“And now for the grand finale,” Radha yelled outside. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
Heather and I dashed outside, holding our dresses above our ankles as we ran.
The crowd, probably still riled up from Bernie’s nip slip, surged forward, excited.
The music screeched on again, abruptly switching from Sinatra to the theme from The Walking Dead.
The doors to The Not-So-Blushing-Bride opened slowly to reveal a zombie bride and groom—gray skin, tattered clothes, blood spilling out the side of their mouths. They held hands, lurching forward as the hushed crowd parted to let them through. The zombie groom boosted the zombie bride onto the runway, and then hopped on himself. The ghoulish couple lurched around the stage for a moment, and then shoved their hands into hidden pockets, drawing out candy that they threw to the cheering crowd.
It was in that moment that I fell in love with Micki and Sandeep Patel, and their almost-daughter Radha.
The spooky music changed again, to something with a strong beat.
Radha began to rap. Badly but in earnest. “Just because you aren’t in your twenties, doesn’t mean you can’t be funky. Brides come in all ages and sizes, and we’re still all prizes. Want a dress that’s a source of pride? Come shop at The Not-So-Blushing-Bride!”
“This is tandoori chicken, and this is a lamb dish . . . What is it called, Dad?”
Sandy’s grin still showed traces of zombie blood. “Rogan josh.”
“Oh yeah.” Radha doled out a healthy portion on everyone’s plate. “I forgot about that one.”
We sat crowded together on the only sofas that weren’t covered in discarded dresses, accessories, and low-heeled wedding shoes. Micki and Sandy had mostly cleaned themselves up, and Bernie had changed into a cardigan and polyester pants. She picked at the aromatic Indian food, taking infrequent nibbles.
“You can eat with your hands, if you want,” Radha lectured her. “Try to use your right hand. That’s how it’s done in India.”
Sandeep beamed at her, but there was something sad in his smile. Bernie scrunched her nose up at the thought of not using silverware.
“Can I eat with my hands, Mom?” Kylie had already dipped her index finger into the beef stew I’d brought for her, warmed in Micki’s microwave. She was used to bringing her own food to events, but it was sometimes hard not to feel a little left out. Which is why I was going to let her eat something so messy without a fork.
“Wash your hands first, but yes, you can.”
As I watched Kylie weave her way between racks of wedding dresses, I thought about Radha’s deep interest in her foster father’s heritage. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. In one way, Radha’s desire to be fully part of the Patel family was sweet and loving, and proof of how well they treated her. But then, Radha’s African American heritage should also be a source of pride for her. I wondered if she’d reached a level of maturity where she could balance both. I definitely wouldn’t have been able to at sixteen.
Radha’s deep desire to connect with her potentially adoptive parents contrasted with my ambivalence. Micki and Sandy seemed so nice and sincere. Still, I wasn’t sure what I wanted from them beyond information, or what they wanted from me. Was simply making the connection enough for either of us? I thought about my mom. The deeper I went into a relationship with Micki, the more I risked hurting her.
“I shouldn’t be eating carbs,” Micki said as she squeezed next to me on the sofa. She held a glass of white wine in one hand and a chunk of naan in the other. “They don’t agree with my system.” She continued talking while chewing on the garlicky naan. “How can I say no to something that tastes so good? We only have one life, right?”
“I dream about carbs. My daughter is gluten-free,” I explained. “But I make cookies and pizza crust with special flour.”
“And that peanut allergy. That’s got to be hard. When I was a kid we lived on peanut butter and Wonder Bread sandwiches.”
Kylie was deep in conversation with Radha. Everyone else was similarly distracted, so I took my opening. “So no one in your family was allergic?”
She shrugged. “I don’t really know. We were a family, but . . . we weren’t, if you know what I mean. Some of us had sensitive stomachs—my sister for one—but that could have been caused by a lot of different things.”
“You said she was sick a lot. With what?”
“If there was a cold going around, Cissy caught it. She was always cold. Her joints hurt, but that could have been early arthritis. She didn’t take good care of herself, which could have been the root of all her problems. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You told me what I didn’t already know, so that’s valuable.”
“You’ve got your problems, hon, but I sense you know how to play the hand you were dealt. Strong people always find a way to make the most of the life they’ve been given.”
“I guess. I don’t know if I see it that way. I just do what I have to do.”
She laughed. “What do you think that is? Lots of people do anything but what they have to do.”
Micki set her wine down so she could squeeze my hand. Hers was cold from holding the glass, but her warmth came through anyway. “You’re a good person. And a good mom,” she said. “I like that.”
Emotion pushed up my throat, and this question popped out, “Can you please tell me more about my mom?”
Micki’s eyes clouded over. “She . . . I can’t say she tried her best. She didn’t. But I don’t think she knew how. At least that’s how I decided I would forgive her. The kindest thing she ever did was give you away. It hurts to admit that, but it’s true. My heart broke when it happened, but it was good for you, at least I think so. You love your mom, right?”
“Yes. Very much.”
Micki nodded. “And she loves you. An unhappy woman wouldn’t raise someone as nice as you.”
“That’s sweet, but you don’t know me yet,” I said, gently. “I have my faults.”
“I’m not talking faults, honey. I’m talking about heart. And you’ve got it. I’m sure you’ve got faults. Who doesn’t?”
I wanted to ask her questions until I’d scoured her brain for every detail, but there was a sharp rap on the door, and a red-haired, barrel-chested police officer bounded in. He looked around the room, and discomfort immediately showed on his ruddy face.
“I’m kind of the proverbial bull in the china shop here,” he said.
“We’re durable,” Micki said, laughing. “Are you looking for something in a nice chiffon?”
“I’m sure your chiffon would be nice, Micki,” the officer said, “but I’m here in an official capacity. There’s been a complaint lodged against you and the shop.”
“Complaint?” Sandy said. “Who would complain about us?”
“Well,” the officer said, reddening. “It’s a complaint of public indecency.”
“It was just a nipple,” Heather said. “The human body is a beautiful thing.”
“That it is,” the officer said. “But it needs to be covered on Main Street, or the fine folks of Willow Falls will be rioting. In a polite manner, of course.”
Bernie stood. She looked impossibly tiny. “It was my nipple, officer,” she said.
This was not what he was expecting. His eyes automatically went to Bernie’s chest, and then just as quickly he averted his gaze. “I’m assuming it was accidental?”
“It was my fault,” I interjected. “I was trying to hold her arm, and I yanked on the fabric of her dress.”
“Ah,” he said. “So it wasn’t premeditated?”
“No,” Bernie said, “but it sure was fun!”
The officer took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Micki. “Fun isn’t against the law, at least last I checked. You folks enjoy your meal. Fully clothed, of course.”
“We’ll try,” Micki said. After he left, she took the envelope he gave her and put it in the cash register. “It’s the final payment for his fia
ncée’s dress. I designed it myself.”
“I’d like to see it,” I said.
Micki grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. Come on, it’s in the back.”
We left the others chatting away and eating food with their hands.
“It’s beyond gorgeous,” I gasped. It really was. The lines were simple—a sheath dress with a plunging neckline—but the subtle additions, embroidered flowers on the skirt and a deep-green velvet sash at the waist, gave it a uniquely personal quality.
Micki seemed embarrassed. “She’s a gardener. I wanted to bring her life into the dress. I try to do that. I know it makes me sound . . . What’s the word? Pretentious.”
“Not at all. You’re an artist! And what a wonderful thing to make a bride feel so beautiful on her wedding day.”
“Every bride is beautiful on her wedding day. It’s my job to make sure everyone notices.”
Impulsively, I reached out and gave her a side hug. “I love that. I wish I had you around when I got married. My cousin spilled red wine on my dress before the ceremony even began. I guess it was kind of an omen.”
Micki squeezed me back. “You never mentioned a husband. I didn’t want to pry, but I wondered.”
“We’re separated. Things just got . . . hard.”
“Things always get hard. If you’re with the right person, you join hands and climb the mountain together. If you aren’t, well, the hard thing gets even harder and then everything’s so brittle it just cracks.”
Brittle. That could definitely describe Matt and me. I always thought we’d had something like Micki and Sandy, but when it came down to it, we were tested and didn’t make the cut. “Sandy is the right person for you,” I said with a sigh. “I can tell.”
She laughed. “Sandy’s not my first try at this. He’s just the one I got right. And I did try with the others.”
“Others?”
“Two others. And don’t say the third time’s the charm—as far as I’m concerned, Sandy is the first. The first time I’ve had unconditional love, anyway.”
I felt like I should say something, defend Matt. We did love each other unconditionally. How could that have not been enough? It hadn’t been. Love can be free of conditions but still have limits. And we ran smack up into the wall of ours.
“You look so sad,” Micki said.
“I think that’s my default look,” I said. “Instead of resting bitch face, I have resting depressed face.”
“Well,” Micki said as she led me out of the storeroom, “at least now when you feel overcome, you can bring up the image of our gal Bernie flashing the Sunday afternoon crowd at the fall festival. Free the nipple!”
CHAPTER 10
Kylie—Your Past Is a Present!
Report 23: Based on your DNA, you’re more likely to be a long-distance runner, not a sprinter.
“You’re being weird,” Heather said. “Just sitting in a car in the grade school parking lot like some creepo.”
“I’m sitting with you, so I can’t be creepy. Creepers always act alone.”
“The Manson family didn’t.”
I gave Heather a look. “I can’t decide if I want to go inside. There are pros and cons. Lots and lots of cons.”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this. You have zero time for yourself. Why spend it with a bunch of uptight school board prisses?”
I hadn’t told Heather about the cafeteria incident for fear she’d hunt down the offender and stuff peanut butter cups up her nostrils. I turned around to make sure Kylie was asleep. She was still dozing, clutching Sandy’s zombie teeth in one hand, like a ghoulish stuffed animal. “There was an . . . incident at the school. A kid teased Kylie about her peanut allergy.”
“Teased? How so?”
“She drew around Kylie’s place in the cafeteria with a peanut butter cup.”
Heather went deathly quiet for a moment. When she spoke, there was a murderous edge to her voice. “And you think you can stop something like that from happening again if you’re on the school board?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Then what the hell are you doing out here?”
Another good question. Why was I sitting outside of Kylie’s elementary school, unable to either go in or get out of the car? It was 6:10. We were late, though we’d hauled ass from Willow Falls to arrive on time. I needed to get inside, pronto, but still, I didn’t move.
I wanted to be on the school board. I really did. I’d have a say in policies and procedures in a school system Kylie would be in for years, policies designed to protect the rights of those who needed protection. I had experience with kids who needed accommodations, and I always looked out for the underdog anyway. Because I was the underdog. Which was why I couldn’t get out of the car.
I went to beauty school instead of college. I didn’t have anything close to a fancy law degree like Cassie Flores, or even a four-year degree like most of the other women. I’d worked in the same salon for fifteen years. I was an (almost) divorced woman, camping out in her childhood home, for heaven’s sake. Could I go in there and present myself with pride? I’d need to if I was going to compete with the likes of Cassie.
“Tell me one thing,” Heather said. “How could you stop something like that from happening again if you got voted into this school board thing?”
“You know the allergy table in the lunchroom I was telling you about? That would change Kylie’s life. The school doesn’t think it’s a good idea because it implies favoritism. They offered to put Kylie in an empty classroom as an alternative. She’d be eating alone every day. Alone. If I was on the board, I could push for the change.”
Heather touched my arm. “If that’s true, then I’m going to ask you again. What are you doing sitting in this car?”
“I need . . .” I swallowed down the sudden lump in my throat. “I need you to tell me one reason I deserve to walk in there.”
“Oh, Ally.” Heather turned off the ignition. “You are the most good-intentioned person I know.”
“Isn’t the road to hell paved with good intentions?”
“No, the road to change is. Good intentions become good actions with people like you. Now go. I’ll sit here with Kylie, and if she wakes up, I’ll take her to the park.”
I took a deep breath, then flipped down the mirror to check my teeth for stray bits of food.
“Go,” Heather said, nudging me. “You are just as good as they are. Probably better. Stop limiting yourself.”
“Everyone has limits,” I said. “People get in trouble when they forget that.”
“Since when are you such a cynic?”
“Since my kid got sick.” I said it too sharply. Heather went quiet.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
We watched some stylishly dressed women approach the school’s gymnasium entrance.
“They’re late too,” Heather said. “Run to catch up. If you walk in with them, no one will notice. Go!”
I ran for it, just making it to the door as it was closing behind the women. They didn’t pay much attention to me, and I swooped into the room, riding the coattails of their energy.
A group of about thirty people sat on folding chairs inside the cavernous gym. The clean, fresh scent of expensive perfume did not quite mask the aroma of kid BO and industrial cleaner permeating the place. Current board members, including Rich Jenkins, sat behind a long table. His slumped posture and darkly circled eyes gave the appearance of a man trampled by exhaustion.
“We should get started,” said a woman wearing a baseball cap and a sweatshirt that had Sundays are my Fundays written on it. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.
A woman bounced out of her seat. I recognized her from the Facebook group—Bree Nguyen. “Cassie isn’t here yet. Let’s give her a few minutes.” The cluster of women surrounding her nodded enthusiastically in agreement.
Baseball cap lady wasn’t having it. “We’re already fifteen minutes behind. I’ve got to help my kid with
his biology homework when I get home. Cassie can catch up when she gets here.”
Bree was undeterred. “But, I really think . . . oh, here she is! Forget it!”
Everyone’s attention shifted to the door. Cassie, dressed in a dove-gray suit and black heels, strode into the room with . . . her dog. Her sleek, humorless, rather dangerous-looking beast. Was that even allowed?
She gave Bree a little wave and settled into a folding chair up front, angling it to give her dog room and to give herself a slight advantage—she now sat between the audience and the school board, as if she was just inches from joining them. Rich eyed the Doberman warily.
Did she bring it everywhere with her, like the Louis Vuitton bag on her lap? That wasn’t going to fly if Matt was going to date her. Kylie’s reaction to dogs was mild . . . so far. But who knew when her immune system would go into overdrive? What if he licked her and she hived up . . . or worse? Maybe I should calmly talk to Matt and explain why it just wasn’t practical to date Cassie.
Cassie slipped her phone out of her purse and turned off the ringer. She ran her hand inside her bag, and then, giving up on what she was searching for, tugged at the zipper, which stuck a bit. Confident Cassie was fidgeting.
After finally getting the zipper to slide, she shoved her purse under her feet, and placed a hand on her dog’s flank, as if to calm him.
Or . . . to calm herself.
Ohh, I thought. I am a terrible person. That dog was probably a therapy animal! I’d read about them online—dogs trained to help people suffering from anxiety, depression, and PTSD. I looked at Cassie Flores, in all her glossy perfection, with different eyes. What was she suffering from? Bringing her therapy dog with her was putting it out in the open that she needed help. It was brave. And I was an ass for judging her.
“Well,” baseball cap lady said. “I’m calling this meeting to order. Can I get an aye?”
The glum-faced members of the school board murmured their response.
Baseball cap lady welcomed everyone and said her name was Vera. “First topic of discussion: the vacancy being left by Rich Jenkins.”
The Other Family Page 12