Chapter 12
“The back will look jaw-dropping at the altar,” the wedding dress consultant tells my mother. “And the condition is fabulous on this one. Just a tiny bit of boutique dust.”
I take a sip of my third glass of sparkling rosé offered by the shop assistant and watch my mom scrutinize her reflection in a six-way mirror. The consultant zips her into the blush-colored “effortless crepe sheath with a geometric keyhole back” and stands back.
“And you tightened up that button closure?” Mom asks.
The consultant nods and asks reverently, “How do you feel?”
My mother takes a slow breath, and this look comes over her face that doesn’t require any verbal explanation.
When she and Perry decided to have a ceremony, I assumed she’d pick out a suit—more akin to something a mother of the bride would wear, but in a rich cream color. Instead, she began asking my opinions while scrolling through Pinterest boards featuring “Stunning Second-Wedding Dress Ideas.”
She did her dress shopping with a few friends, but insisted on bringing me along for the final fitting so I could see the gown in person.
I don’t fantasize about getting engaged and planning my “special day,” but I must admit to some cognitive dissonance as I watch my mom revel in the role of blushing bride while I’m wearing an oversized black T-shirt with a toothpaste stain down the front.
Also, I’m a little envious that she can pull off a dress with an open back and no supportive undergarments.
My mother’s love life blossomed when the world shut down. She would meet with a financial adviser over Zoom, fall in love, and subsequently have actual chemistry in person. (I would obviously be too ashamed to show anyone my financial records and then have to face them in real life.)
Dating a slightly younger person shifted my mom’s entire mindset. She and Perry attend events all over the city, try new restaurants, spontaneously go away for long weekends.
While I wouldn’t say I have a close relationship with Perry, we get along pretty well.
Actually, I suspect that they would very much like to spend a day decluttering the office, but they’re polite enough not to say so.
Perry is responsible (again, professional financial adviser), organized, dependable: basically the opposite of my dad.
We load the garment bag into the car and drive over to Nordstrom to complete the other mission of the day. She’s insisted on buying me a new dress for the occasion.
“You can’t wear black to your mother’s wedding,” she says, pulling into the shopping center parking structure. “It’ll look like you’re making a passive-aggressive statement.”
“Almost everything I own is black,” I say. “It’ll look weirder if I show up in floral chiffon.”
“I think a floral would look beautiful for a summer wedding. Perry is wearing this amazing butter yellow suit with a cropped vest.”
I draw out a picture in my mind of what they’ll look like in their coordinating summer colors: my mom in her elegant, perfectly fitted gown next to Perry with their immaculate undercut and tailored vest. It’s probably my duty as a family member to work with their color palette.
Twenty minutes later, she’s hustling me into the dressing room, three pastel dresses draped over her forearm.
“Say, what do you think of Nick?” Before I can reply, she continues, speaking loudly through the dressing room door. “He seems like such a nice man, right?”
“Sure.” I pull my T-shirt over my head, noting that I should have worn a different bra for this. “I mean, he did make a lot of noise with his apartment updates—”
“Men today can be so unreliable. There’s so much on Nick’s plate with his job and his daughter. He told me that he only took one day off this month. And it was so he could move!”
“And what does he do that’s so demanding?” I take the first floral dress off the hanger, waiting for her to explain that he’s an on-call vet at a twenty-four-hour clinic or an air traffic controller.
“He manages the Chili’s on 3rd Avenue.”
“Chili’s?” Had I been properly hydrating, I would’ve done a spit take. “He’s toiling away at Chili’s?”
“He’s the general manager. It’s a hard job.”
“I work in a restaurant.” I step into tiers of floral chiffon. “I know what’s involved.” And my mom never seems all that impressed when I work late.
“But he’s in charge of the whole business. He seems very responsible.” There’s an upward lilt to her voice. A sort of implied ellipsis. “He’d be a great catch for someone. Do you think he’s seeing anyone?” she asks with overly casual inflection.
“How would I know?” I can tell I hate this dress before I zip it up.
“You and Romily were over at his apartment. What did you talk about?”
“His Star Trek waffle iron,” I reply.
“Well, do you think he’s good-looking?”
I freeze. Suddenly I have a suspicion about why she’s launched a PR campaign on this man’s behalf.
“ ‘Good-looking’?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s…traditionally handsome, but do you think he has an interesting face? Would a typical woman swipe right on him?”
Is this why she put out all that food the other day?
“I’m not going to date your neighbor, Mom.”
“Oh please, Sam.” She lets out a laugh. “Obviously not for you. I was thinking about my friend Christina’s daughter.”
I feel strangely offended by this reaction.
“Who’s Christina?”
“She’s in my book club. I’m sure you’ve met her a few times.
” My mom tried to get me to join her book club over Zoom during Covid.
I lasted one meeting. “She has a daughter in her thirties who just went through a horrific divorce—Shawna. Absolutely terrible situation,” she says loud enough for me and anyone else in the vicinity to hear.
“Her husband was having an affair with her cousin.”
I open the dressing room door and make a shushing motion.
“I don’t want to know this stuff about random strangers.” I mean, I absolutely do. I suppose on some pathetic level it makes me feel better to know that my nonexistent husband isn’t cheating on me with my theoretical cousin.
Mom tilts her head and squints at the dress, pulling up on the spaghetti straps.
“This is a no,” I say, looking down at the blue and orange flowers.
“Okay, try another one.” I close the door and return to the pseudo-privacy of the dressing room.
“Anyway, I referred her to my lawyer. Apparently, the legal bills have been astronomical.” Mom continues at a marginally softer volume.
“Shawna had to move back in with Christina and Dan. They had to pay off her Visa bill.” So, Shawna and I have something in common. “She was a wreck.”
Does my mother discuss me at this granular level of detail with her book club acquaintances? Did she tell them I was a mess after I moved back in? That I still don’t know how to drive?
“And you want to set up your hardworking neighbor with a wreck?” I grab the next dress: a pleated column gown that’s off the shoulder, meaning I’d have to dig my strapless bra out of whatever drawer I stashed it in years ago.
“Oh, Shawna’s on an SSRI now,” Mom replies. “I referred her to my old therapist. She’s doing really well. She’s using dating apps, but obviously it’s so hard to trust someone again and men are just so…well you know. They don’t want to commit to anything. I mean, look at your father.”
A few years ago, my mom stopped shielding me from her unfiltered opinions about my dad, so I tend to avoid that topic.
“How do you know Nick doesn’t have commitment issues? He’s divorced.”
“And he didn’t tell you anything about that?”
I let out an exasperated breath. “No, Mom, the person I’ve spoken to for a grand total of forty minutes didn’t tell me the story of his failed marriage.”
I hate this dress. I open the door so Mom can hate it, too.
She squints at me. “Too curtainy?”
I nod and retreat into the dressing room. The final selection has some promise. It has a 1950s-ish silhouette with a bustier bodice and sweetheart neckline.
“In any case,” she says, “sometimes people just need a second chance. Look at Perry and me. I don’t think being divorced means you’re damaged goods.”
“I don’t think you should be matchmaking.” I zip myself into the dress. “It’s messy.”
I adjust my posture, examining myself in the mirror, trying to form an opinion before my mom can color it.
“Well,” she says, “if they hit it off, he could be her date to the wedding.”
“You’re inviting your friend’s daughter? And the neighbor you just met?”
“It’s not a sit-down dinner; we just need a ballpark guest count,” she says, even though I suspect Perry would object to that statement. “And he’s handy. Did you notice the size of his toolbox? He has a bigger set of socket wrenches than the building maintenance guys.”
“So if I went out to Home Depot and returned with a pair of pliers and a hammer, you’d consider me responsible and stable, too?” I open the door and present myself for inspection.
“You’ll understand when you have your own home.” She adjusts these straps, too. “It’s about self-reliance.”
“I’m a girl who’s being responsible by saving money and sharing resources with her family,” I say. The “sharing resources” bit is a new talking point. I’m trying it out.
Pathetic.
“ ‘Girl?’ Sam, you’re twenty-six years old.” She’s not buying it, either. “At twenty-six, I was married with an infant.”
“And don’t you wish you’d waited longer to get married and have a baby?” I’m threading the needle carefully here—reminding my mom of some of the regrets she’s expressed to me over the years, but not weaponizing them against her.
“I wish I had lived on my own,” she says, which is her way of threading her own needle.
We don’t actually argue; we just passive-aggressively embroider at each other.
“I probably would’ve made some different choices.
” She takes a step back and squints at me again.
“That doesn’t mean I regret having you. Obviously.
” There’s a final nod of approval, then she folds me into an unexpected hug.
“I’m in a great place in my life now. And who knows?
I still have lots of opportunities to try new things.
” There’s a look on her face I can’t decipher.
“This dress is pretty good,” I say.
“I think so, too,” she agrees, keeping me in the embrace. “You look beautiful.”