Congrats on your engagement. May your marriage
be multi-layered, like the sand and silt and clay
of sedimentary rock.
Love, Charlie.
It’s funny in a Charlie kind of way. Gabe, however, is not amused. “What kind of present is a box of dirt?” He snatches up the card, then answers his own question: “He’s saying he hopes our relationship is like dirt—you realize that, right?”
“Well, Charlie is a dirt-bag, so what do you expect?” I’m entertained by my retort, but Gabe still isn’t smiling. My mother has been hinting for me to start a wedding registry, but I much prefer the idea of an odd gift like this to a set of flatware or a stand mixer. I dig my fingers into the dirt because, well, why not? I close my eyes, enjoying the damp cool of it, imagining I’m in a nature preserve somewhere far from Brooklyn. When I open my eyes, Gabe is observing me with suspicion. I free my hands and go to the sink. “Anyway,” I say, shouting over the running faucet, “we should be thankful, because he could’ve sent us a ferret. There’s an endangered breed of them in the Badlands that are apparently highly revered.”
I can tell it bothers Gabe that I know this fact. So, I don’t mention something else that Charlie once told me about the park, how the water is eating away at the rock at an impressive rate of one inch per year. In a few hundred thousand years—a snap of the fingers, geologically speaking—the park will have disappeared entirely.
As I take a broom and dustpan to the mess, I think about the time I made a visit to the Badlands, a few weeks after my brother’s wedding, when Charlie was still new to his ranger gig. Our tent looked out onto a panorama of rock formations. According to Charlie, their strange, otherworldly lines had been sculpted by erosion. Charlie spent much of that trip teaching me about the park. The rest of the time we spent rolling around in the same dirt that I’m currently sweeping up from my hardwood floor; I remember it was impossible to get it out from under my fingernails. I survey my fingers now and see that that’s still the case. The dirt is incongruous with the winking sapphire on my finger, and I experience a wave of profound unease.
“Maybe we should start composting,” Gabe says. “I bet this would be great soil for it. Add a few worms and we can dump in all our rotting food and garbage.” He cackles, obviously thrilled at the poetic justice of the idea.
“Good plan,” I say. Composting is regenerative. It transforms something bad into something good. At least, that’s what people claim; I have no idea how or even if it really works. For now, I relegate Charlie’s box to the cabinet under the sink, deciding I’ll deal with it later.
Chapter 14
MY MOM’S EMAILS about additional wedding venues read like chapters of a long-winded memoir, with a title like Adventures in Wedding Planning: A Mother’s Journey. I’m skimming one of her screeds, about her partiality for rustic charm and original detailing, when I spot a familiar vista in an embedded image: a little inn abutting the Marginal Way, the seaside cliff walk in Ogunquit. When I was a kid, my family would drive out to the vacation town on summer weekends. We’d spend the day on the white sand beach, and then amble along the Marginal Way to Perkin’s Cove. We’d all eat lobster rolls, except for my dad, who preferred oysters; I can almost hear the slurp of them. After dinner, we’d walk down to the harbor and wait for a tall boat so we could watch the drawbridge split. “Will you look at that,” my dad would say, voice full of wonder, as the bridge bisected and the boat passed through. I’d marvel alongside him, squeezing his hand and feeling utterly happy; I wonder if I’ve ever felt as happy since. According to my mom’s email about the inn, we’d have the run of the place for the reception, and we could hold the ceremony out on the cliffs.
I took Gabe to Ogunquit once, last spring. We hiked out onto the cliffs with a thermos of vodka-tonics and a bag of Tootsie Rolls, and Gabe listened attentively as I told him all my childhood memories of the place. Then we fooled around to the soundtrack of lapping waves. That night, back in my childhood bedroom, we surveyed the nicks and cuts our fumblings had left across our bodies and we tended to each other’s wounds. Then we stood naked, laughing at our Band-Aid-pocked skin. At first it felt wrong to add this new memory to the vault I’d reserved for my childhood vacationland, from back when our family was a foursome—but ultimately it was a relief. Now I picture returning there for our wedding day, a major moment overlaid onto all that bittersweet history, the ocean spray against the rocks the closest thing I can imagine to my father watching over me. It feels just right.
“What do you think?” I ask Gabe later, clicking through the inn’s virtual tour. I can’t help thinking how far away the spot is—literally and figuratively—from Talia and Charlie and the rest of the noise of our lives here. We’re soon on the phone with the innkeeper, a good-natured man named John, and then zeroing in on the last weekend of May. As Gabe reads off his credit card number, I do the math: a quarter of his book advance forfeited in exchange for our reservation.
Eager to share the news, I type out a save-the-date email, subject “Married by Memorial Day!” I CC close friends and family, hit “Send,” and then sit back and wait for the good tidings to roll in.
The first response comes from Gabe’s college friend, a reply-all: Congrats on the engagement … and the press! He’s pasted in a link, which I click to discover is a Publishers Weekly roundup of the most anticipated novels of spring. The Charms of Dahlia appears at number thirteen, along with a blurb:
WHEN AN EARNEST COLLEGE BOY FALLS INTO THE CRAZY-GIRL TRAP IN THE ALLURING GUISE OF DAHLIA FREID, THE RESULTS ARE EQUAL PARTS THRILLING AND DISASTROUS.
This dispiriting summary is accompanied by an equally dispiriting cover image; it’s my first glimpse of it. The main illustration is a neon pin-up girl, the kind you see on strip club signage. The title tracks along the girl’s curves in a fanciful, looping font. A guy’s silhouette—his profile shockingly similar to Gabe’s—appears on the bottom, tilted longingly up at the girl. Just below that, stamped in all-caps, “BY GABRIEL M. DOVER.”
“I didn’t know there was press already,” I say to Gabe, “or a cover.”
“Me neither,” Gabe says, hijacking my laptop. “The publisher sent me three image options, and this was definitely not my pick. It’s tacky, right?” The distress on Gabe’s face makes me understand something worrying: Not only is this book out of my control, it’s out of Gabe’s, too.
By the time I return to my inbox, there are dozens of new messages: congrats on the wedding and the book, or on the book and the wedding, plus the inevitable jokes comparing the two: “Molly, it’s a good thing you’ve managed to trap Gabe with your allure!” “Hopefully your relationship is more thrilling than disastrous!” “Molly must’ve been the model for that cover, right?”
A text from Sam interrupts my reading:
Please tell me this is just marketing BS and Gabe’s book isn’t SEXIST SMUT?!
This cheers me up, and an entertaining exchange of emojis follows. Sam’s words remind me of what I should already know, given my job: A thing’s branding is separate from the thing itself. It’s a reassuring thought—The Charms of Dahlia shouldn’t be judged by its cover, or by one write-up announcing its publication. Although a queasy flutter in my gut is the knowledge that even the most outrageous of Funhouse Branding’s campaigns are rooted in at least a kernel of truth. Plus, I’ve read Gabe’s book, or at least parts of it, and maybe it is sexist smut.
Tucked among the emails from well-wishers is one from someone called “Wendy the Wedding Wizard.” It includes a “What’s your bridal personality?” quiz, plus a planning timeline that indicates I’m already three months behind, and a budget calculator whose price ranges seem more fitting for a house purchase than a party. To quell my rising panic, I close my laptop. I notice there are still traces of Badlands dirt under my fingernails. I tell Gabe I’m going to get a manicure, happy for an excuse to go out.
I welcome the nail salon’s anesthetizing fumes. I pick a color called Film
Noir and delight in watching the manicurist muddy my nails with it. I’m admiring the pop of my sapphire against the black backdrop, when two women sit down on either side of me, each clutching a bridal magazine. Flipping pages as steadily as metronomes, they volley commentary over my head about appetizers and hairdos and invitations. I’m trapped. When one holds up a page of what she describes as “the most stunning gown ever,” I brace myself for some monstrosity of lace and poof. But a peek reveals that it’s a tasteful design from Bella So, Lana’s store.
Lana. I must’ve said it aloud because both women start, as if they only just noticed they’ve been conversing across another person. Here I am stressing over trivial wedding stuff when today’s the day of my sister-in-law’s back surgery. I wonder how she’s doing, and Leo too. Nails still tacky, I dash off a text to my brother saying I’m thinking of them.
Down the block, my eye catches on a mannequin in a store window: It’s draped in a dusty rose sheath, long and flowy silk with an asymmetrical neckline and hem. It’s bold and unconventional, not at all my style, but something pulls me into the shop to try it on. Taking in my likeness in the dressing room mirror, I feel transformed. The dress is like nothing I’ve ever worn or even seen, and as I shimmy and then spin in circles, I imagine all the stressors of the past two months vanished. I picture another setting: the cliffs of Ogunquit, Gabe by my side reciting some silly little poem, and all the people we love standing around. The dress feels like it’s already mine.
I’m back home hanging it carefully in my closet, in the back where I hope to keep it hidden from Gabe, when I finally hear back from Leo:
Lana’s in rough shape, but surgeon says today went well. Now we hold our breaths …
For some reason, I take this literally: I hold my breath, thinking of Lana in pain and Leo helpless at her side. I think of Gabe writing a 300-page tribute to his ex-girlfriend, which will soon be published for all the world to read. I think of Talia, who is apparently back in the picture, or maybe has been in it all along. And Charlie, trying his darnedest to be back in the picture, too, as usual knowing exactly where my tender spots are to probe at. And me, falling for the fantasy that a wedding dress can be some kind of chrysalis, metamorphosing me from a regular person with all my regular person problems into a beautiful butterfly, fit to fly away from it all. How naïve I am, how stupid.
I realize I’m still holding my breath when the edges of my vision blur and I start to feel dizzy. I inhale a deep gulp of air and slide down to the ground. I’m trembling and queasy, and for a while it feels as if I’ll never, ever catch my breath again.
• • •
Leo, who can’t take any more time off from work, warned me that Lana was on a lot of painkillers, and that it would be a while before the surgery’s benefits outweighed the pain of recovery. Still, I’m not fully prepared when I enter their apartment, which, without Lana’s careful attention, has been overrun by Leo’s messiness. Surrounded by a sea of clutter and medicine bottles is my sister-in-law dozing in a hospital bed. I decide that while she sleeps I’ll tidy up. I’m halfway through mopping, wearing plastic gloves and a t-shirt I picked up off the floor, when I hear Lana’s laugh. “Leo’s going to kill you,” she says. “He loves that shirt.”
Okay, I think, so maybe she’s feeling better, or at least drugged enough to joke around. As if reading my mind, she adds, “Ask me literally anything but how I’m feeling.”
All right, then. I show her my engagement ring, and she spends a full five minutes turning it this way and that in admiration; she seems to find it trippy how the sapphire hits the light, which I find a little unnerving.
“So, have you started wedding planning?” she asks. I groan. “Oh, it’ll be worth it in the end. Weddings are so romantic—didn’t you reunite with Charlie at ours?” I give her a look. “His pot is fan-friggin-tastic, by the way.”
“If there’s anything Charlie’s good for, it’s that.”
“Molly,” she says, not quite pulling off the pronunciation of my name, “as soon as I’m a functional person again, we’re going on a field trip to Bella So to pick out your gown. It’ll be half-price with my discount!”
She looks too happy for me to tell her I already found a dress. “Sure, that sounds great.”
When Lana stretches, I can hear her joints crack; she looks so fragile. Within twenty minutes of waking up, she yawns and drifts off again. I wonder if this might be kind of nice for her, to check out of real life for a few weeks just to rest.
I soon regret the thought. When Lana wakes up again, her cries are shrill and agonizing, sounds I’ve only ever heard from the mouth of an infant. She’s writhing like a rabid animal. Her meds schedule instructs me to administer her next pill in an hour, but Lana insists she needs it immediately. “Please,” she begs, “please, please,” her voice growing direr. Panicked, I give her half a pill. It’s twenty long minutes before her anguish gives way to a strange stupor.
Only then do I ask her, “So what does it feel like?”
At first I think she hasn’t heard me, but after two or three minutes, she says, “Like pins and needles. But, actual pins and needles, twisting around and sending little electric shocks right into my spine.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
Lana doesn’t contradict me. “Honestly, I don’t think the surgery worked,” she says. “I’m terrified I’ll be stuck like this forever, always with the zap, zap, zaps into my back. I never realized how terrible it could be to feel so much.”
I don’t know how to respond. I can’t reassure her that she’ll be fine, or say I know what she means. Even though I think I do know, a little, pain being pain, that awful, profound awareness of the body and mind. I often tell myself I don’t remember anything from the aftermath of my father’s death, but it’s not totally true: For blips, I never felt more aware, every thought and sensation like a live wire to my skin. Going numb was the only way to cope.
I consider the half-pill tucked in my pocket. “Here,” I say, handing it to Lana. Within seconds, it’s been swallowed. Soon Lana’s limbs go slack and her eyes turn drowsy. I assume she’ll want to rest, but she asks me to stay and read her something.
“Okay.” I scan the bookshelf by the bed—the rows of medical textbooks, coffee table books on design, and a few paperback mysteries. Then I remember, The Charms of Dahlia is in my purse. Something about Lana’s vulnerability makes me want to share it, so I fetch the manuscript and bring her up to speed. Opening to the next chapter, I see the story is back to Dahlia’s point-of-view. I clear my throat and begin:
Midnight. Dahlia’s shift was finally over. By the end of a night at Meridian, everything stunk of fries and beer—her clothes, her hair, even her skin. Back in the staff room, she couldn’t shimmy out of her uniform fast enough, shirt first, then panties and skirt. She was
free.
Eye roll.
She glanced in the mirror, admiring her naked form.
Oh, come on.
Full breasts, pert pink nipples, cute curve of a belly, freckles crawling their way from her hips to the meeting of her thighs.
My jaw is clenched, my mouth goes dry.
She had a nice, firm ass, decent legs, although she wished they were longer, and stupid flat feet. Overall, Dahlia would rate her body an A-minus.
My voice cracks at the grade. I feel simultaneously furious at Gabe and mortified to be reading this aloud—so, why do I continue? Because it feels like a train that’s derailed with no way to get back on track, and because I wouldn’t know what to say to Lana if I stopped.
She could lay off the cocktails her customers regularly treated her to, maybe start running. Oh, who was she kidding? Dahlia wasn’t going to cut back on drinking any more than she was going to start a workout routine. It didn’t matter, anyway. She knew she was hot as fuck, and most every guy she encountered made sure she knew that he knew it, too. Content, Dahlia pulled on her favorite halter dress—black, tight, short. She was going out.
&nbs
p; Lana starts giggling, and I look up, relieved to be interrupted. “Sorry.” She’s covering her mouth, but I tell her it’s fine. “It’s just, how long have I worked at Bella So? Never once have I seen a woman check herself out in the mirror like that. Can you even imagine?”
Her giggling turns contagious. My sister-in-law and I are soon joined in a laughing fit—it’s such a release, I feel manic with it.
“So that’s the Gabe gaze, huh?” she says. I look at her, confused. “You know, like the male gaze, but in this case it’s Gabe specifically.” She’s right. It’s Gabe’s admiring Dahlia admiring herself in the mirror. How creepy. My heart pounds furiously, adrenaline coursing through me, as I picture my fiancé mentally undressing every woman he encounters, cataloging each as a collection of body parts, doling out letter grades.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Well, who knows, Dahlia could be the exception,” Lana says. “Maybe, unlike the rest of us women, Dahlia really does hang around in the nude in front of mirrors, lusting after herself. Maybe she’s the woman of men’s fantasies—the one any guy would leave his wife or girlfriend for. What do they call her? Right, the manic pixie dream girl.”
My mouth floods with saliva and I feel like I might throw up.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Lana says, laughing lightly. “Those girls don’t really exist. Thank god, right?”
“Right.” I force myself to smile. “Thank god.”
“Anyway, I’m spent.” She yawns widely and starts to drift off. I prop up her pillow, tuck her in tight, and tiptoe from the room.
Alone now, I turn back to the manuscript like a rubbernecker at a crash. I race through the rest of the scene: After getting dressed, Dahlia paints her nails—it’s an odd plot point, and I swear it’s included only because Gabe couldn’t be bothered to research the undoubtedly complicated makeup routine of a girl like Dahlia. As she primps, she describes the generosity of her customers, the tips they leave her in the form of money (twenty-five, thirty, fifty percent of their bills), plus various pills and things. This drags on for pages and pages, and—despite everything that’s come before, this still shocks me—the scene concludes with Dahlia sitting on the floor of the break room getting herself off while fantasizing about one of her regulars. What a climax, I quip to myself, picturing (as I’m sure any other woman reading this would, too) Dahlia’s nails tacky with nail polish rubbing against her most sensitive parts. Not sexy, not sexy at all.
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