Chapter 64
Chapter Sixty-Four
Cordelia
My first instinct when I see my mother is to plot my escape.
Running away is my default setting. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. It’s much better than sticking around when the pain in my heart starts.
My attention swings to the exits.
The door is right there. Wide open.
My bike gleams in the sunshine, inviting me to hop on and leave everything that hurts, abandon everything that reminds me of the pain.
“Delia!” a precious voice shouts with glee. Tiny footsteps pound down the stairs. “You’re here!”
Gordie sprints my way. She’s in the same outfit from the picture. The sight of those Hello Kitty leggings makes my heart melt.
Get out! What are you waiting for? my instincts scream.
But as I look at Gordie, I have a sudden revelation.
I want to be somewhere Gordie can always find me. Running is no longer an option. Not anymore.
“Hi, sweetheart.” I drop to my knees as Gordie collides into me. I teeter backward, but keep my center of gravity. Wrapping my arms around her, I rock her back and forth.
She smells like flowers and fresh wind—the fragrance of nature as I zip through the mountainous roads on my bike. Though it’s in a different way than her father, Gordie also makes me feel like I’m riding my Harley.
“I’m so excited you’re here,” Gordie squeaks, swinging my hands back and forth.
“Me too.”
Gordie notices Mom standing stiffly in the living room. “Hi, Ms. Sasha!”
“Hi, Gordie.” Mom’s smile is pained.
“Are you coming with us?”
Mom darts a look at me and then shakes her head. “No, I-I’m very busy.”
“But I want you to come too,” Gordie says, pouting.
Mom swallows hard. “Maybe next time.”
“Come with us,” I blurt.
Mom’s eyes widen.
Brenda looks between me and Mom with a shocked expression.
Gordie squeezes my hand tightly in celebration. Seeing the excitement on her face, I know I made the right decision.
“Yay! Let’s go! Let’s go!”
I hold her back. “Not without your shoes. Bring your sneakers downstairs. I’ll help you put them on.”
“Okay!”
As Gordie disappears, Mom approaches me. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can make an excuse to leave.”
“Don’t. Gordie wants you here. That’s enough for me.”
Mom studies me as if she’s seeing me for the first time. I have no idea what she’s thinking, and frankly, I don’t want to know.
“Here they are!” Gordie skates into view, and I bend to one knee, slipping both shoes on her feet.
“Ready to rock and roll?” I ask her.
She grins hard. “Can we take your bike?”
“Absolutely not.” I flick her nose gently.
“Gordie, come here,” Brenda says, reaching out to the little girl. She stoops in front of her and lectures, “Remember to be respectful, and don’t ask for every little thing you see.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gordie says, bobbing her head.
While Brenda gives Gordie more rules to follow, Mom touches my arm hesitantly. “Thank you…for letting me join you.”
“It’s a princess-themed party. You know more about dresses and tiaras than I do. We’ll need your expertise.”
Mom’s lips stretch up, and I sense the edge of relief beneath her words when she says, “Gordie will win best-dressed at that party. I promise you.”
“It’s a party for six-year-olds, Mom. It’s not the Miss America pageant.”
But the wheels in Mom’s head are in motion, and like a train with no brakes, there’s no stopping her.
Before I know it, Mom calls her very deep network of designers, and Mills whisks us away on a forty-minute drive to a custom dressmaker. The shop is squished between two giant industrial warehouses.
“This doesn’t look like the mall,” Gordie says, giving me a confused look.
“Trust me.” Mom winks. “This is much better than anything you can get off the rack.”
Mom leads the way inside, and Gordie has what I can only describe as a heart attack when she sees all the beautiful prom and quinceanera dresses on the mannequins. She races from one dress to the other, oohing and aahing over everything.
Growing up a Davenport, I know a thing or two about fashion. These dresses are made from the finest material and have the kind of sparkle that a contestant from a major beauty pageant franchise would be proud of.
Mom, as expected, is going overboard.
“Juanita”—Mom presses air kisses to the elderly Hispanic woman’s cheeks—“thank you so much for fitting us in. I know you’re busy.”
“For you, Sasha, anything.” Juanita notices me and exclaims, “Oh, wow. Is this Cordelia? She looks exactly like—”
Mom interrupts, “Juanita, this is our friend, Gordie.” Not losing her smile for a moment, Mom gestures to the little girl. “She’s our VIP client today.”
“Hi.” Gordie waves and then ducks behind my leg.
“Hello, cutie.”
“Gordie has an important event to attend,” Mom says, strutting forward like she owns the shop—which she very well could.
Fingers slipping through the dresses on the rack, Mom says, “We’re thinking something with a thick strap and fitted at the waist with a poofy skirt.
Tulle, maybe? Lots of sparkles. Come here, Gordie. ”
Gordie runs to my mother who brings a cloth to her and analyzes her with narrowed eyes. “I see. You’re more of a cool tone. Perhaps something blue, Juanita?”
“I like pink,” Gordie says.
Mom looks down at her. “Make that pink. But something soft, not harsh. Do you have anything that could fit the criteria?”
“I believe we might. Though we don’t have many selections. I create for a more mature client.”
“Don’t be modest. I have all faith those magic fingers can make this work.”
Mom moves to another rack, and clearly, she’s taken full command of the room. It feels like I’m a child again, getting dragged along with her and Gwen to prepare for a pageant.
Mom and Gwen spoke an entirely different language back then, and I’d always been miserable tagging along and feeling forgotten. But now, watching Mom help Gordie, I don’t feel miserable at all. Instead, I’m very, very grateful. Gordie’s smiling and excited. Which makes this all worthwhile.
Was that my problem back then? Was I so caught up in my own feelings of jealousy and inadequacy that I couldn’t get out of my own head and be happy for my sister?
“Cordelia, what do you think?” Mom beckons me closer.
I approach them. There are fabric rolls lined up neatly on spokes and three rows of sewing machines manned by women who smile and nod at us.
“I was thinking a style like this one,” Mom says, lifting a pink dress with a big skirt. “But I also like this one.” She lifts up another dress with an even bigger skirt. “What do you think?”
I squint. “I mean…they’re sparkly…”
“I meant color-wise.” Mom puts one of the dresses against Gordie’s chin. “Come this way so you can look in the mirror, sweetheart.”
Gordie happily trudges along, and Mom keeps the dress tucked against her chin.
“Hm? See?”
I tilt my head. “It looks exactly the same.”
Mom’s jaw drops. “No, no dear. This is Tuscan pink, and this one is coral. They’re vastly different colors.”
“I like this one,” Gordie says, tapping the first dress. “This one feels scratchy.”
“Perfect! I love a girl who knows what she wants. Juanita?”
“I’ve got a sample right here.” Juanita slips a dress into Mom’s hands without her having to explain.
Mom steers Gordie toward the dressing room. “Princess, do me a favor and head right in there to put this on. Do you know how to dress yourself, or do you need Delia to help you?”
Gordie lifts her chin. “I can do it.”
Despite her brave words, Gordie soon calls for help from inside the dressing room.
“Coming!” I yell.
“Let me,” Mom says, hustling ahead. “I’ve done this a million times.”
With Mom and Gordie gone, I wander around the shop. My eyes are drawn to the picture frames on the wall. To my surprise, there’s a frame of Gwen. She’s dressed in a stunning blue dress, hair fluffed and eyes bright, and full of life as she smiles prettily for the camera.
“That was my first time tackling a pageant dress,” Juanita says, coming up behind me.
I choke up and try to ignore the pain in my chest.
“I hadn’t moved here yet,” she says, pointing to the floor. “And it was just me and my sewing machine. I remember your mom was very particular about the design. I wanted to throw her out and tell her to sew her own dress then.”
I laugh. “Mom can have that kind of effect on people.”
We both fall silent and stare at the picture.
“She was very beautiful,” Juanita says softly. Turning to me with a scrunched nose, she asks, “I don’t remember. Did she win? That pageant? The one she wore that dress for?”
“She won runner-up, and everyone threw a fit, saying she should have taken first place. They even signed petitions.” I return to that memory with a wry smile. “Gwen made a public statement asking everyone to stop and think about how the first-place winner would feel. She was always gracious.”
“Now that you mention it, I do remember her saying something about petitions. She admitted she was holding back during the pageant and that she wished she was brave like you.”
I whip my head to Juanita. “What?”
The woman seems surprised by my reaction. “W-well, maybe I’m remembering wrong. It could have been another pageant—”
“Gwen talked about me?”
Laugh lines spread in Juanita’s forehead.
“Oh, all the time. I dressed her for a few occasions after that, and her favorite thing in the world was chatting about what you were up to. It was always ‘My sister did this’ and ‘My sister did that.’ She told me about your dirt-bike racing and the motorcycle you bought.”
“She told you that?” I croak.
“Your life, to her eyes, was such a great adventure! I dressed her for her last pageant before the pregnancy, and she said you were—”
“Tada!” Mom whips the curtains back, and Gordie comes prancing out of the dressing room. “What do you think?”
I turn to Mom, my fingers trembling.
Instantly, Mom’s smile drops. She hurries over. “What? What is it?”
“Are you okay?” Gordie approaches me in her pretty dress.
I shake my head, struggling to make sense of Juanita’s admission. Around the time of those pageants, Gwen and I weren’t close. So…why was she talking about me?
The slimy sensation of regret wraps itself around my body, and I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing hard.
For years, I resented my twin for ignoring me and embracing her fancy pageant life with all her girly, pageant friends. I thought I’d been forgotten and pushed aside by the one person who should have known me best.
Had I been wrong about her, about us, this entire time?