today’s designer gowns,” I said, “because we’re in a fashion cycle where old is new again. Ready to try it on?”
She nodded, the barest hint of anticipation rising to replace her negative emotions of a moment before.
I grabbed a bolt of dotted Swiss from the top of my closet and unrolled it, inside out, spreading two lengths side by side on the floor for a clean, wide workspace. Sherry stripped to her bra and panties and stepped out of her shoes to stand facing my three-way mirror in the center of the fabric stage I’d set for her. For my part, I slipped twenty-six center-front, self-covered buttons from their loops and took the gown carefully in my arms to slip over Sherry’s head. The sheer amount of fabric overwhelmed me until I nearly got lost in it. I must look like Mrs. Frosty, I thought, realizing that all this frill was more Sherry’s style than my own after all.
“Raise your arms,” I said, “but don’t move. I’ll do all the work so we don’t damage the dress.”
Leaving my shoes behind, I slipped the incredible gown over Sherry’s head, and it covered her like a scattering of fairy dust, each glistening particle draped in all the right places. It would need a bit of work for a perfect couture fit, but not much. The sight of her wearing it felt magical, or haunting; I couldn’t make up my mind which. Either way, an unnamed emotion pressed in on me, making it hard for me to breathe for a minute. “It fits . . . like the sisterhood of the freaking traveling wedding gown.”
Backing up, I took in the sight as a whole . . . and burst into tears. Sherry’s eyes filled. “Is it that bad?”
Her joke eased the ache of loss in my heart. “Mom would be so proud. You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe my baby sister is getting married.”
“Are you sure you’re not crying because I look like Dumpster bait at a meringue factory?”
I touched her chin and turned her gaze away from the mirror and toward me.
“Sherry, you don’t already have a gown picked out, do you? I never thought to ask.”
“Of course not. I was waiting for you to come home to design and make me one.”
So was I. “Hon, this gown is classy, austere, and timeless. An hourglass silhouette to the hip is so today. But gathers from the hip, not so much.”
I touched my chin as my designing mind went into overdrive. “Aha! I can turn the gathers into a flare from the hip, cut higher in the front. I’ve got plenty of fabric to work with.”
While sliding my hands beneath the gathers to gauge the yardage, my chest tightened again and dizziness overtook me, white spots dotting my vision. When the malaise passed, I saw a different bride wearing the same gown. In Sherry’s place stood a gorgeous woman with porcelain skin, black-magic eyes, and raven hair, whose stance revealed humility . . . And unease? Unable to stand still, the illusory bride glanced about, as if she might get caught. Doing what? Playing dress up?
Opening and closing her fists, she habitually grasped the fabric and dropped it, unable to stand still, awkward, not only in the dress, but in her own skin . . . or in her role, real or imagined, as the bride.
Apprehension, fear; that was what I read on her face.
Twice, she tried to hide her work-ravaged hands from a seamstress whose body language spoke of grudging servitude and whose clothes belonged in a rag bag from any era, but whose style hailed from the seventies.
The illusory bride wobbled like Cinderella on her high white heels as if she’d never worn a pair before.
Paradoxically, serviceable black donation-bin work shoes waited beside the round, two-tiered, fitting-room platform and a maid’s uniform was thrown over the back of a nearby mission-style rocker.
“Mad! Madeira? Talk to us!”
The scene faded and dizziness overtook me again as I focused on Sherry standing before me, appalled, frightened, and still wearing Deborah’s wedding gown. My sister’s hands
She nodded, the barest hint of anticipation rising to replace her negative emotions of a moment before.
I grabbed a bolt of dotted Swiss from the top of my closet and unrolled it, inside out, spreading two lengths side by side on the floor for a clean, wide workspace. Sherry stripped to her bra and panties and stepped out of her shoes to stand facing my three-way mirror in the center of the fabric stage I’d set for her. For my part, I slipped twenty-six center-front, self-covered buttons from their loops and took the gown carefully in my arms to slip over Sherry’s head. The sheer amount of fabric overwhelmed me until I nearly got lost in it. I must look like Mrs. Frosty, I thought, realizing that all this frill was more Sherry’s style than my own after all.
“Raise your arms,” I said, “but don’t move. I’ll do all the work so we don’t damage the dress.”
Leaving my shoes behind, I slipped the incredible gown over Sherry’s head, and it covered her like a scattering of fairy dust, each glistening particle draped in all the right places. It would need a bit of work for a perfect couture fit, but not much. The sight of her wearing it felt magical, or haunting; I couldn’t make up my mind which. Either way, an unnamed emotion pressed in on me, making it hard for me to breathe for a minute. “It fits . . . like the sisterhood of the freaking traveling wedding gown.”
Backing up, I took in the sight as a whole . . . and burst into tears. Sherry’s eyes filled. “Is it that bad?”
Her joke eased the ache of loss in my heart. “Mom would be so proud. You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe my baby sister is getting married.”
“Are you sure you’re not crying because I look like Dumpster bait at a meringue factory?”
I touched her chin and turned her gaze away from the mirror and toward me.
“Sherry, you don’t already have a gown picked out, do you? I never thought to ask.”
“Of course not. I was waiting for you to come home to design and make me one.”
So was I. “Hon, this gown is classy, austere, and timeless. An hourglass silhouette to the hip is so today. But gathers from the hip, not so much.”
I touched my chin as my designing mind went into overdrive. “Aha! I can turn the gathers into a flare from the hip, cut higher in the front. I’ve got plenty of fabric to work with.”
While sliding my hands beneath the gathers to gauge the yardage, my chest tightened again and dizziness overtook me, white spots dotting my vision. When the malaise passed, I saw a different bride wearing the same gown. In Sherry’s place stood a gorgeous woman with porcelain skin, black-magic eyes, and raven hair, whose stance revealed humility . . . And unease? Unable to stand still, the illusory bride glanced about, as if she might get caught. Doing what? Playing dress up?
Opening and closing her fists, she habitually grasped the fabric and dropped it, unable to stand still, awkward, not only in the dress, but in her own skin . . . or in her role, real or imagined, as the bride.
Apprehension, fear; that was what I read on her face.
Twice, she tried to hide her work-ravaged hands from a seamstress whose body language spoke of grudging servitude and whose clothes belonged in a rag bag from any era, but whose style hailed from the seventies.
The illusory bride wobbled like Cinderella on her high white heels as if she’d never worn a pair before.
Paradoxically, serviceable black donation-bin work shoes waited beside the round, two-tiered, fitting-room platform and a maid’s uniform was thrown over the back of a nearby mission-style rocker.
“Mad! Madeira? Talk to us!”
The scene faded and dizziness overtook me again as I focused on Sherry standing before me, appalled, frightened, and still wearing Deborah’s wedding gown. My sister’s hands
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