Chapter 13
I can’t bring myself to hang the dress in my closet.
Hanging it there feels like accepting that I will somehow make this dress work for my wedding.
Though how I could possibly bend the laws of the natural universe to make that happen, I don’t know.
I have never been the sort to dream of my wedding, but dress shopping is the one exception.
I would never be one of the brides who drops the equivalent of a year of my salary on a dress, but I would love the experience of finding the perfect gown for myself.
So for several days the dress stays in its white plastic garment bag on the crusty coatrack the previous tenants left behind.
The gown somehow glares at me with judgment and disapproval on Orla’s behalf, without the benefit of having eyes.
I am stretched out on my sofa after a long shift.
Usually, I’d be filled with the urge to text Rian by now, but I find myself dreading it.
Despite all his oh-so-sincere claims to the contrary, when the chips are down, he always sides with Orla.
And that is just how things will be with him until she’s gone.
And given that she is a vibrant woman in her very early sixties, she’s got a lot of years left in front of her.
A lot of years left for me to juggle pleasing the pair of them and always dropping the most crucial balls. A lot of time left where I am forced to cope with her judgmental attitude and his pleas to keep the peace with her.
The prospect is exhausting.
And I have almost made up my mind to go back to my regular timeline. Almost.
But I love my job here. It is, without question, the best job I’ve had to date in terms of scope for creativity. If I had to choose one job for the rest of my career that wasn’t the coveted Michelin gig, it would be this one.
And despite everything with Orla, I love Rian. I’ve spent more time missing him than I ever realized, and the idea of leaving him again hurts more than I can fully process. That’s why I’ve tried to reason with her. That’s why it hurts so much that it isn’t working.
I’ve been home an hour when I hear the vibration of my phone on the coffee table.
RIAN: Everything okay? You’ve been quiet. Busy at work?
I consider downplaying my conflicted emotions, but I don’t see how that will help the situation improve.
ME: Just been thinking about things. And yes, busy at work.
And that is true. I can feel the pressure in the kitchen weighing heavier on me as the days go on and the expectation to outperform the previous day’s efforts becomes more apparent.
From Fiona. From Padraig. From the whole of the kitchen staff who are also silently casting their votes as to whether I’m ready to ascend the ranks to sous.
No position in the kitchen impacts their day-to-day in the kitchen quite so much as the sous, and they are all forming their opinions.
And Padraig, because he is a good head chef and a helluva leader, will listen to them.
RIAN: Thinking good thoughts, I hope. About me.
I smile at how transparently he casts his line to fish for a compliment.
ME: Very often.
I say it because that is true as well. Even as I’m fuming about something Orla has said or done, I still find my heart fluttering when I think about Rian. But it isn’t the whole truth. And if I love him, he deserves nothing less than that.
ME: Some not so great thoughts too, if I’m being truthful.
RIAN: What about, exactly?
I swallow a sigh. I can see him hoping and praying I’m about to vent about some persnickety colleague instead of his mother.
ME: I really don’t want your mom to commandeer our wedding. Or the rest of our lives, for that matter. And I absolutely don’t want to plan a family around her wants and needs instead of our own.
I exhale slowly. It was a lot to get out, but it feels good to express it.
Rian is conspicuously silent for several minutes.
RIAN: You knew coming into this how important my mother is to me.
ME: As she should be. But I’m important too. It’s our wedding, not hers.
RIAN: Listen, she’s traditional. Her mam planned her wedding. She thinks it’s her duty to plan mine.
ME: If she were really a traditionalist, she’d know it’s my mother who’d be calling the shots. And we’d be getting married in Solvang.
He takes another long pause.
RIAN: Why don’t we then? We’ll have a big bash however you like it in Solvang and let my mum throw us a party here. This may be the grand compromise. Everything else will fall into place.
I brighten a bit, considering this alternative.
It’s quintessential Rian, trying his best to please us both.
Orla probably won’t love it, but at least Rian is making an effort on my behalf.
It only addresses part of the problem, and really, it’s the least important part of the problem, but it’s reason enough to stay. For now.
ME: That could work. It’s a great plan, actually.
RIAN: See, there’s a solution to every problem if you think hard enough. Now why don’t you come over and we’ll watch a movie. At least the first fifteen minutes or so of one.
I chuckle, remembering this is the era before the expression “Netflix and chill.”
ME: Sounds like an amazing evening to me. Give me a bit to shower and get presentable.
RIAN: Don’t take too long, mo chroí.
I smile down at my phone and hop in the shower, letting the scalding water rinse away the layers of cooking oil and potent herbs. After ten minutes of scrubbing, I’m finally more like myself. I slide into clean clothes and feel revivified.
Until I notice my phone has lit up like a Christmas tree.
Six missed calls from Orla in the span of fifteen minutes. And a whole string of texts.
ORLA: What nonsense have you put into my son’s head???
ORLA: Do you really intend to marry my son five thousand miles away from me?
ORLA: I can’t believe you’d do this to me.
ORLA: This isn’t what he wants. Not really. You’re going to break his heart.
There are a dozen messages, all variations on the same theme. I capture screenshots and forward them to Rian without commentary. They speak for themselves.
I stride over to the garment bag and unzip the dress.
It looks like someone at least had it cleaned before they donated it.
I see a tag with the name of the thrift store, not one I’ve ever frequented, and the price.
She shelled out all of twenty euro for the dress yet clung to the notion that buying one to suit, one that actually fit, was wasteful.
She’d probably spend five hundred euro on a dress for herself for the wedding and say what a bargain it was because she could wear it again.
Hell, it would be a mercy if the spiteful old cow didn’t show up in a white gown and a veil herself.
The phone vibrates again in my rear pocket.
RIAN: Yeah . . . I miscalculated. She won’t go for it. I’m sorry.
ME: She won’t go for it? This isn’t her wedding. It’s not for her to “go for” anything. She gets an invite and she shows up. Or not, if she doesn’t want to. That’s how it works.
RIAN: I’m her only child, Sabrina. She’s all alone besides me. Try to understand where she’s coming from.
ME: I have, Rian. I really have. I may have been too hard on her before, but she’s crossed a line here, not me. She’s not reasonable.
RIAN: I don’t know what to say. I don’t have it in me to break her heart.
ME: But you have it in you to break mine.
It’s not a question.
Part of me wishes I could soften, but I can’t. She will use every bit of energy in her body and every spark in her soul to make me miserable. She claims to want Rian to be happy, but only if she can be the only woman in his life. It isn’t right and it isn’t healthy.
And I can’t bear to have her stupid dress in my flat a moment longer. I snatch the garment bag and double back for my leather tote before I run down to the street below. My time here is over, but I won’t leave the dress behind for this version of me to deal with.
I can do that much for her.
It’s early enough most of the shops should still be open.
I wander the streets until I find something resembling a thrift shop.
Objets Trouvés appears as if out of the ether in one of the smarter shopping streets in the city.
I’ve been in dozens of thrift shops in Dublin, but I have never seen this one before.
It does feel oddly familiar, but I don’t linger over the why of it.
I have a task at hand—getting rid of this infernal dress—and need to get on with it.
I feel remarkably calm. The first time I left Rian, I spent days ugly crying.
Not now. I’m sure I look a fright, but I am mistress of myself.
Maybe because this is my second time leaving Rian, it stings a little less.
That isn’t true . . . It’s just the ache is familiar enough that I’ve learned to live with it.
I enter the shop and see a familiar woman with soft gray curls and artful laugh lines around her eyes.
The woman doesn’t seem to recognize me, but she greets me with the warmth I experienced at the airport. “Hello, dearie. Got something to off-load, do we?”
I nod and hand over the garment bag. “It’s you.”
She chuckles, deepening the lines around her eyes. “Indeed it is, love. Who else would I be?”
I shake sense into myself. “Sorry. It’s just been a bit of a day. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”
“I confess, I’m nervous to hear that. I’m not sure our fair city can manage two women of such beauty and wit within its walls.” She gives me a roguish wink, and I smile in return. She unzips the bag and takes in a sharp breath. “Oh, you have had a bit of a day, haven’t you?”
She doesn’t make the assumption that I’ve found the dress in an attic or that I’ve come across it by happenstance. As soon as she touches the lace, she knows what’s happened. I can see the recognition in her face.
“It’s not your time, dearie. And not your dress.”
“No.” I shake my head in agreement. “It’s not.” And despite all my restraint up to this point, tears begin to spill over onto my cheeks.
Her expression, which has been bordering on piteous, mercifully turns businesslike. “If that’s the truth of it, there’s no use mulling it over. Time to move forward, yes?”
I let loose a ragged breath. “I think so. Pretty sure I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Her blue eyes meet mine, and she radiates comprehension. “I think you do, dearie.” She looks the gown over once more and lifts a brow. “Someone has left a note.”
“What?” I’m not surprised I hadn’t noticed. I’d been too shocked at Orla’s audacity to see the thick ivory envelope, nearly the exact shade of the dress, pinned to the label inside.
The woman passes me the envelope that has Sabrina penned in Orla’s meticulous script on the front.
Dear Sabrina,
Forgive me for doing this, but you are too talented to give up your dreams like I did for Rian and his father.
Despite what he may say to the contrary, Rian has always wanted a traditional wife.
One that will set her own ambition aside to support his.
He may seem fair-minded now, but things will change if you marry.
I confess I enabled this trait in him, and he’s become too much like his father.
I can’t bear to see someone with your spark and vivacity reduced to serving as his maid, cook, and eventually nanny.
I could think of no other way to scare you off than being the evil mother-in-law from every bad movie ever made.
I hope you’ll understand in time that I want only the best for you.
Your friend,
Orla
I stand speechless in the middle of the thrift shop. Could this possibly be true? Was Orla really trying to protect me from suffering the same fate she’d endured? Was Rian really as traditionally minded as she believes?
Past me would have scoffed. Rian was thoughtful. He brought over takeout when I was too tired to cook. He loaded the dishwasher. He seemed to love my ambition.
But as I replay the last few conversations Rian and I had, her warnings don’t seem baseless.
His talk about slowing down, children . .
. He hadn’t mentioned those things in my previous stint here because we hadn’t gotten quite this far.
I hadn’t tried so hard to make it work. Orla had resorted to disrupting my work and buying an inappropriate (thank you, Robin) dress to scare me away because this time I was so invested in being more empathetic with her so things would work out between Rian and me.
The woman seems unfazed by my standing, mouth agape, in the middle of her shop like a befuddled codfish. “So what will it be—cash or store credit? Ordaithe was a grand house back in its day. I can give you a hundred euro since it’s in such good condition.”
I finally snap my mouth shut. “Oh no. You can have it. Just . . . I don’t know .
. . make sure it finds the right home.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand, suddenly embarrassed to be weeping so openly in public.
But it’s not like I haven’t wept in front of this woman before in an even more public setting.
There is no way she isn’t the Ticket Agent, if a bit younger.
She pats my other hand, which is resting on the glass case where she’s arranged her bits and bobs of secondhand jewelry. “I absolutely will make sure this dress finds the right bride. Don’t you worry your head about that. But I have to insist you take something in exchange.”
I shake my head. “No. Nothing, please. I really need to go.”
She holds up a hand and grabs a green leather backpack—my green leather backpack—from a shelf.
“Take this for your trip then. A wee gift. It will serve you well.”
I look down. “I already have one just like it.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel it’s full. I open it to find all my odds and ends. From my actual timeline.
“Best you find your way to the airport, dearie. It’s getting late.”