time that she doesn’t have a ring of her own.
She helps me into the first dress, a simple strapless number. It barely closes in the back, pinching my skin.
“Bridal sizes run very small,” she says, a scripted assurance, as I attempt to breathe.
I come out of the dressing room. All eyes on me. Good practice for my wedding day.
Marisa tells me to stand on the white wooden box in front of the vast mirror, so I do. On this pedestal, I stare at myself in the mirror. The faces behind me blur and blend. And there I am, in sharp focus.
A fucking princess.
All of a sudden, I’m light-headed.
“Let me fix you,” I hear Marisa say.
“Please do,” I mumble.
Before I know it, Marisa is crawling around on the carpet and under my dress. “Adjusting the tulle,” she mutters.
“I didn’t get a chance to shave this morning,” I apologize. “Or this month.”
“You know my theory about shaving,” Kayla says, her voice distant.
“Huh?” Her words nick me like an errant dart in a crowded sports bar. I catch a glimpse of myself again in the mirror. Confusion contorts my face, now pale, rearranging my features. For a moment, I don’t recognize myself.
Mom perks up. She loves theories. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s never a good sign when you stop shaving with a guy. Means the chase is over. Time to sit on the couch, take turns with the remote, and get fat,” Kayla says.
“I’m sure she shaves other important places?” Michael says, looking in my direction.
“Don’t think it’s overly appropriate to discuss pelvic grooming in such an institution,” Avery says.
A thank-you emerges from under my massive skirt.
“Plus, I think it’s the opposite. There’s nothing wrong with becoming comfortable with a man. It’s good to relax, not worry about every hair. It shows confidence, if you ask me, that something as silly as stubble isn’t going to make him walk,” Avery says, defending me. She chooses not to mention the weekly waxing sessions she’s kept since high school.
“What’s this obsession with shaving?” Mom says. Should’ve known this was another ripe opportunity to peddle feminist ideology. “Society’s goddamned preoccupation with returning to prepubescence? Hair is natural, a sign of maturity.”
Michael nods as Mom talks and then he lifts her pant leg, running his hand along her calf. “Smooth as silk.” Then it’s back to business. “Not so sure about the lace,” he says.
“I think I agree,” Mom says. I’m beginning to wonder if this haven of femininity is traumatizing her. Or whether she, in all her smooth-shaven, diamond-wearing glory, secretly loves it here.
“Well, I think you look beautiful,” Avery says, wiping a tear from her eye. She’s a crier. “I mean, look at you.”
Kayla slips her BlackBerry into her bag and looks at me. “A little prissy if you ask me,” she says, and shrugs. “A shred predictable.”
Mom nods.
“I hate to say it, but Special K has a point. Lace seems drab and boring. You don’t want to be drab and boring. You want to be a contemporary stunner, an edgy sophisticate,” Michael says. “You want heads to turn.”
“I do?” I say, and think of my dream. The swiveling heads on bodies, convened for me, cloaked in white. “Oh yeah, I do.”
Michael continues his commentary, his voice animated. “Lace isn’t you. You aren’t on the fast track to becoming a muffin-baking Martha Stewart. In fact, I think you’ll dodge that fate at all costs.”
“That won’t be hard,” I say. My cooking repertoire—college-honed—amounts to boiling eggs and burning toast. “Too bad skinniness hasn’t been a by-product of my inability to make a meal,” I say, still sucking in.
Skinny Marisa pops out from under my dress and surrenders another smile.
Michael won’t stop with the arguments. “Lace is fitting for platinum blond twinset-sporting country clubbers. The bride in lace was probably a respectful child who wore pigtails and ruffle socks and who didn’t put up a fuss about an early bedtime. The lace bride will be the coiffed and well-balanced wife and mother who is expert at juggling kids and work and has a warm meal on the table and manages a lipstick smile even at the end of a hard day.”
“Can I suggest something?” Marisa asks.
“You may,”
I say.
“You should try on many different types of dresses, even ones you never thought you’d like. That’s really the only way to know what you want.”
A rational suggestion. I’ll buy it. “Bring it on,” I say. In the mirror, I see that some color has returned to my cheeks.
Within minutes, I’ve hopped in and out of duchess silk and antique pointelle, blush and champagne organza. Finally, I emerge from the dressing room in a gown symmetrically smattered with stark black velvet embroidery.
“I saw this one online,” Michael says. “The model sashayed down the runway in tattered black cowboy boots.”
“I wonder what kind of little girl grows up to wear a gown that dangerous,” Avery says. “I wonder what kind of wife she will be?”
“Probably a tomboy who went through a passing punk phase, who’s pierced at least two body parts before reforming her ways. She’ll probably keep her husband guessing. She’ll probably have a secret box under the bed full of naughty things. Like, say, handcuffs. White ones. Quinn, this might be your dress,” Kayla says, smiling.
At this reference to my dream, Mom stares at me and smiles, eyes tellingly wide, sparkling.
“You know what, K? You can wear this one when you get married,” I say.
“Shall we put it on hold?” Avery says.
“Ouch,” Kayla says, fingering the dress. “I think Sage would like this. Actually, I am pretty sure he’d find it hot. Perfect for our little tasty tart here.”
“You know,” Mom chimes in. “‘Tart’ wasn’t always a derogatory term. Used to be a term of endearment, short for ‘sweetheart.’ And then it took on the meaning of an opinionated bold woman. Nothing wrong with a bold woman.”
“Like Frida Kahlo,” I say. “Bet she would’ve loved this one.”
I emerge from the dressing room one last time, happy to be back in my jeans.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Kayla asks.
“I’m requesting an adjournment,” I say. “I need a drink.”
“I’ll grab you some water,” Marisa says. “FIJI or Pellegrino?”
“Not that kind of drink,” I say.
“She needs de beers,” Kayla says, and laughs.
And Marisa’s deceptively simple words echo in my head. And it occurs to me that finding a wedding dress is not unlike finding a groom. It’s a matter of trial and error. A process. Not something you do in a day.
“Not ready to commit?” Kayla says, linking her arm through mine.
“Not yet anyway,” I say as we descend the swirling staircase of boring beige.
“Promise me one thing, Q,” Kayla says, as the others walk ahead.
“What’s that?”
“That you’ll shave those legs of yours on your wedding day.”
“We’ll see,” I say. “Promise me one thing, K.”
“What’s that?”
“That you will never again talk about white handcuffs.”
Kayla flashes a ponderous, impish smile. And as we walk back through the hushed haven of femininity and grace, she pauses by the door and then turns around and retraces her steps. She approaches the women at the counter.
“Excuse me. I see here that you sell wedding shoes and tiaras. But what about white handcuffs? My friend is looking for the most stunning pair of white handcuffs.”
Giddy, we giggle, and run. At the front of the store, I ignore the delicate gold handle. Instead, I place my sweating palm on the door and push hard. Strong platinum collides with fragile glass as I leave smudges on what was once perfectly clear.
Chapter 17
I did shave my legs the morning of January twelfth. My twenty-seventh birthday. The day of Dad’s memorial service. I’m not sure why. We were all at Bird Lake and I decided to shower in Mom and Dad’s bathroom in our cabin. Michael and I have our own bathroom, but still, Mom didn’t say anything when I asked to use theirs. Now, hers. Just that there was an extra towel on the hook behind the door.
So there I sat, holed up in the tiny bathroom Dad never finished remodeling, naked, at the bottom of the bathtub, dragging cheap pink plastic over furry white legs. Hot water sprayed from the old showerhead, pelting my back. Dad’s bottle of Head & Shoulders rested on the edge of the basin; Mom hadn’t thrown it out yet. But then again it had been only a couple months since he died and I figured this shampoo’s days were numbered. Dad was the only one with dandruff. And Mom wasn’t like those other widows profiled on the morning shows, the ones who left everything the way it was before their husbands died, who refused to throw away the half-eaten bag of potato chips, or the toothbrush that would never be used again.
As the room steamed up and the mirror above the sink fogged, something became clear to me. This wasn’t how I pictured the end.
No one’s supposed to imagine her parents’ decline. But I did. Maybe it’s the realist in me. Maybe it’s that Dad was never afraid to talk to us about mortality, to explain the limp and lifeless body of a young bird on our front porch, or the lineup of glass-eyed trout in the rickety old icehouse. Maybe it was that goddamned trusts and estates seminar in law school where our bow tie–clad professor pummeled us with prudence: It’s never too early to plan for death.
Whatever the cause, I thought about these things. About losing Mom and Dad. I pictured Dad, an extraordinary man, exiting this world the ordinary way. I envisioned the generic grays of a hospital room, a quiet good-bye punctuated by faint rumblings of some kind of medical machine. I even imagined living the euthanasia debate, arguing with Mom and Michael over whether Dad would want to live like this, prisoner to exactly the kind of machines he despised and knew intimately from his decades as a doctor. I envisioned debating whether to bury or burn, whether my dear dad would prefer to spend eternity in a box in the earth under a pricey slab of stone or scattered over the lake he loved.
But it didn’t happen like this. I never got that hospital room. I never got to see the big man who was my father cloaked in a paper-thin gown. And we never got a body. Or ashes.
A timely pragmatist, Mom embraced the benefit of having no body or ashes: no logistical restraints. “Well, we can do it anywhere then,” she said of the service. “He’d want it at the lake.”
So there we were, shivering, arranging folding chairs on the big screened-in Clubhouse porch, mere yards from the vast old oak where Mom and Dad baptized me with lake water, gathering to celebrate Dad.
That morning I stood with Mom as people arrived. Soon, we were surrounded by the characters from his stories, the faces from his grainy photographs. The football teammate who threw the winning pass against Michigan State. The med school classmate who said fuck it and did the unthinkable by trading prestige and power for a stab at happiness. He now ran a surf shop in California. Yes, there they were, his colleagues and friends, graying, bespectacled, rattled.
“He didn’t even want to go,” Mom said.
I nodded and rubbed her back, but for a moment, I wasn’t sure what she meant. Certainly, he didn’t want to die.
“He hated those power meals. He hated discussing money.”
“I know, Mom.”
“He was a Cheerio guy,” she said. “My Cheerio guy.”
Then Mom cried. There were very few times I’d seen her cry: that winter evening when I told her I changed my name, on September eleventh, now.
A lawyer must have a thick skin. Never let them see you weak, she told me the night before my first day at the firm. I was never sure whether these clichéd words of wisdom were meant for the courtroom or for life. Or, likely, both.
But there she was. A self-proclaimed feminist, a wannabe Frida, presumably wondering (for the first time perhaps) whether she was all talk. All of a sudden, a legion of strangers with visions of virgins and eerie precision had challenged her to live without a man, without the man who made her laugh. Without the man upon whom she perhaps secretly and totally depended.
As kids, we pester our parents with one question: “Why?” And, dutifully, they muster answers
and explanations. It’s only when we grow up when they can be, perhaps must be, honest. And tell us when they don’t have the answer. Or when, simply, there isn’t one.
That morning, Mom had the courage to reverse things, to ask that same question I asked her so many times as a little girl. “Why?”
And I had the courage to answer her. “I don’t know.”
She nodded. And then the tears were gone. And real life sliced through. “I can’t believe she had the nerve to come,” Mom said, pointing to a petite brunette only yards away. “Virginia Brookstone, his ex. Hippie slut. She tried to convert your father to Buddhism.”
“Ah, Mom. You won him.”
“Yeah, lucky me. I’m the widow,” she said, and smiled. “Speaking of exes…”
As if I needed another reason to grieve. There was Phelps. It was the first time I’d seen him since we’d broken up. He looked better than ever; a mature, seasoned version of that precocious boy in the rowboat. He’d lost the weight he put on in medical school and wore his hair military short. The stunning blond on his arm didn’t help things. Her smile was open and friendly, her eyes held the appropriate level of sadness for the day, for the memorial of a man she never knew.
As Phelps approached, he looked down. Not at me.
But I looked down too, at their intertwined fingers, the braid of tan skin and the flash of gold. A ring.
They were married. At least that’s what it looked like.
Before he said anything, he hugged me. The way he used to; no holding back. A big bear hug, a hug that said a mixture of You’re safe with me and You’re going nowhere, a hug that promised everything would be okay.
I wondered if she got those hugs too.
For the first time that morning, the tears came.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, through his own tears.
I’m so sorry. These were words I’d said to him at the end. Over and over. I’m so sorry. We said these things. As if these words could stitch a threadbare heart, or bring back a dead father.
Life After Yes Page 16