On the Rocks(60)

“Well, now you have, and I’m sorry, but it’s just too . . . painful to see you in that. You can’t wear it.”

“So, I’m basically . . . you?”

“Yes. Take it off,” I repeated. I could not for the life of me understand why, despite the fact that I had told her to ditch the dress multiple times, she was still wearing it.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of poetic? I fell in love with this dress the second I saw it. Maybe that’s why! Maybe that sisterly bond we have was telling me that if you couldn’t wear it, then I should. To honor you.”

“On what Earth do you think this is honoring me? This is not honoring me, this is torturing me! I moved past you buying the same sweater I had when we were in high school, and the same exact boots that I got when I was a freshman in college, but I draw the line here. You are not going to copy my wedding dress. Take it off. Now.”

“I absolutely will not. You’re insane.”

Yup. I most certainly was. And I couldn’t have cared less. So much for sisterly compassion.

“I will not let you impersonate me! That’s my Vera, and if I’m not going to wear it, you sure as hell aren’t!” I shrieked as I lunged at her and tried to force her to spin around so that I could undo the zipper.

“Oh my God! Get off of me! What the hell is the matter with you?” she yelled as she tried to swat my hands away. I didn’t let go of her (correction: my) dress as we screamed loudly enough for people outside the fitting room to hear us. If there had been any doubt that I was no longer welcome in this store, it was gone.

“Mom, do something! She’s gone totally mad!” Katie screamed as she tried to pry my hands off the dress.

“Girls, stop that,” my mom said as she moved a single piece of hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re causing a scene. People can hear you!”

Katie pushed me, and I stumbled backward until I bounced off the wall behind me. Oddly enough, the dressing rooms weren’t large enough for physical altercations with loved ones while trying on designer gowns. You’d think no one had ever got into a fistfight in Vera Wang before. I lunged at her again, grabbed the back of the dress, and before I knew what happened, I had pulled her down on the floor, and we were wrestling as I literally tried to rip the clothes off her annoyingly skinny body.

“Girls,” my mother hissed. “Stop it! You’re embarrassing me.”

Then we heard a noise that froze both of us instantly: the undeniable sound of fabric ripping. It’s a noise every woman knows and never wants to hear, especially when she’s wearing a wedding dress.

“Oh my God,” Katie said as she turned as white as the satin she was lying in.

“Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a little snag,” I said, trying to catch my breath and hoping that if I spoke calmly, Katie wouldn’t go completely ballistic.

I slowly helped Katie to her feet and gasped when I realized that the skirt had been partially ripped from the bodice.

“Is everything okay in there?” a saleslady asked from outside the fitting room.

“Yes, fine, fine,” our mother said airily. “Just a minor sisterly squabble.”

“I realize this might look bad,” I said as Katie stared in horror at the dress wreckage. At that moment, she was a real-life Cinderella, right after the crazy stepsisters ripped her to shreds. At least I felt bad about it. I wasn’t a total bitch.

“What the hell is wrong with both of you?” Katie screeched as she burst into tears. “My only sister just attacked me and tore a hole in my wedding dress, and all my mother cares about is that the salespeople might hear us? We are the most dysfunctional family in America!”

“Relax, sweetheart,” my mother said. “If the dress was going to rip, it’s best it happened here. There are seamstresses everywhere.”

“You ruined my dress,” Katie said through clenched teeth as she took a step toward me. I backed away so that my back was against the wall. Literally and figuratively.

“Hey, I didn’t ruin it,” I said, coming back to earth from my momentary trip to crazy town. “This is so very, very fixable.”

“My own sister just tackled me in my wedding dress.”

“I admit that may have been a bit extreme. I just . . . I don’t know . . . I saw it . . . and what are the odds of you. . . .” I didn’t see the smack coming, but I felt it when she cracked the right side of my face. Hard. Tears automatically filled my eyes, and my cheek burned from the impact. My first instinct was to hit her back, but I figured I had done enough damage to our relationship for one afternoon.

“You’re my maid of honor,” she cried. She was stunned, and embarrassed, and crying. I had felt pretty bad about myself for most of the last year, but it was nothing compared to how I felt now, standing next to my sister in that dressing room. At that moment, I didn’t just feel bad about myself, I actually hated myself, and I couldn’t blame Katie for hating me too.

“I think we need some help in here,” I called out into the salon. We desperately needed help. We needed a team of psychiatrists and anger management specialists. But for starters, a seamstress would have to do.

“Oh my God, what happened here?” the seamstress asked as she examined the gaping hole, the skirt attached to the bodice by mere threads. Apparently, the seamstress and the saleswoman had been lingering outside the dressing room as they materialized the instant I called for help.