Chapter 1 #2
It isn’t until Mom taps me on the shoulder that I realize the server is waiting for me to order. Cecelie chatters about her family’s upcoming trip to Disney World, but everyone else is looking at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling the menu closer. I glance up at the server. “Could you maybe start with someone else?”
Someone scoffs. My money is on Grandma Eloise. Mom settles a hand on my elbow and whispers. “Everyone else has already ordered, honey. What about the shrimp and avocado salad?” She pastes on a smile. “That’s what I’m having.”
I adore my sister Margaret, but if I have to sit here in this chicken-wire dress while the echoes of laughter and chatter and the clinking of glasses and the rattle of dishes pinball off the walls and floors and high ceilings, I am not having a fucking salad.
I flip over the menu to the brunch options because, let’s be honest here, brunch is the evolutionary pinnacle of dining. The Mac Daddy of Meals. The Queen Bee of—.
“Hattie?” Margaret asks softly. “You good?”
But I don’t look up or answer her because this kind of selection can’t be rushed. And it already takes all my concentration to tune out the noise and not break out in hives with all eleven—twelve counting the server—pairs of eyes on me while I decide.
“Harriet, it’ll be dinnertime before you know it.” I don’t have to look up to know this is Grandma Eloise. Probably smiling like a shark.
Mom shifts in her seat beside me.
“I’ll have the Breesus Boudin Biscuits,” I announce. “With the cheddar corn grits.”
“Filling,” Grandma Eloise mutters.
Mom resettles the napkin in her lap.
The server turns to stride away.
“And a sweet iced tea,” I add, raising my voice over the noise. Except maybe I raised it a little too high?
Half of the other diners in The French Press stare at me and our server—a tall, thin blond guy—looks a little afraid.
I duck my head and glance at Mom and then Margaret. “Sorry.”
“All good, Hats,” Margaret waves me off. Mom pats my thigh twice under the table. I wrinkle my nose at the scrape-scrape of the tulle.
I think about the Aurifil color card instead of how good the fried boudin biscuit sliders are going to be.
My stomach is already rumbling. Every now and then, the table erupts in laughter, and I have to cover my ears again.
But each time I do, I look up at Margaret, because she’s beaming, laughing huge.
More than once, our eyes latch, and we smile at each other.
Margaret is two years older than me. She just earned her Master’s in speech pathology and audiology in May. She and Merrick have been together for two years. He proposed a week after her graduation when we were all at the beach house in Miramar.
I hate sand. But I love the beach.
I love sitting on the big porch swing at the beach house.
Watching the waves. The way the birds fight and cavort: the sanderlings and the laughing gulls and the royal terns.
Watching Mom dig her toes in the sand as she dozes under the beach umbrella while Dad reads his latest sci-fi beside her.
Watching Merrick and Margaret zoom around on the wave runner.
Merrick could’ve popped the question while they were a mile out when she had her arms locked around his middle, surrounded by blue skies and crystal waves.
He could’ve dropped to one knee on the sand during the magic hour when the sunset turns everything pink.
But Merrick waited until everyone was back at the house. Cleaned up. Drinks in hand. Sitting on the big porch.
With me.
That’s when he got down on one knee and asked my big sister to marry him. With all of us there to hear the way his voice shook and see how glassy his eyes got.
Margaret is my favorite person in the world. But Merrick is in my Top Five.
So I don’t need to hear everything that makes my sister laugh today. I just know she’s happy. And I’m happy for her.
Even if I’m ready to strip naked, throw this dress into the nearest dumpster, and run screaming through Parc San Souci.
When we’ve nearly cleared our plates, and I’m half drunk on bacon, butter, and Steen’s syrup, Margaret pushes her chair back and delicately clears her throat.
“You all know I’m not one for speeches,” my sister says, her face already turning pink, “But I can’t thank you all enough for being in my bridal party. I’m really honored.”
Margaret’s friends murmur protests. Cousin Cecelie drums her heels against her chair legs. For once, Grandma Eloise looks like she’s really smiling.
“I know—no matter what—it’s a sacrifice.” She rolls her eyes. “The expense. The dresses. The fittings. The uncomfortable shoes—”
For some reason everyone else laughs. I just nod adamantly.
“It isn’t always convenient and it isn’t always fun. And I just want you to know I appreciate all of it.” Margaret’s gaze sweeps the table. Her eyes meet mine and she holds them there a beat longer. “From the bottom of my heart.”
She turns to Camille who is holding an armful of little white gift bags. Each is personalized with our names. “So, when I say that these are only small tokens of my appreciation, I really mean it.”
Margaret starts passing the gift bags around the table. As oohs and aahs and tissue paper fly everywhere, I cover my ears and lean back in my chair. Cecelie bounces in her chair when she pulls a charm bracelet out of her bag.
Brianna presses a hand to her heart when draws out a blush-colored pendant on a rose gold chain. Lacey gushes over loop earrings, and Camille smiles as she slips on a copper cuff bracelet.
I do my best to smile. Jewelry is not for me.
I never want anything around my fingers, wrists, or neck. No one in their right mind would wear anklets or, God forbid, toe rings. My ears are not and will never be pierced.
I steel myself for whatever is inside the white bag in front of me. I silently pledge that I will wear whatever it is to the wedding, even if it makes me want to peel my skin off.
The bag is a little heavier than I expect. I gently tug out the tissue paper and peek inside.
Two tissue-wrapped bundles rest at the bottom of the gift bag.
Life is short. I pick the bulkier one.
When I tear away the paper, my mouth falls open.
It’s not jewelry.
“What on earth is that?” Grandma Eloise brays.
With all the reverence it deserves, I hold up the little marvel. “It’s a daisy flower stitch presser foot.”
Grandma Eloise recoils. Who cares? I might actually cry. I look back at Margaret to find her face lit with delight.
“That’s the backup present,” she says. “Just in case you don’t like the other one.”
“I—What?” The specialized presser foot couldn’t have cost more than $20, but it’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. If she wants me to wear it to the wedding, I’ll wrap a ribbon around it and tie it to my head if I have to. “I love it!”
Margaret nods, still smiling. “Open the other one.”
I don’t really want to put the presser foot down, already imagining all the things I can embroider. I need to shop for some embroidery thread. Aurifil has some, of course, but the company is all the way in Italy, and I can’t wait that long to try—
“Hattie, open the other one,” Mom urges. “Your sister is waiting.”
A quick glance around shows me she’s not the only one. In fact, everyone else is finished admiring their own gifts, and they’re all staring at me. Again.
“Oh.” Carefully, I tuck my precious presser foot back into the bag and retrieve the smaller bundle. I peel it open, but I don’t see how I’m supposed to concentrate on it when floral embroidered cuffs and collars are in my future and—
“OhmyGod,” I gasp.
Voices fly at me as the other women lean in.
“What is it?”
“Is that a—”
“It’s black.”
Grandma Eloise is right. It’s black and gold and exquisite. A vintage sewing machine brooch. I can already feel the locking C clasp against my fingers, but I flip it over just to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Yes.
Without warning. Tears sting my eyes. Turning it over again, I let myself admire the black enamel chassis, the gold hand crank, spool pin, throat plate, and needle.
It is jewelry.
But it’s the best piece of jewelry in the world! Because I can wear it without it touching me!
I launch out of my chair, already a mess of tears and snot before I reach her. I don’t even care about the tulle abrasions as I hug Margaret and cry against her neck. I don’t care that pretty much everyone in the restaurant is watching. I don’t care that some are even asking, Is she okay?
Margaret. Gets. Me.
When most of the world doesn’t—or doesn’t bother—my sweet sister does.
“For heaven’s sake, girls,” Grandma Eloise chides. “You’re ruining your makeup.”
But that’s not true because I’m not wearing any makeup. And when I finally pull back from Margaret’s hug, I see that even though her lashes are wet, her makeup is still perfect. As usual.
Margaret gives me a tearful chuckle. “Oh, Hattie. You might need a few tissues.”
“Do I have snot coming out of my nose?” I hiccup. Yeah, my voice might be too loud again. And even though Margaret, Camille, and Cecelie laugh, a few of my sister's guests squirm and look away.
Grandma Eloise twists her napkin, glares at Mom, and hisses. I don’t think I’m supposed to hear her, but I have excellent hearing, and it sounds like she says, “When is enough enough, Hillary?”
I have to laugh at myself in the bathroom mirror. But once I clean up my face, I also take special care to pin on my brooch.
Turning from side to side, I admire it. I didn’t think anything could make wearing this dress bearable, but I’m not turtling in it anymore. The red-eyed young woman in the mirror has her heart lifted in pride.
I’m so lucky to have Margaret. And now Merrick. I’m gaining a brother who might get me as much as my sister does.
The wedding is next month, and that means exactly four more events wearing scratchy clothes and enduring sound warfare. I’ve already survived two showers and three fittings. The bachelorette party, the wedding rehearsal, the wedding, and then the morning-after brunch are all I have left to face.
But I can handle them. No matter how much they might drain me. I want to be there for Margaret.
I pat the little sewing machine pinned just below my neckline. I can be sturdy and tireless just like a vintage Singer.
I’m making my way down the shadowed hallway back to the dining room when I hear Grandma Eloise.
“... really time you and Randall looked again. My friend Sasha says her nephew’s group home is perfect for his special needs—”
I stop cold.
Group home?
Looked again?
My breath halts.
“Eloise. That’s enough.” Mom’s words are low but clipped.
Looked again??
“I just mean that you and Randall aren’t getting any younger, and with Margaret and Merrick moving to Denver, it’s just—”
My heart nose-dives.
“Grandma!” The cry is Margaret’s. She sounds upset. I want to run to her, but I can’t.
I can’t move. The organ that’s supposed to stay in my chest starts racing from somewhere around my shoes.
She and Merrick…
Are moving to Denver?
My jaw feels tight and prickly. Like it’s being squeezed by a vice covered in straight pins.
My ears ring, and I hear newspaper tearing over and over again.
But it’s not newspaper.
It’s me. Breathing. Panting. Gasping for air.
“Mom? How does she even know that?” Margaret’s voice is tight with distress and accusation. “We haven’t even had a chance to tell Hattie.”
“Randall told me. As he should, I might add.” Grandma Eloise snips. “Of course, I won’t say anything to the child.”
“She’s not a child.” Margaret sounds like her jaw is clenched. Like mine. “Hattie’s twenty-three—”
Someone scoffs. I know it’s Grandma. I wait for Mom to say something. To join Margaret in my defense, but she doesn’t.
It feels like the ground opens up beneath me.
To my right the door to the kitchen swings open.
“Pardon me, Miss.” A server, this time a woman about my age, breezes by me carrying a massive tray.
I press my back against the wall and fix my eyes on the porthole window in the kitchen door as it swings closed. Behind it, the restaurant kitchen heaves like a piano on a trampoline. Chefs in white and servers in black race around with towering trays and searing pans.
I don’t understand how none of them are looking for a place to hide.
Then again, through the porthole window, I don’t see anywhere one could.
And then a door on the far wall opens, and sunlight streams in.
A rear exit. An escape hatch.
Outside.
I feel like a stray dog taking his chances crossing the interstate. Curious eyes clock me as I barrel into the kitchen, but I move too fast. Dodging a bus boy with a crate of dirty dishes. Weaving around a woman in white carrying a vat of battered fish.
Then a “Miss, you can’t—” and I’m outside, shutting my eyes against the blazing sun, gulping huge, ragged sobs in the restaurant’s back alley.