Aftermath of Dreaming(36)
“I’ll try not to be so grumpy about Michael.” Reggie’s tone is musically sweet, wrapping its apology around me.
“Thanks, Reggie.”
“How’s Chinese for tonight before I read you the new part of the script?”
Even though it feels weird to have had such a short conversation with Reggie, at least it ended okay. He’s my best friend, stayed practically glued to me when Momma died, his voice a constant in my life; I have to be able to tell him about Michael. Especially since I’m not telling him about Andrew. Not that there is anything to tell. Or ever will be anyway. And after being with Michael last night, I don’t even care anymore that I saw Andrew the other night. Had almost completely forgotten about him and in fact only thought about Andrew because I still haven’t told Reggie—which I don’t need to because who cares? I don’t. I’m not even thinking about him.
But I wonder if Andrew has thought about me. Since the other night. And in the four and a half years since we were together. And I wonder if he wonders if we’ll ever see each other again, or if the other night was it.
The headpiece for Suzanne’s veil is a nuptial nightmare come to life. It should be done, finished, executed exactly as she dreamed, for her to see at my dress fitting this Saturday. But it’s not. From the sketch she has given me, what I have done so far fulfills all of her specifications, but not only isn’t it finished, it looks half-baked somehow. She wants a jeweled effect without sparkles and not all pearls. I don’t even know what that means. I realize I could have asked her, but I thought having her draw it would make her demands more concrete. The sketch she gave me is the most expressionistic rendering of a veil I have ever seen. Schiele would have been proud. Maybe my sister should have been the artist in the family.
I have moved the veil and the dressmaker’s stand into my studio so I can spread out and work with my tools, but all that does is remind me that I need to get downtown in an hour to meet Dipen to see how the casting for Rox’s order is coming so I can get that in gear. And then I need to drive clear across town to Brentwood to deliver a commission. I consider calling Suzanne and telling her that she just won’t be able to see her veil this Saturday, but I don’t feel like hearing bridal wrath, especially after this morning when Reggie was so cranky on the phone about my Michael-date.
I attach a few tiny glazed beads onto the headpiece to fill in some gaps. They look nice. And completely uninspired. Okay, my only option for salvaging this project is to employ the method I use when making jewelry: I have to put the goddamn thing on. This is not something I want to do. At all. Lifting the veil off the stand and holding it carefully in both hands, I realize that I have no idea how to get it on. I wish I had the attendants that brides have—getting into the costume looks more complicated than getting to “I do.” After a few tangled attempts, it is resting on my head. The image in the mirror isn’t so much me with veil, as veil with me. I might as well be an eight-year-old girl with a feminine pad—this accessory is that unnecessary on the body it is on.
As I glance around the room to ensure myself—illogically—that I’m alone, I half expect a matrimonial constable to appear with a citation for “endangering the welfare of a veil.” I look into the mirror again. I have heard that some women upon seeing themselves for the first time in bridal gear burst spontaneously in joyful tears. Sobs of despair are more what I feel. I suddenly wonder what people who spontaneously combust have just seen.
The veil is floating down around me to the floor, billowing out in a soft silhouette. I look small inside all this white, contoured, like a negative version of the outlined-with-black-crayon pictures my cousin Renée and I used to draw. For the first time, I understand why the virginal color was picked; everything else recedes when the encapsulation is so pale. The bride’s previous life is blotted out, ready to be renewed and transformed into a new woman for the groom.
The phone rings. It is probably Suzanne, conjured up by my wearing her veil, calling to reclaim her sole ownership of object and role, and to hasten my work along.
“Hello?” It is difficult to get the receiver near my ear through all this netting. I can barely hear the person at the other end, the veil is crinkling and rustling so. I push it back, like gloriously long straight hair, behind my ear. “I’m sorry, hello?”
“Yvette?” The female voice is vaguely familiar.
“Yes?” Maybe it’s Roxanne about the order for her store.
“Hi, it’s Sydney.”
“Oh, hey.” Seeing Andrew at Sydney’s show two nights ago completely eclipsed my memory of her. “Your performance was amazing. I was sorry I couldn’t stay for the party; I hope you got my message.”
“Yeah, I did. And thanks again—the guys are working out great.”
“I’m so glad.” Why has she called? We’re not call ’n’ chat friends. I met Sydney years ago through a pop singer I used to be close friends with, but other than occasionally helping her find musicians for her shows, we rarely talk.
“I thought I should let you know.” She stops for a pause I could drive my truck through. Holy Christ, what? Ever since I was fourteen and my mother called me at my cousin Renée’s house where I was spending the night to tell me in two short sentences that Daddy had left, I have had mixed feelings about telephonically transmitted news.