by Sandra Cunha
Unforgivable, I know.
I make myself a cup of calming tea, and it has an instantaneous soothing effect on me. (I may start carrying it around in a flask.)
The calming tea reminds me of Aaron, which reminds me of my confessional. I can’t believe I told him everything. I definitely shouldn’t have told him about the sweatshop or about them not using secondhand materials, that would ruin my business if it got out.
It feels like my closet is getting overcrowded, not with Lady Bettencourt dresses, but with all the skeletons I keep shoving into it.
There’s a knock at the door.
Gloria raises her eyebrows.
I tell her that this time, I’m expecting someone. Although, Vanessa somehow managed to slip past the concierge again.
“Whoa!” Vanessa says when she sees the state of the condo.
The open concept kitchen, dining room, living room area has been overrun with materials and half-made dresses, as well as fully-finished dresses hanging on (newly-purchased) clothing racks. It looks like a gigantic walk-in closet.
It’s a good thing Betty is officially moving out this weekend and taking the majority of the furniture with her because I need the space. I’ll miss living with Betty (and her TV), but it’ll make it easier to hide the fashion show from her.
“How is everything coming along? All ready for the show?” Vanessa asks.
I flash her a warning look, which she seems to register.
“It’s important to be proactive, to be ready for whenever opportunity strikes,” she says, secretly winking at me.
Gloria watches us for a moment, but then goes back to her sewing.
I take Vanessa over to one of the clothing racks. I’ve completed almost all of the dresses, as well as the tablecloth evening dress that will end the show.
“These are fabulous,” Vanessa says. “I appreciate that you took some of my suggestions to heart.”
I beam at the praise. “Can I make you a cup of tea or get you something?”
“Actually, I have to get going. I’m spending the weekend at my parents’ cottage before they close it up for the season. I haven’t seen them in ages.”
It sounds weird to think of Vanessa having parents. Silly, I know. I wonder if she has siblings, too. I really don’t know much about her at all. Our conversations are always focused on business.
“But before I go,” Vanessa continues, “I need you to sign-off on the contract with the factory we discussed.” She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a folder.
“Vanessa, I’m still not sure I want to go in that direction,” I say in a low voice.
Gloria has stopped sewing and is watching us again.
“Erin, I need to fax this to them today, otherwise there won’t be enough time.” (I didn’t know fax machines still existed.)
“Can I at least have the weekend to read it over?”
Vanessa takes a deep breath, then sighs. “I suppose I could come back early from the cottage and fax it in on Monday morning.”
She’s trying to guilt-trip me into signing it. It’s not going to work.
She sees the look of determination on my face and adds, “But I’ll have to check with my contact first. Give me a moment.”
Vanessa takes her phone out of her bag and turns away from me. And then, to my surprise, she’s speaking Cambodian. Wait. Is that a language? She’s speaking whatever language is spoken in Cambodia. (It’s shocking how little I know about the other side of the world.)
Vanessa ends the call and says to me, “Sorry, Erin. Not possible. There’s not enough time.” She turns in the direction of Gloria, who is still watching us, and says slowly, “We have to get the contract in today so that we are ready for the fashion show next—”
“Okay, okay! Just give it to me!” I say, stopping her before she reveals that the fashion show is the same day as Betty’s wedding. She’s played me. And I gave her the ammunition to do so.
“Er-in . . .” Gloria says in a cautioning tone.
“It’s okay, Gloria. Vanessa and I have talked about this. I know what it is.”
Vanessa hands me the thick contract.
“It seems long,” I say.
“Have you ever seen a contract like this before?” she asks, knowing I haven’t. “They’re long.”
She points to the first place I need to sign.
I look at her for a moment, into those hypnotizing eyes of hers.
She doesn’t flinch or turn away.
I close my own eyes to block her out, to block everything out. But I can still hear Betty telling me not to sign anything without reading it first, making me promise her.
When I open my eyes, I take a deep breath and sign everywhere Vanessa points to.
She watches my face as I do.
I catch a glimpse of her expression. It’s a look of complete triumph.
She’s won the battle.
And I barely put up a fight.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 8
“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE signed that,” Gloria says after Vanessa leaves. “Betty is going to be mad.”
“Please, don’t tell her. At least not until after the wedding. It’ll just upset her.”
“Okay, I won’t. But I don’t like that Vanessa. She’s sneaky, like a gata, a cat.” Gloria pauses a moment, then asks, “You go to cemetery tomorrow?”
At first, I’m not sure why she’s asking me that. And then, I realize tomorrow is my mom’s birthday. She would’ve been fifty-four, and, because of everything, I’d forgotten. But Gloria, who hasn’t seen my mom in years, remembers.
“Either tomorrow or Monday,” I say to cover my embarrassment at forgetting. “She passed away two days after her birthday. I don’t think I told you that.”
“No, I didn’t know,” she says, getting teary-eyed. “I want to go see her. Can we go tomorrow? I don’t know where to find her.”
I reluctantly agree. I like to visit my mom’s grave on my own, but I can see how much it means to Gloria. She’s helped me so much. I can’t refuse her this one request.
I made Betty a final breakfast in honour of our last morning as roommates. A moving company is coming to take her things to the new house later this afternoon. I’ve taken the day off from making dresses to help her and Matt get settled.
It’ll be weird living on my own again. Even though she was hardly here on weekends, I liked knowing she’d eventually come home.
As I’m finishing loading up the dishwasher, Betty asks me, “Are you going to move into my bedroom now?”
“I guess so. I like the coziness of the den, but that probably makes more sense. I’ll definitely be moving my clothes out of the hall closet.”
“I’m leaving behind mom’s painting,” she says out of nowhere.
“What? You are? Why?”
“You like it more than I do. You’re always staring at it, as though you’re looking for clues or something.”
My eyes tear up. I hadn’t realized I did that. But it’s true. I love that painting.
“It reminds me of us,” I say. “I think that’s why mom must have got it.”
The painting is of a mother holding a toddler, who’s holding a baby. The mother’s face is turned away. The woman always reminded me of my mom, and the two little girls of Betty and me. Betty took it after our mom passed away because she had the space for it, and I was still trying to get settled somewhere.
“Maybe you should keep it,” I say, feeling guilty for wanting to have it, for so many things. “I already have her sewing machine. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“I’m not as attached to sentimental things like you are . . . remember that Chanel 2.0 bag?”
“2.55,” I say, correcting her.
We both laugh.
“Honestly, Erin, I already have a few of her things. I wear her earrings every day. And now I’ll have my wedding dress that combines the three of us. That’ll be my painting.”
I want to burn
myself to the stake when I hear this. I have to find her dress. I have to.
“I’m going to miss living with you,” Betty says. “It was like when we were kids.”
“I’ll miss it, too. But mom would be so proud you’re living in a house. She always talked about getting us one.”
“I know. It’s sad she’s not here to see us making our dreams come true. She’s missing so much.”
We both sigh and take a deep breath.
“And now you’ll officially be a part of the Getty family,” I say.
“So will you. We’re in this together. My family is your family, no matter what.”
I give her a weak smile, but I suddenly feel all alone, as though she’s already left.
Before the official move happens, we’ve come to Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Matt meets us at the main entrance.
I run over and give him a big hug. “Hey, Matty Matt! I was beginning to think you were Polkaroo!”
He hugs me back, lifting me up off the ground. “I think you’re the one who’s been playing hide-and-seek. How’s business?”
“Crazy. How did it go wrapping up everything in Chicago?”
“Let’s just say, they asked if my wedding plans were set in stone. Hi, honey,” he says, bending down to give Betty a kiss.
Matt is super tall. He played basketball in high school and university. Betty’s pretty short, so they’re kind of an odd match physically, yet completely perfect for each other in every other way.
“Do you guys see Gloria anywhere?” I ask.
“Is that her?” Betty points in the direction of a woman getting out of a car.
“Ah, jeez,” I say when I see her.
Gloria is dressed in black from head to toe. She even has a black, lace veil covering her hair.
She walks over to us. “Hi, girls.” She kisses Betty and I on each cheek. “And you must be Matt-chew,” she says, trying to reach up and give him a kiss on his cheek. “You are very tall.”
He laughs at her comment, bending down to accept her kiss.
We walk down the winding path towards my mom’s grave, with Matt holding Betty’s hand, and Gloria and I following along in behind.
When we arrive, Gloria starts to cry softly, and then takes out a rosary.
Betty places some white roses (my mom’s favourite) in front of the gravestone, and then her and Matt break out into a hearty rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Gloria and I stare at them in disbelief.
When they’ve finished, they see our expressions and say in unison, “It’s tradition.”
It reminds me of all the times Betty must have come here with Matt, and on her own, before I had come to accept my mom’s passing. It makes me sad, happy, and jealous, all at the same time.
We wait for Gloria to finish her rosary, which takes quite a while.
I say my own prayer, begging my mom to ask whoever is in charge to help me find Betty’s wedding dress.
As we’re leaving, Gloria says our mom would be proud of the women her daughters have become.
I look down at my mom’s grave and a single tear falls on a white rose.
I know for one of us, that’s not true.
The rest of the afternoon is spent setting up Betty and Matt’s new house. It’s a three-bedroom detached in the affluent High Park area, which is on the subway line and next to a huge park by the same name.
There isn’t that much to setup though, as Betty had already taken care of most of it.
I haven’t seen Betty and Matt together like this in such a long time. They’re so right for each other.
That’s when it hits me. It finally hits me.
This is real.
My little sister is getting married in a week.
A week.
What have I done?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 6
I SPEND THE REST of the weekend in my tiny room.
I haven’t showered; I’ve barely eaten. My body and mind have shut down.
All I want to do is sleep. Sleep and hope when I wake up, all of this was a bad dream.
That Rachel McAdams hadn’t worn my dress. That I’d never met Vanessa Moore.
So that’s what I do. I go to sleep.
I’m in a large room. I’m floating above it, as though I’m a bird.
Below me, I see row-upon-row of desks. School desks.
My thin wings flutter as I go in for a closer look.
I’m not a bird: I’m a butterfly.
At each desk sits a little Asian girl, wearing a clean uniform, hair perfectly in place.
A loud, whacking noise comes from somewhere in the room.
All the girls sit up straight.
This is when I notice the woman. But her face is blurred.
She goes down each row, hitting the ruler on the outer desks as she does.
In response, that row of girls quickly flip open their desks and pull out sewing machines and fabric.
The room grows darker and becomes hotter in a matter of seconds.
The children no longer look perfect in their uniforms. They look tired, beaten. They begin sewing frantically.
I fly towards one of the girls who has finished a garment. She’s affixing a label onto it: Lady Bettencourt.
It’s a sweatshop.
My sweatshop.
I try to scream but nothing comes out.
I’m voiceless.
I try to fly away, but my wings feel like they’ve been glued to my body.
I can’t move.
The woman rushes towards me and whacks me hard with the ruler.
Everything goes black until I come to.
I’m being carried by the woman. I lay still so she doesn’t hit me again.
Then, she throws me in the garbage, staring down at me, repulsed.
Her face finally comes into view, but I already know who it is.
It’s Carol.
I wake up, screaming.
But there’s no one to hear me.
I lay back down on my sweat-soaked sheets and try to stop my body from shivering.
Even though it may have been Carol’s face in the dream, I know it wasn’t really her.
It was me.
It was always me.
I’m back at the cemetery. Alone this time.
I need to be with the one person who has always accepted me exactly the way I am.
My mother.
I need her advice, her strength.
Although she can’t give me those things anymore, I always feel her presence when I’m here. And as if pixie dust has been sprinkled on me, I know what I have to do.
What I hope I was always going to do.
I take one of the white rosebuds on her grave to give me courage because what I have to do next scares me to death.
I have to tell Vanessa the fashion show is off.
CHAPTER TWENTY
VANESSA WILL BE here any minute.
I contemplated telling her about cancelling the fashion show in public—safety in numbers, that whole thing—but decided it’d be best to do it at the condo. I didn’t think she’d get here so fast, especially as it’s a holiday Monday. Maybe she’d already decided to leave her family cottage early.
Or maybe that was a lie.
I get a call from the concierge, announcing her arrival. She’s playing by the books today.
When I open the door, Vanessa has two Starbucks coffee cups in her hands.
Poison.
Don’t be silly, Erin. People don’t poison each other anymore.
She hands me one of the cups and smiles.
I grab the one in her other hand. “This one seems, um, hotter.”
“But that one’s not lactose-free.”
“That’s okay. I . . . took a digestive enzyme this morning.”
She gives me a funny expression, but there’s a hint of something else in it, too. Maybe I was right about the poison.
Okay, so it’s probably not poisoned
, but she could have done something to it. Perhaps, a special concoction that gets me to do her bidding.
“What’s this about?” Vanessa asks, as we move towards the dining room area. “You sounded anxious on the phone.”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say, “I’m cancelling the fashion show.” There, I said it. It’s done.
She laughs. “Erin, you’re just getting cold feet because the show is days away. Have a seat and drink your coffee; we’ll talk this out.”
I stay where I am. I refuse to sit. (Or drink.)
“No, Vanessa. There’s no ‘talking this out’ or talking me into it. I’m not having the fashion show the same day as Betty’s wedding. I won’t do it.”
She takes a long sip of her coffee, watching me the whole time. (The coffee is definitely not poisoned.)
“Fine,” she finally says. “We’ll have the fashion show without you.”
“What?”
“I said, we’ll have the fashion show without you. It’d be better if you were there, and it’ll require some explaining, but it’s not completely necessary at this point.”
“Of course, it’s necessary! I’m the designer. It’s my dress line!”
“Well, technically, no, it’s not your dress line anymore.”
My body stiffens. “You’re not making any sense. It is my dress line.”
“Not as of Friday. Lady Bettencourt, including all of this—” She gestures towards the clothing racks. “—is now a subsidiary of—”
“A subsidiary? What are you talking about?” I start pacing back and forth. I can’t breathe.
“The contract you signed on Friday. I may have led you to believe it was for the factory in Cambodia. But it was actually a contract for that other opportunity I told you about. The one where Lady Bettencourt would be bought out by—”
I gasp so loud; Vanessa stops mid-sentence. I’m about to pass out.