A Little Hope(13)

5. Yes to Love




The green paisley dresses are not a hit.

When Ginger agreed to be in the December wedding, she imagined velvet gowns. She imagined snow outside the reception hall, lanterns in the trees. She imagined a grand Christmas tree and poinsettias on the tables. She did not envision this scratchy green paisley with a small fur collar shawl that made her feel like an American Girl doll from the Victorian era.

The other bridesmaids are incredulous as the seamstress kneels at their feet to pin the hems. Cameron, who is tall and lithe, who does CrossFit and Pilates on alternating days, who in high school had two football players fight over who got to escort her out on the field during homecoming, doesn’t even look good, and she’d look good with an army surplus blanket draped around her body. The cut of the dress is boxy and thick, and the waist is too high. “This is not what I pictured,” she says. “I look like Oscar the Grouch.”

“You don’t like them either, do you?” Cecilia, Suzette’s grad school roommate, whispers to the quiet seamstress who appears to stare at the lopsided faux fur shawl Cecilia wears. The seamstress in her V-neck orange shirt and fall boots, who looks good for forty or whatever she is, takes a moment to register the question.

“Well,” the seamstress says. “They wouldn’t have been my first choice.” She scribbles a note on her small clipboard. “But I’ve gotten fairly used to them over the weeks, and they’re definitely one of a kind. The bride seems to like them, no?”

“Tuh,” Cameron says.

“She’s just doing a psychology experiment on us,” Cecilia says.

Ginger stands off to the side and tries to like herself in this dress. She squints and thinks about Luke Crowley with his messy hair and those complex eyes. What are the chances she’d run into him? She forgot how easily they could start talking, how sincere even his smallest words could be.

She wonders if he still sings. She can hear his voice at the concert at Woodsen Park singing “The Air That I Breathe” that Memorial Day when they were twenty-one. She remembers how the people in the audience stirred with the chorus of that song (And to love you…)—with Luke in the T-shirt she had bought him from Macy’s—how the retirees, the teenagers, and the young kids on their mothers’ laps stayed still and just watched him. He was young and charming, his voice smooth and gravelly all at once. The sky wasn’t dark yet, and the pink magnolia trees were in full bloom. There were strings of lights crisscrossed above his head, and he hit every note. She remembers looking up at him, and the old woman who sat next to her, who saw her get to her feet as she listened, hands clasped with pride, tapped Ginger on the arm. “You’re smitten,” she said.

Now Mags, who is the most petite, steps out of the dressing room. She has it the worst, Ginger thinks. She looks a bit like a Weebles toy. Or a character who rolls out with a prophetic message in a Tim Burton movie.

The bell dings on the front door, and Suzette, the bride, comes in with her old Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder, her hair light with beach waves, a car key dangling from her hand. She glances from girl to girl, and her eyes sparkle. “My crew.” Ginger is always amazed how Suzette has this way of instantly disarming everyone she meets. Once you get past her nonnegotiable level of beauty—her sturdy cheekbones, her smooth, blemish-free skin with perfectly placed freckles, she is warm and sincere, with eyes that laugh and a powerful hug.

Suzette looks at you and makes you feel as beautiful as she is. Ginger has never heard her say a bad thing about another person. She remembers how quiet Suzette got when her older sister Lisa died, and as a counselor how many forgotten teenagers in the foster care system Suzette had given her own jackets and scarves to, stuffed twenties and fifties into their hands, told them to call her day or night. Ginger adores Suzette, regardless of these dresses. “Well?” Suzette says now.

There is a moment of stillness, five girls in green paisley stand before the trifold mirror, and the seamstress looks up at them and lifts her eyebrows. Ginger is the first to speak. “They are so elegant,” she says. “I feel like a winter queen.” The other girls quickly chime in with, “Love them!” and, “So original,” and Suzette touches her heart and smiles.

“You all dazzle.” Suzette stands behind Carrie, her younger sister, who came in with her and quickly got her dress on. “Wow. The pearl necklaces are going to be amazing, and the white pine branch bouquets…” She shakes her head and smiles. “It’s all coming together.”

Ginger glances down. She can’t look at the other girls. Seven weeks to go. “She’ll be in Vera Wang,” Cameron said earlier, “and we’ll be waddling in like my grandmother’s curtains come to life.”

Later, the seamstress at Mrs. Crowley’s shop helps her out of the dress. Ginger stares at her own arms and quickly covers herself up. It feels glorious to get the itchy dress off her body. Couldn’t they request a softer lining at least?

“Okay,” the seamstress says, and slides the dress onto a hanger, holding the faux fur shawl over one arm. She jots down a few notes. “You’re all gorgeous girls… don’t worry.” She pats Ginger’s back before closing the curtain. Ginger is not worried, she wants to say to the departing seamstress. She was shocked initially, but she’ll get over it. She’s worn worse. Most days at work, she can’t keep a shirt clean: cat vomit, bird blood, you name it. The wedding and dress and all this will come and go. She’ll be back on a plane the next day. Just like tomorrow. After the bridal shower, she’ll board her flight, making her way past the older couple holding hands or the fearful young parents with a baby on the seat between them, or the college-age couples who always seem like they’re going to a beach somewhere, who lean in every so often to kiss.