It’ll just be the once, I told myself. Kylie won’t give it another thought, and everything will work out fine.
But part of me still wanted to pull a U-turn and head right home.
“Maybe we should stop for coffee so I can gather my thoughts,” I said, prompting a frown from Heather. “Or maybe I should stop at a grocery store for a pie or something. Why am I showing up empty-handed? What’s wrong with me?”
“No stopping. Just keep driving. We’re almost there, and this is too potentially life changing to put off.”
Heather was taking pains to treat this like a lark, and I was playing along, but my stomach decided it wanted to be not only inside out but on fire too. “What if she’s awful?”
“You’re a hairdresser,” she said. “You can handle anyone.”
I told myself that she was right, and if Aunt Micki turned out to be horrible, I could always get in my car, drive home, and pretend it never happened.
Google Maps said I only had a tenth of a mile left, but we were in the heart of Willow Falls, on the main strip through the picturesque downtown. I passed O’Malley’s Pub and spotted its address—955. Did she live above the bar? I almost smiled at the thought. Maybe my mom and Micki weren’t so different after all.
“It should be on this block,” Heather said, but she sounded just as confused as I was.
I pulled into a spot in front of a quaint bridal shop, its window display full of flowers and hope, and ignored the jab to my heart.
“Are we here?” Kylie asked from the back seat, her voice still rough with sleep.
“I think so,” I said. “I don’t see 959, but the annoying robot voice says we’ve arrived. Let’s get out and take a look around.”
Even though we hadn’t been in the car very long, we got out and stretched like seasoned road trippers, and then took in the suburb of Willow Falls. It was gorgeous in the fall. The tree-lined main street was awash in gold, crimson, and bright orange, and the shops had already jumped into the Halloween season. Gourds were everywhere, and their slightly phallic shapes added an oddly humorous touch.
“Uh, Ally?” Heather stood in front of the bridal shop window. On closer inspection, only one of the dresses on display was white, the others were blue and pink and purple and even burgundy. Oddly, they looked like bridal gowns, not bridesmaid or mother of the bride dresses.
“I’ve never heard of something like this,” Heather said, grinning up at a sign in beautiful calligraphy. “I might have to make use of it someday!”
The Not-So-Blushing-Bride: THE Wedding Experience for Women over Forty!
And hanging from the sign, tiny and barely noticeable, was a white plaque stenciled with the numbers 9-5-9.
Was this a joke?
“This is it,” I said, mustering up some confidence.
“It is?” Kylie said. “I’m confused.”
Heather just laughed.
An old-fashioned bell chimed. We walked in . . . and then stopped in our tracks, completely unprepared for the chaos in front of us.
There were dresses everywhere, some arranged neatly in rows, but most thrown over chairs or hanging from nails driven haphazardly into walls. In one corner, on what looked like a PVC pipe balanced between two brightly painted ladders, dresses of every color were hung low, their skirts brushing the floor. Sofas were placed in random spots, though it would require moving mountains of bridal magazines, shoeboxes, and accessory bins to find a seat. Makeup and hair products covered the small, low coffee tables assigned to each sofa. It was a room that needed riot control.
“Welcome! Someone will be with you in a minute!”
“Is that her?” Heather whispered.
It couldn’t be. The voice was too youthful. Searching for its source, I explored the space further, stumbling upon a changing room half-hidden by a forest of silk and taffeta. In contrast to the surrounding chaos, it was simple and well lit, a small stage positioned in front of three large mirrors. A row of closed doors lined the opposite wall. A young African American girl, dressed inexplicably in a gold patterned sari, motioned for us to join her. Since Kylie was so young, I wasn’t good at guessing older kids’ ages, but if I had to, I’d say she was fourteen? Maybe sixteen?
“Can you give me an opinion on something?” she asked, her smile open and trusting. “I mean, I’m usually okay with mine, but not always. I’ve only been working here for six months.”
“Sure,” Heather said from behind me. “We love our opinions and mostly trust them.”
I gave Heather a look, tilting my head toward Kylie, who plastered herself to Heather, her small arm wrapped tightly around my friend’s waist. Heather tried to back up into the next room, but Kylie held her in place. Sorry, Heather mouthed.
The girl in the sari knocked on one of the closed doors. “Bernie?” she called. “Are you ready?”
Maybe I wasn’t so great at gauging kids’ ages, but I could ballpark those of the elderly. The woman who walked out of the changing room was ancient.
And she was wearing a virginal, snow-white, full-skirted, taffeta dream of a wedding gown.
“Let me help you get in front of the mirrors,” the girl said, and gave the older woman her arm for support.
Sure the scene was bizarre, but strangely enough, this ninety-year-old woman preening in a wedding dress was less Miss Havisham and more something timelessly beautiful. Fine-boned and birdlike, she must have been a stunner when we were sending boys overseas and rationing sugar. I helped countless women her age try to camouflage the ravages of time on hair, but hers was still thick, a silver cap adorning a small, well-shaped head.
The younger girl took a step back while the older woman made slow half turns in front of the mirror.
“You look nice,” Kylie said, flushing.
“Thank you, dear,” Bernie said, “but I was hoping for something more . . . dramatic. One of those mermaid skirts, possibly? I think something more form-fitting is the answer.” She placed two wrinkled hands on her bottom. “A bride must show off her best assets on the most important day of her life.”
Heather made a strange noise and covered it up with a cough.
“I can pull some more dresses,” the young girl said, “but let’s not toss this one to the side yet.” She glanced into the other room, the disaster zone. “I have an idea. Hold tight.”
She left, and a heavy, awkward silence fell like a veil.
“When’s the big day?” Heather croaked, the laugh still caught in her throat.
“Soon,” the older woman said. “Which one of you is getting married?”
“Neither of us,” I said quickly. “We’re here to see Micki Patel. Do you know her?”
“Of course I do. She owns this shop. Did you think Radha owned it? She’s sixteen!”
My patience was starting to wear. “Can you tell me where I can find Micki?”
“She dashed off to the café for something or other. She should return momentarily.”
Radha ran back into the room carrying an armload of accessories. “I’ve got a silk hat to try, and a tiara if that doesn’t work. I found some nice drop earrings—they’re fake but no one will know, they look so good, and—oh! Let me try this on you!” She jumped onto the small stage and opened a tube of red lipstick. “This is totally classic. You’re going to look amazing.”
“Hmph,” Bernie said.
Radha gently applied the bright color to the thin lips of the older woman. Bernie closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation.
“Have a look,” Radha said.
The splash of color brightened Bernie’s entire face. She didn’t smile at the mirror, but she did stare, fixated by the change in her appearance.
“That lipstick is a firm maybe,” she said after a moment. “Possibly even a yes. Put it to the side.”
Radha raised her arms, triumphant. “Yay! I knew we’d find something that worked.”
Bernie opened her lipsticked mouth to say something, but just then a huge crash sent us back into t
he other room.
“Is it you?” said a blowsy from-the-bottle redhead. At her feet lay coffee to-go cups, their contents spilled over the floor and rapidly heading toward a haphazardly stacked pile of wedding dresses. She ignored the mess and looked from me to Heather. “Which one of you is mine? Oh, you’re both so gorgeous! I’ll take both of you!”
Heather peeled off her cotton wrap and dove to the floor, using it to soak up the coffee before it ruined the dresses. “Her,” she said, pointing to me. “I’m just the support staff.”
Frozen, I stared at my aunt. Say something, I told myself. Say anything.
“Do you have any paper towels?”
“Oh!” Micki said. “I do . . . somewhere.”
“I’ve got it, Mom,” Radha said. “No worries.”
Mom?
Micki plucked the cups from the floor and disappeared into one of the back rooms. Heather helped Radha finish sopping up the coffee. I stood there, clutching Kylie’s shoulders.
“You’re cutting her hair?” she whispered. “This is a little weird.”
“Weird can be good, right?”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
Micki fluttered back into the room, holding a wicker basket full of juice boxes and chocolate Kisses. “This is all I’ve got,” she said. “My stash for bored flower girls.”
Apple juice. That was one of the few fruit juices that didn’t upset Kylie’s stomach. She tentatively reached a hand out and took a box. The chocolate Kisses were nut-free—we’d established them as one of the few safe candies years before—but still Kylie didn’t accept one until I plucked a Kiss and popped it in my mouth, putting the wrapper in my purse because I didn’t spot a garbage can.
“I have a severe nut allergy,” Kylie told Micki. “But these are okay for me to eat. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Micki said. “Eat as many as you want.”
Kylie’s hand snaked into the basket, and she took a few more and passed one to me.
There was the odd moment of silence that happens when a group of people suddenly realizes the awkwardness of their situation. Bernie had snuck into the room, still wearing the poofy wedding dress. She took a juice box from the basket and struggled to puncture the top with the straw. When she finally got it in, some juice splashed up on her bodice. Radha cringed and forced a smile.
“Um . . . do you have another room so we can get started?” I asked Micki, hoping she’d get the gist.
“Of course!” she said. “Let me get your friends settled.” She desperately searched for a spot that wasn’t covered in wedding paraphernalia. She gathered up some dresses and tossed them off the nearest couch. Radha cleared some veils off another, and we situated Kylie and Heather around a coffee table covered in piles of what looked like industrial strength Spanx. Radha and Bernie sat opposite, the two parties engaging in a staring contest. I figured it would only be seconds until Heather would come up with a way to break the silence.
Micki led me back into the changing area. She shut a pocket door, and we found ourselves alone, sitting together on the small stage in front of the trio of mirrors.
Do we jump right in? I popped another Kiss in my mouth, silently berating myself for not preparing better for this meeting. Why didn’t I have a list of detailed questions? Should I have practiced? I needed a shopping list!
“You hated oatmeal,” Micki said, her eyes swimming with tears. She clutched my hands. “I knew I had to feed it to you, but you’d stick your tongue out every time I tried. I felt so guilty for forcing you. I’m so, so sorry. I was in my twenties. I should have known a better way to feed you.”
A surge of emotion caught me off guard. I opened my mouth to comfort her, not realizing I was still sucking on the chocolate Kiss. Instead of offering words of support, I offered a long stream of brown-tinged drool that landed on her wedding ring.
“I’m so sorry!” I squeaked, glancing around for something to wipe it up.
Micki wiped her hand on her pants and smiled at me. “Don’t worry about it. We’re family.”
Family.
I took a good hard look at Micki Patel. The tilt of her nose. The color of her eyes. The arch of her brow.
So similar to mine.
My hands started trembling in hers. Suddenly, I wanted everything. I wanted this woman to lay out my past as clearly as the DNA test. “My mother,” I said. “Tell me . . .”
Micki swiped at a runaway tear. “She was older than me. Old enough to take care of a baby, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t judge her yet. I don’t know anything about her.”
Micki smiled faintly. “Cissy was wild. Always liked a good time. Our mother died young, and we lived in a house full of men. We didn’t have anyone really minding us.”
“How did she die?”
“Your mother or mine?”
“Both, I guess.”
Micki glanced at the carpet. “My mother by her own hand. Her life was harder than you can imagine, and she didn’t have the kind of spirit that can overcome too much pain.” She paused. “Your mother . . . well, my sister didn’t treat her body right. She was always sickly. As she got older, her arthritis got really bad. She had a hip replacement and sepsis set in. Her body couldn’t take it. This was four years ago.”
I tried to think about what I was doing four years before. Kylie was six. Matt and I were still happy.
And the woman who brought me into the world was leaving it.
“Why did she give me up?” My throat nearly closed while asking the question, as if my body was trying to protect me from the answer.
“She was an adult woman who could barely take care of herself,” Micki said quietly. “She hated getting out of bed in the morning, but she liked staying up late. She liked a drink and sometimes a drug, and she liked men, but hated responsibility. There was never enough money, and she didn’t try too hard to change that.”
I tried to picture this woman. I couldn’t. “Do you have a photo of her here at the store?”
“No, sweetie. I’m sorry.” She took my hands again. “Look, none of those things necessarily make someone a bad mother, but Cissy knew that they did make her one. I wish I had an answer that wouldn’t make you feel awful, but this is all I’ve got.”
“Sounds like she tried to give me a better life than she had,” I said, grasping for something positive.
“I can tell just by looking at you that she succeeded,” Micki said. “My sister and I weren’t close—we ran with different crowds—but I loved her, sometimes despite who she was. She loved you in her own way. I loved you, too, and it broke my heart when you left.”
“I didn’t leave,” I said quietly. “I was given away.”
Micki’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. You were.”
“I have to ask you . . .”
“Anything,” she said.
“Why didn’t you take me?” I leaned forward, anticipating her response.
But Kylie screamed before she could answer.
A zombie had come through the front door of the bridal shop.
Gray-skinned, with a yawning mouth full of bloody teeth and a shock of matted yellow-white hair, the zombie inched toward us, groaning, his arms outstretched.
Kylie scurried to me and dug her forehead into my ribs.
“What the hell?” Heather said.
“Dad!” Radha shouted and ran over to the beast.
Dad?
The zombie laughed and accepted her hug.
“Sandy,” Micki said. “Come and meet my . . . friend!”
“Just a moment,” he gurgled. The zombie gently released Radha and yanked at his hair, which came off with a tug. Underneath was a brown, shiny head with some wispy black and silver hairs sticking straight up. Out came the bloody mouth piece. He carefully peeled off a fake nose. “More presentable,” he said to me, in a lilting accent. “I would shake your hand if mine wasn’t covered in makeup. I’m Sandeep Patel, Micki’s husband.”
Micki beamed at hi
m. “Sandeep is a scream actor at the pop-up haunted house off Route 83. He’s fantastic at it.”
Sandeep returned her smile and then shrugged at me. His eyes were amused and friendly underneath the makeup. “It’s a good retirement job,” he explained. “Scaring the stuffing out of people pays fairly well.”
“You scared the stuffing out of me,” Kylie said, half under her breath. She’d returned to her spot on the couch.
“I’m surprised,” Sandeep said. “You look like the fearless type. ‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’ That’s Mr. Shakespeare.”
Kylie stared at the bloody teeth he’d set on the coffee table. “Um . . . thank you?”
We stood there, smiling at each other, waiting for someone to make a move. I didn’t know what to do next—had I gotten what I came for? The details of my biological mother’s life had set off fireworks in my brain, sonic booms bursting into a million questions—questions I wanted answered, pronto.
But those would have to wait until another time, when Micki and I could be alone again.
Still, I could scoop a question from the top of the pile. Every bit of information about this new family felt valuable. I went with, “How long have you been married?”
“Ten years. Sandeep was the office manager at the medical supply company where I used to work in sales,” Micki began. “When we got married, I had a hard time finding a dress, or anything suited for an older bride. So when we retired—”
The Other Family Page 7