would it hurt to try it on? We're here and we have time, and who knows? It might look like a secondhand beet sack."
The sales assistant's eyes popped at that comment. "I'd be happy to help you if you'd like to step into a fitting room," she offered in a tone that said ma'am, this is no beet sack.
"What would it hurt, Zelda?" Diana asked again as she crossed the room toward me and tucked my hair over my ear in a move that was so purely maternal it cracked something inside me. "You're not required to like it. If you hate it, you hate it. You can't hurt my feelings."
"That's false," Magnolia said as the pair of seamstresses guided her off the pedestal. "Don't believe her."
Ignoring her daughter, she set her hands on my shoulders and smiled like this moment, us here in the dress shop, was the highlight of her day. Like I was the highlight. "If you love it then that means you know what you like when the time is right."
When I hesitated—because there was no obvious right choice ahead of me—the sales assistant grasped the hanger and held up the diaphanous gown for me to see. "It is lovely," she said.
Diana was right about it being unbelievable. The skirt was full but delicate, lacking the volume of Magnolia's. Embroidered petals and leaves blanketed the top layer of the moonlight fabric. Wispy, raw-cut tulle elbow-length sleeves and a deep v-neck made it sexy and bohemian all at once, like it was meant to be worn without shoes or undies.
"Okay," I heard myself say.
I followed the assistant—her name was Stacy, she reminded me—back to the fitting room where I'd tried on everything else Diana had selected for me.
There was something sacramental about stepping into a dress designed for one specific moment in a woman's life. It was a threshold, one I hadn't expected to cross any time soon.
This is just part of the fun. This is what mother-daughter shopping excursions are all about. It's just a dress. It doesn't mean anything.
I continued telling myself this as Stacy zipped and buttoned and laced me into the dress. She made noises about the color being a good complement to my skin and the style flattering my shape. I didn't dispute those points but that had more to do with me tracing the narrow raw silk sash at my waist and trying to reconcile the quiet in my head where there should've been noise. So much noise.
I'd never thought much about my father giving me away because I'd never thought much about getting married. My life was a landscape dappled with exits rather than commitments. I abandoned things like it was my purpose for existing. I packed up. I walked away. I didn't look back. At least not when anyone was watching.
Choosing a person, a place, a future—that wasn't something I knew. The champagne and the wisteria and the nearly sheer layers of star-glow fabric were for someone else, someone who'd earned herself a wedding gown.
And that wasn't me being tough on myself. No, my future was a giant question mark, an ongoing diet of figuring it all out and fixing myself up. I was in no condition to slip on a dress and wonder who'd walk me down the aisle.
When I stepped onto the pedestal and Diana launched into a string of squeals and coos high enough to summon forest animals, I had to force the words "it's just a dress" into my mind. Had to tell myself this was a game of make-believe, not the first spike of wedding fever.
It's nothing. It means nothing.
"Okay, Mom," Magnolia said from beside her on the sofa, out of her gown and back in her sundress and sandals. "You were right about this."
I shifted to get a look at the translucent back and Diana seized that opportunity to say, "You love it. I can tell."
Because deflecting was my best friend, I replied, "Oh, well, I don't know. It's very pretty but it doesn't…and I can't…and—"
Putting an end to my word salad, Diana cut in, "Yes, you can." She pushed off the sofa and moved closer to the pedestal, gathering the short train and letting it flutter behind me like a shimmering fog. "You can, my dear, and you know. Your face says it all."
Yet I couldn't say it all, not until I understood what I was saying. I pressed my fingers to my lips.