36. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six
Meg
I looked into my baby’s eyes and hummed Brahams’ Lullaby , one of my early oboe solos.
Nursing at my breast, Zachary raised his leg as if he approved of my soprano, his little hand resting on my skin.
How blessed my life had become. Mike and I had endured ten weeks of torture while the baby was in the NICU, but he’d been home for a week now, and what seemed like a never-ending vigil in the hospital was now fading into oblivion.
“Do you know that you are a warrior?” I asked him. “You not only survived the odds, you kicked them in the teeth.”
“He sure is a warrior.” Mike came in and sat on the floor of the nursery facing my rocking chair. “In fact, I was just in my office writing a poem of sorts.”
“Of sorts?”
“Well it doesn’t rhyme perfectly.”
“Not all poems have to rhyme. In fact, free verse follows the path of natural speech.” I gently rocked the chair and gestured to the paper in his hand. “Is that it? Will you read it to me?”
Mike let out a long breath. “Well, if it’s not any good, we can always use the paper for fire starter.”
“I’ll bet it is as profound as Walt Whitman’s prose. Read it to me.”
The man gave me a look with the corners of his mouth taut, as if he were completely unsure of himself. “Okaaay…here goes:
I thought my life was full until I met you,
But the first time I saw your face, a window opened to shining rays in every hue,
My world transformed from black and white into a kaleidoscope of color,
Surrounding me with a bouquet of new fragrances, a realm of endless wonder,
Your smile changed me forever because you were the one ,
Until you gave me a son,
And now I am fulfilled in every way I can imagine,
My love is brimming with unending passion,
Because my family is paradisiacal,
Because I am yours, you are mine and together…we made a miracle.”
I reached out to him and grasped Mike’s hand. “That is beautiful. Perfect.”
“Just like our baby.”
Zachary unlatched and squealed, kicking his legs.
“See?” I laughed. “He thinks it’s awesome, too. In fact, we should make a wall hanging out of it—entitle it Contentment or something.”
“You really like it?” Mike asked.
I cupped his stubbly cheek with my palm. “I don’t think anyone could have put it better.”
“Thank you.” He grinned. “So…since your birthday is in five days, what would you think about having Nana come over and babysit while we go to Digger’s Sting for dinner?”
I shifted Zachary to my shoulder and patted his back. We’d only had him home for a week. “Oh, no. He’s too young.”
“All right. How about I order whatever you want from Digger’s and bring it home?”
“That would be amazing.”
Six weeks later, Elaine held out the skirt of a white taffeta bridal gown, examining it with a disapproving squint. “I can’t believe he’s already four months old.”
“In birth months. In preemie months, he’s basically still a newborn. It takes premature babies two years to catch up to their actual birthday.”
All of the dresses I’d looked at so far had been built for a stick woman, yet my mother and best friend were searching through the racks of bridal gowns as if they could find something I’d be able to squeeze my post-pregnancy body into.
“What about this?” asked my mom, holding up a dress that looked like something Ursula from The Little Mermaid might wear.
“No. ”
“Hello,” said a bridal consultant, floating into the room. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.” Mom patted my shoulder. “Corley. One o’clock.”
I glanced at my watch. It was quarter past and we had better make it snappy because I needed to pump before my nipples started leaking. Now that my maternity and Mike’s paternity leave was over, I had to milk myself every three hours. Mike and I had both negotiated four ten-hour days with our employers. I had Mondays off and he had Fridays. Mom and Bob had put their refurbishing business on hold and they were watching Zachary during the three days in between—at least for the next six months or so.
Elaine looped her arm through mine. “This is the bride to be. Can we get something off the shelf? The wedding is only six weeks away.”
“Weeks?” The woman gawked. “Most brides give us a minimum of six months.”
Though Mike and I had picked the date of September twenty-first shortly after we got Zachary’s due date, I’d given no thought whatsoever about a dress or wedding planning for that matter. Only two weeks ago Mom had helped me send out invitations and I was ecstatic that my father was actually coming from Australia. We were doing everything entirely backwards—and had only ordered the rings last week. Mike’s was a gold band and mine was a single solitaire with a wedding band that matched his.
“So, can you help us?” asked my mother. “I need a mother of the bride dress, and we’d also like to order bridesmaid dresses, but my daughter isn’t going to change the date.”
“We could always shop online,” said Elaine.
I huffed out a sigh. “I don’t like buying online because nothing ever fits.”
“We do have a limited supply of gowns on the shelf.” The woman eyed my waistline. “Let’s measure you and see what we can do.”
I groaned. “I’m no delicate flower.”
“There is no judging here. We make brides of all sizes beautiful.”
Was that meant to make me feel better? Because it certainly did not. It sounded more like she said, “Don’t worry, Fatty, I’ll squeeze you into something.”
I was about to suggest we leave when both Mom and Elaine took an arm and pulled me into the back room which was filled with mirrors and a platform for gorgeous brides to stand upon and admire themselves .
Only because I wanted to look my best for Mike, I tolerated the measurements, then we sat and waited, tapping my foot while the attendant collected gowns.
“You don’t look happy, Meg.” Mom gestured to my nervous foot. “Would you rather we go to Minneapolis or Madison?”
“I’m fine. You know I’m always self-conscious when everyone is looking at my body.”
“You have a complex, girl.” Elaine backhanded my arm, a little hard if you ask me. “Even after your pregnancy you still look gorgeous.”
“Maybe in a sweater and a skirt,” I mumbled, looking at my mother out of the corner of my eye. Sure, I got her mutated COL3A1 gene, but why couldn’t she pass on the slim figure to me?
“Hey.” Elaine batted her eyelashes. “Remember the guy you and Mike set me up with last winter?”
“Yes, whoa, we’ve hardly talked about anything but baby stuff since then. Did you like him?”
“Uh huh.” She twirled in place. “He’s going to be my date for the wedding.”
I grabbed her hands and squeezed them. “Oh, that’s awesome.”
“Here we are!” The woman came in with her arms full of white and sparkly things.
She held up one strapless gown after another. They all looked the same, though the skirts varied from princess to mermaid to the A-line, to the godawful column.
My head was about to shake off my neck. Maybe I loved color, but I didn’t care for glitz. “Ugh. I guess I should have told you I don’t want sequins or flashy crystals. I don’t want my ‘linebacker’ shoulders bare, and there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be caught dead in a column dress. Not with these curves.”
The woman puzzled for a moment before her face brightened and she held up a finger. “I think we might be in luck.” She shuffled through a rack of dresses. “One of our brides cancelled at the last minute and her dress is stunning. We might need to size it down an inch or two, but that shouldn’t take our seamstress too long, especially if you’re okay with paying an upcharge to move your gown to the head of the queue.”
Mom crossed her ankles and folded her hands. “If the dress is what Meg wants, then we’ll work out the cost. ”
Ten minutes later, I was standing on the dreaded platform in the perfect gown. I even looked beautiful. I mean, I thought I looked beautiful, probably for the first time since I hit puberty.
The bridal attendant had taken a couple of tucks, fastened with pins, and the gown fit as if it had been made for me. With lace cap sleeves, and a pleated, crisscross bodice, the ivory chiffon flowed like a Grecian gown with a splay of beaded floral detail at the waist—no daisies, but the dress was stunning.
“I love the back,” said Elaine, and I turned to examine the laced corset back.
“The question is how do you like it, Meg?” Mom pushed to her feet then walked around me with her fingers pinching her chin. “It’s only the first dress you’ve tried on.”
“It’s perfect.”
Elaine, ever not the subtle one, threw up her hands in victory. “You look like a goddess, girlfriend!”
The woman straightened out the train. “She does, doesn’t she? That cut is so flattering and we hardly ever sell it. Most everyone wants something off the shoulder or weighed down with rhinestones.”
“That’s definitely not me.”
I changed positions in front of the mirrors but no matter how I looked at it, this was the gown of my dreams. How did this dress make my cleavage look so hot? I mean, I never looked hot. Nice, passable, occasionally lovely perhaps, but not sexy.
I smiled. “Now, what about bridesmaid dresses and something for my Mom?”
“I think I have exactly what you need.”