Chapter Three
After a long day of work with four morgue pickups and not a single Devin sighting, I stumble into the bridal shop five minutes early, which is a personal triumph considering the two buses involved in getting all the way from Anderson & Pulaski to Lincoln Park, where the posh people live.
Sometimes I indulge in the fantasy of owning a car, before I remember I can barely even afford my own apartment. Trains and buses it is.
It’s four fifty-five, and as the air conditioning envelops me in its chilly embrace, I suddenly remember I’m starving. Between today’s pickups, I didn’t get a chance to grab lunch. I’m also really wishing I’d had time to stop at home for a shower …
‘Hello!’ A woman in black pants and a tunic-length crisp white shirt sashays toward me, a glass of champagne in her manicured hand. ‘You must be with the Ames-Cherian wedding party.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say as she hands me the champagne.
OK – wow. Fancy. And actually kind of nice.
I need to relax a little, and maybe the champagne will help me transition from handling dead people to consorting with alive people.
I take a quick sip. Oh my God, it’s only the best champagne I’ve ever tasted.
‘I’m Siobhan,’ the woman says, ‘and I’ll be taking care of you today. Your name?’ Her blond updo is sleek, her makeup flawless.
‘Margot McKee.’
‘Come right this way. You’re the first one here, but I’ve already pulled all the dresses, so we can go ahead and get you started with your fitting …’
I follow her, stealing another cold swig of champagne as she ushers me into the dressing room area, where our dresses hang from a rolling rack.
Half a dozen dressing rooms are positioned on either side of a giant, three-way mirror, each room with a heavy velvet curtain for privacy.
Facing the dressing rooms, two blue couches and assorted armchairs make for a viewing area.
The couch is calling my name, but I must resist. Fitting first, relax later.
‘And I have your dress right here,’ says Siobhan, pulling my satin pea soup dress off the rack and approaching one of the dressing rooms. ‘Just slip it on, then we’ll take a look.’ She sweeps open a curtain, then efficiently closes me in.
‘Thanks,’ I call out behind her.
The dressing room is huge – there’s even an armchair inside here.
My vision of getting my fitting over with in a snap dissolves.
Instead, I sink into the chair, slouch all the way down and take another long swig of champagne.
Delicious. Gentle piano music pipes through invisible speakers, and I roll my shoulders.
Slowly but surely, every ache and pain from the day’s exertions starts to melt away.
With my head leaned against the back of the chair, I turn my head from side to side and the muscles in my neck pop in a satisfying way.
‘Everything OK in there?’ asks Siobhan after a while.
‘Great! Be out soon!’ I call back, but I don’t move. There’s no hurry. The girls aren’t even here yet …
As if on cue, there’s suddenly a chatter of voices. I grin – they may not realize I’m in here. Maybe I can jump out and surprise them …
‘I’m so sad to miss out on the champagne!’ cries a very distinctive voice – Bix, George’s maid of honor. She’s massively pregnant with her second child, and always popping with opinions.
‘Girl, it’s delicious.’ Trish – petite and put together.
George’s four other bridesmaids are all her sorority sisters, so I’m the odd one out.
I know them somewhat, obviously, just from being around George and participating in the occasional trivia night with them, but it’s not like we’re super close.
‘I guess Margot’s running late,’ says George. ‘Maybe we can wait a few minutes?’
I’m about to spring up and surprise them when Bix pipes up again.
‘Can I just say? That girl is a wreck. I know her roommate disappearing was intense, but it’s been half a year. And where is she working now? A funeral home? It’s like she’s obsessed with death.’
I freeze in place at the edge of the chair, heart pounding uncomfortably.
‘Let’s not talk about her that way,’ says George in a quiet voice, sounding more subdued than I’ve ever heard before. ‘Poor thing has been through enough—’
‘Six months ago,’ snaps Yoli, an accountant with a sleek life and an Instagram following of over fifty thousand. ‘Sorry to seem insensitive, but she doesn’t seem capable of moving on, and it’s—’
‘—sad,’ completes Bix. ‘Not to mention, Georgie Porgie, it can’t be fun to have someone permanently raining on your parade, right? As your big day gets closer?’
‘Well …’ says George, ‘it is tough sometimes. You guys know this is one of the happiest times of my life, but she’s in such a dark place.
I’m trying to be a good friend. I even set her up on a date with Arjun’s friend last night.
I thought it could be a nice mood boost, but … I guess it didn’t go so well.’
‘I feel sorry for the guy, whoever he was,’ says a new voice, high and plaintive. Amy, a trust fund kid who volunteers at a pet shelter and runs marathons. ‘That downer energy on a date could not be fun.’
‘She needs help,’ says Trish in a brisk, no-nonsense voice. ‘Professional help. If you want my opinion, Margot and Zoe were totally codependent.’
‘And codependent is the nice way to put it,’ says Bix with a knowing laugh.
‘I don’t want to be selfish, but … I just want the old Margot back,’ says George.
‘You know? The one who was full of life and optimism. First Zoe disappears, right before the holidays … then the dentist retires and Margot gets laid off … I’m not saying I blame her for being sad.
But it’s like all the good energy has just drained out of her.
I want her to start living again, you know? ’
‘Let’s be honest about Zoe, though,’ says Yoli. ‘Didn’t we see it coming?’
There’s a pregnant pause before George speaks again. ‘No, no, I know how it sounds, but you’re right. I don’t want to say Zoe was looking for trouble, but …’
My stomach squeezes. I feel like I’m about to throw up.
‘Zoe was a risk-taker,’ says Yoli. ‘She was never satisfied, ever. She liked living on the edge. That’s all there is to it. You guys know I’m all about everyone living however they want to live. But she went one risk too far, and now look what’s happened.’
I don’t even feel myself move, but suddenly I’m tearing the curtain aside and exploding out of the dressing room.
The group freezes as if for a picture, except instead of smiles, their mouths hang open in horror.
‘Margot …’ George takes a step toward me, her cheeks flooded with red. Her hair is perfectly curled, her tweed sheath dress perfectly fitted to her slim frame. Sophisticated, poised, put-together. Zoe’s diametric opposite. ‘I didn’t realize you were—’
‘Please stop, or you’ll just make it worse. I’m going to leave now, and we can just pretend this never happened. OK?’ I look around at them. No one says anything. ‘Have a nice fitting without me.’
I start walking, intending to storm past them, but phew the champagne has gone straight to my head. I stumble on the carpet, yelp and barely right myself before spilling what’s left. No one makes a peep.
On the way through the store, dignity in shreds, I pass Siobhan and offload my champagne glass, this time without breaking stride.
‘Is everything—’ she says.
‘I’ll come back for a fitting another time,’ I mutter as I push out of the store.
The bus stop isn’t far, but I’m not ready to be enclosed. I set off at a brisk stride. It’s too far to walk all the way home, but I have to burn off the anger that’s eating me alive.
I hate what I just heard about Zoe. About me. But what I hate most of all is that, at some level, George and the girls were right.
Zoe and I were totally codependent. The first few years, it felt incredible, like we were twin souls, completely aligned, headed in the same direction, every emotion that beat in her chest beating in mine too.
Later, it felt smothering, like there wasn’t space for me to have my own feelings or deviate from the lifestyle we’d always shared.
Maybe it wasn’t an entirely healthy relationship. I know that. I guess it’s ironic that, when she was still alive, I was starting to pull away. But now that she’s gone, I don’t know how to let her go.
*
I’m not ready to answer George’s call – her tenth since I left the bridal shop, by the way – but I make myself do it anyway. She won’t give up. Might as well rip the band-aid off. I’m just toweling my hair after a long, hot shower when I finally answer and set the phone on the sink ledge.
‘Margot?’ she says. Her voice is wobbly.
‘Hey.’ I flip my hair back and hang up the towel.
‘Margot, I’m so sorry. I’ve just been beating myself up ever since you left. Oh my God. I’m the worst! The absolute worst! I totally understand if you don’t want to be my bridesmaid any more! Or see me, ever again!’
I sigh, leave the bathroom, then lie down on the living-room floor, starfish style, the phone on speaker next to my head, wet hair fanned out. I stare up at the ceiling fan. Its rotations are soothing.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I still want to be your bridesmaid. And I’m sorry I ruined the fitting.’
‘You didn’t ruin anything. It was me and my big mouth. Can you ever forgive me?’
Despite the hurt still pulsing in my chest, I can’t stay mad at George. She isn’t perfect. But she always apologizes when she’s wrong, and that’s more than can be said for most.
‘Of course I can,’ I say.
‘Really?’ She sniffles.
‘Really.’ I pause. ‘Did you mean what you said about missing the old Margot?’
She doesn’t answer right away. I listen to her blow her nose.
‘I mean … yes,’ she finally says. ‘But I’m not saying it’s your fault you changed. You’ve had a lot of trauma. Of course I can’t expect you to bounce back like it was nothing.’
‘It’s been rough.’ My voice cracks.
‘I know, sweetie. Look – I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just say it.
I really think the dentist’s office laying you off could be a blessing in disguise!
Remember your dream? The coffee shop? It’s such a beautiful idea, employing women who are escaping from domestic abuse and paying them fairly!
You can’t let one bad year ruin the dream forever.
I feel like you need to give it a shot.’ She pauses.
‘I’m not sure how you’re spending your evenings these days, if you’re just taking some needed rest, or whatever – but maybe you could start working on a business plan. Put your fancy college degree to work!’
I almost say, you mean my English major? I changed majors so many times, that’s what I ended up with, less for a love of Shakespeare and more because that’s what added up in terms of credits after trying out French, Business, Art History and a brief but exhilarating fling with Astrophysics.
I don’t speak right away. Instead, I bite my lip and sit with George’s words.
Maybe she’s right and it’s time to take a new risk, despite my history of bad judgment in men and majors.
But I don’t have the capacity. I mentally shove the whole coffee shop thing into my ‘Future Margot’ bucket.
How do I tell George that I owe it to Zoe to keep looking for her, every day, in every spare minute I’ve got?
I know how it would seem to George that I’m still trying to find out what happened to Zoe.
Codependent to the max. Six months is a long time when it comes to finding missing people.
If the case isn’t cold, it’s definitely not warm.
And yet people don’t just disappear. They have to go somewhere – their bodies, at least. Which means there’s always the chance of finding them.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
‘I—’ I begin, then stop. ‘—appreciate your belief in the coffee shop. Something to think about. But, um, I should get to bed. Work tomorrow.’
‘I mean, totally understandable that you’re not ready to think about the cafe stuff. Maybe down the road. But really quickly, before you go …’ George speaks the next part in a rush. ‘I kind of may have someone who I really want to set you up on a blind date with.’
I groan. ‘This? Again? George. No.’
‘Please?’
‘I don’t want to be your pity project!’
‘But this could be good for you.’
‘I’m a wreck!’
‘Yes, maybe you’re a wreck right now, but Margot, don’t you get it? This could be the thing to lift you out of the pit! Meeting someone great – please just give it a chance. For me? Pretty please? It can be your wedding gift to me! You don’t even have to get me anything else!’
Ugh. Only George can pivot from an utterly sincere, tearful apology to full force won’t-take-no-for-an-answer bossypants. Anyway, I already bought her the Kitchen Aid ice cream-making attachment from her registry.
‘I already got you something.’
‘Return it!’ she cries. ‘All I want is for you to be happy again!’
‘A date with a rando is not going to fix me.’
‘Hear me out. I know the last guy was a bust. This guy is a total catch. He’s a complete hottie, and really really nice. This guy could be it!’
‘So you know him pretty well? What does he do for a living?’
‘Um … so I don’t exactly know him super well, personally speaking …’
Oh God, here we go again.
‘Another one of Arjun’s buds, huh?’
‘… but Arjun totally vouches for this one. I guess they met at his friend’s boyfriend’s art gallery, so that’s cool, right?
A man who’s interested in the arts? Anyway, he’s single, and you’re single, and Arjun immediately thought of you, and why not give it a chance?
You know my matchmaking skills are legendary.
I introduced Yoli and Gary! And they’re practically engaged, if he can just get over his fear of commitment! Please let me help you.’
Aaaargh – ‘Fine!’ I explode. ‘But this is the last one. Are you listening to me? If this date doesn’t end in wedding bells, no more blind dates. Deal?’
‘Deal!’ she crows, and I can hear her literally clapping her hands in the background. ‘And hey, since you have to go back for a dress fitting, how about Saturday at noon? That’s when my veil is supposed to be in from Italy, so we could have a redo. I can call and schedule it! Say yes!’
‘Yes. OK. Yes,’ I say, softened as always by her unabashed enthusiasm.
After we say goodnight, I consider brushing my teeth, but at this point, fuck it. I’m way too tired, and is one night of poor dental hygiene really going to give me cavities? Or two? Who’s even counting?
As I’m falling into bed, ready to be done with the day and never relive it again, a text from George pops through.
You’re officially on with Mr Hottie tomorrow night at Wine & Thistle! 6pm, don’t be late!!!!!!!!
I crash my face into my pillow.
‘Fuck me,’ I mutter before sleep takes me.