A Patron Saint for Junior Bridesmaids

by Shelley Tougas

  She takes us to a rack of dresses in various shades of blue, more shades than I knew existed. Light blue and dark blue. Blue muddled with greens and purples. Powder blue and iridescent blue. Paula T. pats me on the back and leaves.

  “It doesn’t matter to me, Mary,” Eden says. “You should pick what you like. Just please don’t make it expensive, no matter what Grandma says.”

  “Okay.”

  Eden heads toward the bridal gowns, but something in the rack of pink dresses catches her eye. She shifts dresses back and forth and pulls out one of the gowns. Her face brightens. The dress is soft pink and full of lace and ribbons and pearls and sparkles. She carries it to a large mirror and holds the dress against her body.

  “Mary, would it be crazy if I wore this dress? I thought I didn’t care about dresses, but since I’m here and I’m getting one, well, I like it. I think I love it, actually.”

  Relief runs from my fingers to my toes. It’s not for me. “It looks so nice against your hair. It really accentuates the blond tones.” I have no idea where I got those words, but it sounds like something Paula T. would say.

  “This is it.” Eden grins. “This is the one. I think it will fit.”

  “Try it on. I want to see it.”

  Grandma comes from nowhere and touches the fabric. “How lovely! Mary, this is perfect for a young bridesmaid.”

  “Not for me,” I say. “For Eden. She wants this dress for herself.”

  Grandma laughs. “It’s beautiful, but brides wear white.”

  “Why?” Luke asks.

  “They just do.”

  “But why?”

  “If she wears a dress like this people will think it’s her second marriage. Divorced women who are getting remarried wear colors. Eden has to wear white.” Grandma’s voice is firm. “Eden, your mother should be on her lunch break, so let’s have her weigh in on this.”

  “You don’t have to call Mom.” Eden says, but buttons have already been pushed and in seconds, Aunt Maggie is on the screen of Grandma’s phone, and they’re chattering about wedding dresses with the speaker at full volume.

  Paula T., stationed at the register, stretches her head like an ostrich to watch, and an entire bridal party starts to circle. Grandma uses the phone to show Aunt Maggie the pink dress. She turns the phone so Aunt Maggie is looking at Eden and me. Aunt Maggie says, “Eden, you simply cannot wear pink. It’s not appropriate.”

  “How about for Mary?” Grandma shouts so Aunt Maggie can hear.

  “I think it’s fine for a bridesmaid,” Aunt Maggie says.

  One of the shoppers studies Eden and says, “They’re doing you a favor. Unless you get highlights, this dress will not go with your hair.”

  A woman with purple eye shadow says, “You have strong shoulders. You should wear strapless.”

  Her friend touches the dress. “This looks more like a ball gown. It’s very old-fashioned.”

  “Too princess-y.” An older woman, probably a mom, nods.

  There’s disagreement, though, as an even older woman, probably a grandma, says, “Gorgeous. Absolutely stunning.”

  More brides and bridesmaids shuffle over, and their comments start rolling together. Beads, trains, lace, veils, pearls, shoes. Then there are words I’ve never heard—tulle overskirt, illusion sleeves, chiffon, sheath, bodice. That’s followed by a discussion of the various shades of white—champagne, cream, ivory, candlelight, rum, eggshell, ecru.

  I’m so embarrassed I want to crawl under the dress with the biggest skirt and hide, and I’m pretty sure Eden wants to join me. Grandma says, “Well, girls, as long as we have a crowd we should model some of these dresses.”

  Eden shakes her head no, and I see the sweat beads forming on her forehead. Google said my job is to help the bride handle stress and conflict, and this definitely qualifies as stress and conflict for Eden. I take the princess dress from Grandma and say, “I’ll try on this one, but the bride shouldn’t have to model. It’s bad luck, right?”

  Eden’s shoulders relax, and she gives me a half smile. A score for the junior bridesmaid!

  Ten minutes later, half of the shoppers are crammed into the dressing suite, and I’m modeling the princess dress. There are gasps, and I’m not sure they’re all wow-that’s-beautiful gasps. I think some gasps are more like oh my God because the princess dress looks like a craft store exploded on cotton candy. It has everything: pearls and ribbons and sparkles and lace and a bow and a large, gathered skirt. I’m not wearing this dress—this dress is wearing me.

  I swallow my horror and embarrassment by pretending it’s a Halloween costume, and I’m just trick-or-treating. In a bridal shop. In June. In front of women who have purses instead of bags of candy.

  Grandma turns to Eden and, as if it matters, she asks, “What do you think?”

  Eden shrugs. “Nice.”

  Paula T. nods, and the slur of words from the brides and their maids begins again: lavish, darling, sweet, lovely, ornate. I catch a whisper from the woman in the corner. “Over the top,” she says to her friend.

  And then this comes from Luke. “Cinderella! Mary looks like Cinderella.”

  Luke nailed it. This dress is Cinderella meets Belle meets Sleeping Beauty. Throw in an apple and you’d have Snow White, too. Paula T. pulls at the dress here and there and announces the fit is close enough to alter. She measures me up and down and all around and sends the dress to the back room for alteration.

  Finally, everyone scatters, and Grandma leads us to the racks of white gowns and starts sorting until Eden rubs her forehead. “I just got the worst headache.” Grandma touches her face, checking for a fever. She sighs, puts her arm around Eden, and says, “I guess we’ll have to come back. There’s no time to waste, so I’ll insist they give us another appointment tomorrow.”

  Luke stomps his foot. “We have to do this again tomorrow?! I’d rather watch a documentary on toothpicks.” I don’t know where Luke picked up that line, but he uses it every time he has to do something he doesn’t like, and he usually gets a huge laugh, even from me. But not this time. I’m feeling bad about wearing the dress Eden wants for herself, the only thing she’s asked for during all the wedding talk. In this moment, even toothpick documentaries aren’t funny.

  ABOUT BRENT HELZINSKI AND ME

  Brent Helzinski is probably plotting revenge all the way from Holmestrand.

  Fine by me. I don’t even care.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There’s going to be a wedding in 38 days

  Jessica isn’t online, so I type her an e-mail about the princess dress and the “party” Grandma’s planned for tonight.

  Grandma invited her church friends to an invitation-writing party, which is really just a group of us stuffing wedding invitations into envelopes. Grandma said we can call it a party because she’s going to have punch and cake.

  My phone rings. I look around Eden’s bedroom, but I don’t see it, so I flip the blankets on my bed. Sure enough, my phone is under the sheet.

  It’s Mom.

  My thumb hovers over the “talk” button. My stomach boils while I stare at the words “Mom calling” and listen to it ring and ring. I tell myself to answer the call, but I don’t. I don’t want to talk to her. As the call rolls into voicemail, Grandma yells from downstairs, “Mary! We need your help!”

  “Just a minute.”

  “Young lady, if I needed you in a minute, I would have waited a minute to call you.”

  “I’m coming!”

  Downstairs, Aunt Maggie and Eden are sitting at the dining room table with Grandma’s friends. Grandma introduces them. “Elaine, Connie, and Beth reporting for duty!” Then she sets a laptop at the end of the table by an empty chair.

  “I thought I’d get Bernie to join us.”

  “Mom doesn’t have wireless at the motel,” I say.

  “There was an opening at another motel across town, so they switched,” Aunt Maggie says. “But I don’t think Bernie wants to watch us write invi
tations.”

  Grandma waves, like she’s brushing the words out of the air. Mom appears on the screen. “Hi everyone! Perfect timing. I just tried calling Mary.” I smile and wave at the screen. I feel guilty for not answering the call, but I’m also mad about Communion. Grandma explains the plan for the night and puts stacks of envelopes in front of each of us along with photocopied pages from her address book. “Take your time. Use your most beautiful handwriting.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a long evening ahead of you. I should probably let you go so I don’t distract you,” Mom says. “Wish I could be there.”

  “You are here!” Grandma pats the laptop like it’s Mom’s head. “Family is never a distraction.”

  I say, “We could type these into a label program, print them, and stick them on the envelopes. Wouldn’t that be easier and neater?”

  Grandma and her friends laugh. Grandma says, “Right! How about we just send text messages with an invitation. L-O-L!”

  “Grandma likes to do things the old-fashioned way,” Aunt Maggie says. “And we appreciate it, don’t we Eden?”

  Eden blushes. “Yes, it’s appreciated by me certainly.”

  “You kids these days don’t practice your cursive, so I’m going to show you what beautiful handwriting looks like.” Grandma slowly writes on an envelope and puts it in front of me. “See how pretty it is and how personal it looks?”

  Mr. and Mrs. George Neustrand

  1400 West Ridge Road

  Holton, Minnesota 59023

  I nod. “Yes, Grandma, that’s beautiful.”

  “When I was a little girl, penmanship mattered. This would have earned me an A.” Grandma hands me a piece of scrap paper. “Mary, practice on this first.”

  Luke comes from the kitchen with a glass of milk. Peanut butter is smeared above his lip like a mustache. He lifts his shirt and wipes milk from his chin. “What about me? Don’t I get to help? Hi, Mom!”

  “Hi, sweetie!”

  “Sure, honey,” Aunt Maggie says, although Grandma raises an eyebrow. “You can put on the stamps.”

  “But they have to be perfectly straight!” Grandma says. “And you can’t touch anything until you change your shirt and wash your face and hands.”

  Luke heads over to Grandma’s side of the house for a clean shirt. I tell her, “He’ll be bored after three stamps.”

  “It’s just an envelope with a stamp being stuck on it,” Eden says. “He can’t make a mistake with it, I don’t think.”

  Grandma snorts. “Just a stamp? And I suppose this is just a wedding?”

  “Of course not,” Aunt Maggie says. “Quality control is important.”

  Everyone stops talking because we’re concentrating. Grandma’s friends are writing so slowly I can barely see their fingers move. I hardly ever write in cursive. I practice writing Mr. and Mrs. Richard R. Collins on the scrap paper.

  Mom says, “You’re starting to freeze up. I think I’m losing the connection.”

  Stretch goes the rubber band! Under my breath I say, “Blasted Internet!”

  And the screen goes blank.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There’s going to be a wedding in 33 days

  Eden and I are hunched over the puzzle for the third night in a row. She’s completed an entire corner while I’ve done nothing but sort pieces into color groups. I can’t stop thinking about Blessed Imelda and the chewed-up Communion wafer hidden in my rosary box. I almost showed it to Eden yesterday. She knows about Catholic rules and what Grandma is like and what Mom is like. But my job is to help with Eden’s stress and conflict, not to heap layers on her. So I keep it inside.

  I press a couple of pieces together, but they don’t fit. The pieces are the same shade of sky blue with the same pattern, and they will not snap together. Eden, though, is gently pressing together piece after piece, forming a beige ribbon that ripples through the red stone.

  “How did you get so good?”

  “I just study things,” Eden says. “I don’t say much, but I pay attention.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’d be surprised what you notice when you’re invisible. Watch Grandma, for instance. She talks all the time, and that’s what most people notice. They hear but they don’t see. She always gives a quick tug on her right ear when she’s frustrated. Always her right ear. The more frustrated she is, the more she does it. She also tips her head when she smiles. Just a little and always to the left.”

  “Interesting. What do you notice about me?”

  “You keep everything inside. You always say ‘oh’ or ‘okay’ or ‘sure.’ You don’t ever really respond to things people say.”

  My back feels stiff. “You don’t respond much, either.”

  “I do take medication for social anxiety disorder, Mary.”

  “I talk! I talked to customers all the time at the store. And I have a bunch of friends.”

  Eden squints at the pieces in front of her, looking for subtle difference in color. I think I hurt her feelings. “I don’t mean you don’t have friends.” I say, “That’s not what I meant. I’m sure you have friends. I know you do.”

  “I have a friend from the hospital laundry. Her name is Emma. She’s thirty and she has two kids, but she’s always been nice to me.”

  “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “People weren’t nice in school. I was chubby in elementary school, and kids called me the Garden of Eatin’.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “In junior high girls used to stick maxi pads to my back.”

  I say, “This guy Brent calls me ‘Scary Mary’ and ‘Hairy Mary.’”

  “Brent? I had a tormentor named Brent, too. He put a mouse in my locker, and it shredded my English notebook, but I didn’t want to tell my teacher because she’d make a big deal out of it. Things would get worse instead of better. I lost all the notes for my big research paper, and I barely passed the class.” Her voice is calm, like she’s reporting financial news. I know she didn’t have many friends, and I know about her anxiety disorder, but I didn’t know people were flat-out mean to her.

  Eden sighs. “It gets easier in high school. By senior year, people grow out of their meanness, mostly. Then they ignored me, and that made everything easier.”

  I’m sad that being ignored was an improvement for Eden. Once I overheard Aunt Maggie say how much she worries because Eden’s a loner and kids don’t appreciate her thoughtfulness. Then Grandma chimed in that Eden had family, and that’s all people need.

  “I hear you’re spending a lot of time with the neighbor kid.” Eden’s voice has a hint of teasing.

  “Not really.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Grandma looks out the window a lot.”

  I groan and drop my face into my hands as Eden laughs. “Our grandmother is crazy!”

  Eden says, “I know, but it’s good crazy. Mostly it’s good crazy. You know, there’s good crazy, and there’s bad crazy.”

  “Did she go on any other dates with you and Justin? Because one date is good crazy. Any more than that is bad crazy.”

  “Sometimes we invite her because she’s lonely. She can be really fun, and Justin is so sweet to her. You know what? She wants us to play laser tag with her.”

  “You are not serious.”

  “I am completely serious.” She giggles. “Imagine her dressed in black with goggles over her silver hair.”

  We completely crack up. I want to ask more about Justin. I almost ask if she kisses Justin, but DUH, of course she does. Still I wonder if she kissed him or if he kissed her or if they kissed at the exact same time, but I know she’ll turn eight shades of purple if I bring it up. She’ll say it’s time for bed, and the night will end.

  And I don’t want it to end, because talking with Eden is awesome, even if it involves 5,000 puzzle pieces.

  ABOUT BRENT HELZINSKI AND ME

  I’d rather think about Jesus’s disappointment with me for storing His Body in a rosary b
ox than think about Brent Helzinski.

  I am done thinking about Brent Helzinski.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There’s going to be a wedding in 29 days

  “Mary, I need help.” Eden shuffles through her room wearing a robe, opens the closet, and freezes. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  We’re meeting Justin’s parents at an Italian restaurant where Aunt Maggie booked a private room. I’m wearing my blue sundress with a flowing skirt, and Grandma let me use mascara. She says thick, dark eyelashes make my brown eyes look dramatic. While Eden stares into her closet, I peek out the window to see if Nick’s outside. He’s not.

  Eden says, “I thought I didn’t care about clothes, and I don’t, but suddenly I do. What’s wrong with me? Justin says his parents don’t care about things like fancy clothes. Am I becoming a bridezilla?”

  “You’re not a bridezilla, but you’re going to make us late. Just pick out something and then do your hair.”

  “My hair doesn’t look done?” Eden turns her head from side to side so I can get a full view. “I tried to fluff it out. I followed directions from a bridal magazine Grandma bought me.”

  “It looks like your hair got caught in a ceiling fan,” Luke says from the doorway.

  How’d he get to Eden’s room without me hearing the squeaky floorboards in the hall? That kid should be a spy.

  “Luke doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’re beautiful. I just need to smooth it down a bit.” I use my palm to tame the fluffiest sections of her hair. “Get out of here, Luke. We’re busy.”

  “Grandma says Aunt Maggie and Uncle Will are going to meet us at the restaurant and you’re already five minutes late and she’ll give you five more minutes because the bride can be fashionably late but anything more than ten minutes is not fashionable. It’s just rude.”

  Eden sits on the bed and sighs. “I can’t do this. I can’t. There has to be another way.”