Wow. Being in a profession that requires me to talk to people all day long, I didn’t think someone could stump me conversationally. “Well . . . ,” I said, because I had no idea how to address something so complicated. “Radha is African American. Sandeep is Indian. Micki is Italian, I think. Radha will have a lot to celebrate when she gets adopted.”
“They’ll be a new family.”
“Yes,” I said. “They will.”
“That’s nice,” Kylie said, snuggling into me even more. “When it happens, I hope we can celebrate with them.”
“Maybe . . .”
Kylie sat upright. “Why maybe? I like Radha. I want to be friends with her for a long time. I can, right?”
I had a choice. I could further bury the truth under an ever-growing lie, or I could uncover it before the weight crushed not only the truth but also the trust my daughter placed in me. “Honey, it’s just a little complicated. You know that DNA test we did? Well, it tells you about your relatives who’ve taken the test.”
“Living ones?” Kylie asked.
“Uh-huh. Micki is the sister of the lady who gave me up for adoption. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about that, but I didn’t know what kind of person she’d be, and I was trying to protect you. I don’t like to lie, and I shouldn’t have done it.”
Kylie grinned. “So, she’s, like, related to us?”
“She is.”
“So that means Radha will be too.”
“I . . . guess.”
“That is so cool. Did you tell Grandma?” Kylie’s smile dimmed before I could answer. “You didn’t. You didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“You are a smart girl. I never want to make Grandma sad, and I think she would be, if she knew.”
“Maybe Grandma can get to know Micki and Sandy and Radha. Then she’d like them, and it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sweetie, we don’t know Micki and her family. We only met them once.”
“I know right away when I like people or not. And I like them. Grandma will too.”
“That might be true, but let’s keep it quiet for now, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, and then, with the incredible talent kids have for compartmentalization, she packed up that topic and skipped to the next. “So today I’ll wear the striped dress,” she announced, “but only with the gray tights. And I want to wear your necklace, the one with all the colored beads. I can make it work.”
“Yes,” I said, hugging her to me, “you can.”
She hugged me back, and I grabbed at this moment of peace, shoving aside my anxieties, turning my back on my fears. We held each other, mother and daughter, barely moving, just drawing our breath in and out, in and out. For this snippet of a Sunday morning, we lived entirely, and gloriously, in the moment.
Until the scent of bacon (turkey, uncured, nitrite-free) wafted through the air.
Kylie’s head popped up. “Grandma’s cooking breakfast!”
“Go get some before she eats it all!”
She dashed out of the room, and I took a few more minutes to myself, lost to my thoughts. If I was being honest with myself, I was looking forward to Micki’s fashion show, probably more than I’d looked forward to anything in a long time. It could be the last time I had contact with her . . . or not. The possibilities were like branches on the Past Is a Present family tree, reaching out in all kinds of directions. I knew I could control which path I took, so the image cheered me, and I needed cheering. I’d spent the night tossing and turning over the meeting with Principal Dunning. Why hadn’t I been more forceful? I should have walked out of there with his commitment to an allergy table.
I thought of a child drawing a peanut butter circle of death around my baby, and knew I had to do something.
The school board. The only way to fight power was with power. I had to run.
And I had to win.
Kylie had eaten a plateful (yay!) and scurried off to take a shower. My mom and I were loading the dishwasher together.
“Where are you off to today?” she asked.
“Hanging out with a friend.”
“Heather?”
“Yep,” I said. Even though that was technically true, I glanced away when I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “So, why did you decide to get so friendly with Matt?”
Mom stiffened. Then she looked at me with her all-knowing bartender eyes, capable of performing an MRI on my heart. I hoped she couldn’t pinpoint the guilt in mine, but it seemed I didn’t have to worry. To my surprise, I sensed something clearly in hers, something she usually hid—fear.
“If I had to making a shopping list for life,” she said, “I know what I’d write at the top—family. It’s the most important thing. I was thinking about how I’ve been treating Matt, and I think I was wrong to shut him out. You chose him to be your family, and so you chose to make him my family too. I’m starting to acknowledge the pain of it all breaking apart. Then I figured, if it’s painful for me, it must be hell for you. I let my anger get in the way of seeing that, and I’m sorry.”
It felt good to be understood, but I still didn’t understand her completely. Was she saying she wanted Matt and me to get back together? That we should stay together because family was more important than our problems and resentments and hurt?
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s all still pretty confusing.”
“Sometimes having something real to work on can make things pretty clear. If you get a chance, spend some time with us working on Kylie’s room. Maybe if you work toward a common goal, it might give you a model for solving your other problems.”
It was practical advice. Sound and solid. I should have been grateful for it.
So why did I desperately want her to grab me like Micki had, to wrap me in a hug so fierce I felt breathless?
Guilt didn’t just tap my shoulder, it shoved at me, hard and demanding attention. “I’ll try to make the time to help, but could you keep an eye on Kylie when she’s messing around with paints and power tools? The last thing we need is more doctors’ bills.”
The main street of Willow Falls was closed to traffic—sawhorses blocked the road, and an enormous, leafy sign hung overhead, proclaiming the town’s fall festival. It was so picturesque I couldn’t get annoyed at having to circle the crowded side streets, searching for somewhere to park.
“This place can’t get any better,” Heather said. “It’s the freaking Gilmore Girls set. Why don’t we live here?”
“We haven’t got enough money to live here,” I said as I pulled into a narrow spot a few blocks from Micki’s shop. “But yeah, everything here is too cute, even the parking meters.” The meters were each colorfully painted with a different design and yoked with a sign that boasted the grade school classroom responsible for the artwork.
“I can’t even make fun of that,” Heather said. “It’s just too adorable.”
“I really, really like it here,” Kylie contributed. Her large eyes were even rounder than usual, trying to take everything in.
Excited, we walked quickly in the direction of the bridal shop, oohing and aahing over the sidewalk displays, food trucks, and giant pumpkins, which only seemed to get larger the closer we got to Micki’s. The two in front of The Not-So-Blushing-Bride could have featured in a Grimm’s fairy tale. Bright orange and bulging, with healthy stems curling upward, they flanked a long runway skirted in deep-green fabric. A small crowd had already gathered, clustered around a tent that housed a flurry of activity. Radha, dressed in a black turtleneck topped by a burnt-orange and burgundy sari, stood outside, holding up the tent’s flap and motioning for us to come inside.
“We need help,” she screeched when she spotted us. “Quick!”
Having done hair at countless weddings, fashion shows, and high school senior photo shoots, Heather and I were well versed in the particular kind of drama associated with women on the verge of being looked at by a lot of people. Still, when we entered the tent, the whipped-up energy nearly knock
ed us over.
There were middle-aged to elderly women, all shapes and sizes, in wedding dresses—some poofy, some not, some bedazzled, some not, some meant only for a reality TV show, some draping off aging bodies with such elegance and grace, the simple beauty of it almost brought a tear to my very jaded eye.
A single mirror hung over a table covered with every type of makeup and hair product on the market. As the ladies jostled for position, the mirror swung to and fro, hitting one woman in the face while she tried to apply lipstick. Another woman decided to spray her hair and created a toxic cloud of fumes. The close quarters meant that every bridal train attached to a dress was getting stepped on, which meant half the women were regularly stumbling forward.
In the corner, Bernie stood talking to another woman, wearing a mermaid-skirted dress more appropriate for a twentysomething, and yet the form-fitting style suited her. The woman she was talking to, buxom and gesturing wildly, was wearing a push-everything-up bustier over a long skirt. She was younger than Bernie by about thirty years, which put her at about sixty.
“This is awesome,” Heather said.
“It isn’t awesome at all,” Radha whined. “No one is ready, and we’re scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. Can you guys help with hair and makeup?”
After finding Kylie a place to sit, I picked up a brush and got to work. I teased and French-twisted, and, in the case of one woman with waist-length gray hair, I fashioned two braids I curled around her head, Princess Leia–style. She loved it.
“Me next,” Bernie shouted from across the room.
“Over here,” I said. “In front of the mirror.”
She shook her head and motioned toward her legs, encased in the dress. “I can’t really move all that easily.”
I wove my way toward her. “How are you going to walk down the runway?” I said in her ear.
“I don’t know,” she said, seemingly unworried. “I do know this dress is perfect. I’ve found it, and I’m not getting out of it.”
“I think it might be permanently adhered to your skin.” I gently brushed her cap of silver hair and smoothed down stray pieces. She wore the lipstick Radha had picked out. I plucked a brown eyeliner from my purse and drew her some brows.
“You look gorgeous,” I said sincerely. “Very Audrey Hepburn.”
Bernie frowned. “I have a better nose than her.”
I stifled a laugh. “Will Reggie be here? You don’t want him to see the dress before the wedding, do you?”
“Reggie is in London.” She sniffed. “There are more important things in the world to do than come to a small-town fashion show.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything better than being here right now,” I said. “But, I haven’t seen Micki yet. Where is she?”
Bernie smiled in a way that could only be described as wicked. “You’ll see,” she said.
Heather and I primped and glossed, shaded and contoured, until every woman was ready to be scrutinized by the citizens of Willow Falls. “It’s Raining Men” started playing in all of its bouncy, ’80s-inspired glory.
“Oh, for the love of all that is holy,” Heather said. “I live for over-the-top shit like this.”
“Auntie Heather,” Kylie admonished.
“I meant stuff! I misspoke!”
Kylie smirked. “Uh-huh.”
We took our places facing the end of the runway. The crowd had swelled, and people pressed forward to make room for newcomers. I positioned Kylie in front of me, my hands protectively on her shoulders. The music turned up a notch, and the first bride sashayed toward us—the gray-haired Princess Leia wannabe. Her dress looked appropriately futuristic.
Radha’s voice rang out over the murmuring crowd. “Helen is wearing a modern dress by Micki’s Originals, perfect for a second—or third or fourth!—wedding! The drape is . . . uh . . . drapey, and the length . . . goes to the floor. Floor-length! Yeah!”
Princess Leia winked at me, then her elbow shot out, hand on hip, as she struck the posiest pose better than any supermodel.
“Oh, she’s good,” Heather said. “It’s all about the attitude.”
“So cool,” Kylie agreed.
The next one was the bustier-clad woman I’d seen speaking to Bernie earlier. She bounded down the runway, barely contained in her dress, grinning and waving to countless people in the delighted audience. Buxom Bride was popular.
“I’m worried,” I muttered. “Think that fabric is going to hold?”
“I certainly hope not,” Heather said.
The bride blew kisses to the crowd. She got lipstick on her hand.
“So . . . Leticia is wearing a dress by Beautiful Bridals,” Radha said, sounding a little unsure of herself. She dropped the mic, swore, then plucked it off the ground. “Uh . . .”
I scanned the scene. Where was Micki? Where was Sandy?
Radha cleared her throat. “Okay . . . um . . . the boob part of the dress is covered in Swarovski crystals. There’s . . . a lot of them on there.”
The crowd laughed. With one final wave, Leticia sashayed back into the tent.
Three beautifully dressed middle-aged brides followed, their movements narrated by Radha. She continued to struggle, but managed to keep going, her voice losing its nervous shake by the third bride.
Way to go, I silently encouraged her.
“And now,” she said, “we have beautiful Bernie in a mermaid dress designed by Micki herself. She put panels in it to . . . you know, suck everything in . . . not that Bernie needs it . . . not that anyone needs it. You know what I mean.”
Everyone’s attention shifted to the start of the runway.
No Bernie.
“This dress will . . . uh . . . make everyone jealous if you wear it. I mean, you’ll look so good everyone will want to kill you. Wait, that’s not what I meant!” Radha caught my eye, everything about her look saying, help!
Heather craned her neck. “What happened to Bernie? Do you think she’s okay?”
“Let’s go see,” I said, already heading toward the tent. Radha droned on about the importance of smooth lines, and again I gave her credit for doing so well under pressure. The crowd already showed signs of impatience, though, and I wondered how long they would last before getting distracted by the fair’s other delights.
Inside the tent, the group of brides circled Bernie, who looked miserable.
I swam through the sea of taffeta and silk until I hovered over her. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s too snug,” she snapped. “I can’t move.”
“Really?”
Bernie shuffled a few inches toward me, the mermaid skirt hugging her legs so much she could only move an inch or two at a time. “See?” she said.
Heather was at my elbow. “Maybe we could cut a bigger slit in the skirt?”
“No!” Bernie said. “Micki would be despondent.”
“We’re going to take a short intermission,” I heard Radha say. “Really short. Don’t go anywhere!”
Radha poked her head into the tent. “Do something!”
Kylie tugged on my sweater. “Mom, help her!”
I thought for a moment, then grabbed two wedding dresses from the rack and shoved one at Heather. “Change.”
“What?”
“Just do it. We’re going to hold her up. Once down the runway, once up, and we’re good. Kylie, take my phone and get some pictures.”
Modesty out the window, I tore off my sweater, skirt, and tights and squeezed into what was actually a really simple, elegant Meghan Markle–style gown. Heather’s was a nightmare—huge pleats on the waistline gave the illusion of a not-so-hidden pregnancy.
“You gave yourself the good one.” She laughed. “But let’s go strike a pose.”
Heather took one of Bernie’s arms and I the other, and we lifted her onto the mouth of the runway. She was surprisingly light, her bones feeling fragile under my hands.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered.
Radha noticed we wer
e ready. “Surprise! We have three brides instead of just one. We are so lucky!”
Someone changed the music over to a Sinatra song.
Ever so gently, Heather and I lifted Bernie an inch off the ground. We walked swiftly, eyes forward, and I hoped no one could see my scuffed green suede boots underneath my skirt. Radha prattled on about our dresses, and we showed off Bernie as best we could.
“Turn me around once so everyone can see the train,” Bernie muttered through her smile.
Panicked, I locked eyes with Heather.
No way, she mouthed.
“Do it,” Bernie insisted.
“Move clockwise,” I hissed.
Slowly, so, so slowly, we turned Bernie 360 degrees, giving everyone a good look at her tiny, ancient, satin-encased bum. Then we started the long walk back to the tent. My grip began to slide down Bernie’s arm, so I slid my other hand around her waist, tugging a bit on the silky fabric.
“Ally?” Heather tilted her head toward Bernie’s chest. “Wardrobe malfunction!”
The front of the dress dipped low, so low that . . .
A ninety-year-old nipple peeked out above the neckline.
Shock froze my reaction time. A young mother in the front row gasped and covered her son’s eyes.
Bernie began to laugh, a cackle that turned into a roar as Heather and I struggled to cover her wrinkled bosom. People started to clap, the applause growing thunderous as we quickly escorted her back into the tent.
We lowered Bernie to the ground. My arms ached—I could hold a hair dryer up for eight hours, but a couple of minutes hoisting Bernie had pulled at my rotator cuff.
“Our little exhibitionist,” Heather said, grinning. “What would Reggie say if he saw that?”
“Reggie would have loved it,” Bernie said. She contorted her body, trying to escape the dress. “Now I need someone to unzip me before I crack a rib.”
“I know you want to look beautiful for your wedding, but maybe this isn’t quite the right dress for you,” I said as I complied.
“Beauty is pain,” Bernie said, shrugging. “It’s going into the maybe pile.”
The Other Family Page 11