Slim Chance Page 6

  By the time I met Mom outside Sternfeld’s, it had started to rain. We rushed inside and were met by a spindly old saleslady with a lazy eye and thinning hair. She introduced herself as Greta, and looked me up and down as best she could. “Let’s take our shoes off, ladies. We wouldn’t want to get the carpets dirty with all these white dresses everywhere!”

  “Can she see anything?” I whispered to Mom as we chased Greta up a sweeping, pink-carpeted staircase with gold bannisters.

  “She was the only one available tonight. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “I have a gift for helping brides find their dream dress,” Greta shouted back, as if she’d heard us. “It’s like what they call ESPN. I can tell just by looking at a girl which one she’s going to buy! Been working here near fifty years, you know!”

  Mom grinned, pleased that we’d stumbled onto such a quaint character. At the top of the stairs, Greta directed us toward some ratty old slippers and a couple of overstuffed but thread-bare French-provincial-style chairs.

  “Evelyn is very particular about fashion,” Mom offered loudly. “She’s brought some clippings from magazines so that you can see what she likes.”

  “I may have a wonky eye, Mrs. Mays, but I can hear you just fine. No need to yell. And I think it’s best if we leave the pictures aside, for now. If fifty years has taught me anything, it’s that what we like isn’t necessarily what looks good on us. Now just you wait here while I see which room’s available,” she said and darted across the vast expanse of pink carpet and disappeared behind a maze of mirrored dressing rooms.

  “Smooth, Mom,” I said as we sat down.

  “Was I talking loudly?”

  “You were yelling. I want to show her my pictures. I don’t trust her to choose something for me.”

  “Be patient, Evelyn. Let’s give her a chance. I’m sure she knows her stuff,” she said, picking up an alarmingly old copy of something called Brooklyn Brides.

  I slumped down in my chair and took it all in. All around the room, other pairs of mothers and daughters waited in chairs, whispering to each other and nodding. Some pored through the rows of plastic-wrapped gowns, under the watchful eyes of Gretas of their own. Everyone seemed perfectly coiffed, in their pastel twin sets and pearls. I looked over at Mom. Her damp black hair, dramatically streaked with gray for as long as I can remember, was plastered to her forehead, and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She was slouching, and her beige cotton blouse—with an I Heart NY embroidered on the front pocket—was missing a button. I could see the elastic waistband of her pants. Why the hell does she need an elastic waistband? She weighs about 103 pounds. She looked like she’d made her own clothes. But I have to admit, even I felt a bit out of place in my bright tangerine pantsuit (Cosmopolitan, November: “Orange: The New Neutral”). Not only that, but I was definitely the fattest bride-to-be in the whole joint.

  Greta interrupted my reverie with a hurried wave. “Come on, let’s get you undressed,” she said as we walked across the floor into one of the large dressing rooms. “Did you bring a foundation garment or are we going to build something into the dress?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Do I really need something like that? I mean, I plan to lose some weight and—”

  “Oh, no! You’re not one of them, are you? If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times,” Greta sighed. “We’ll get you a smart dress that fits you NOW. Most girls don’t lose half the weight they plan to, and end up with gowns that need to be taken out later, at quite an expense I might add.”

  I glared at my mom, who was nodding treasonously in agreement.

  “And I’m sure your fiancé thinks you’re quite beautiful as you are, or else we wouldn’t be here!” she continued. “So now, all I need to know from you is whether you prefer something traditional or a little more modern?”

  “Traditional. She likes traditional,” Mom said.

  “I do not,” I snapped. “Something modern, please.”

  “So you have a seat Mrs. Mays, and Evelyn, you get undressed, and I’ll be right back with a girdle and a few dresses.”

  I don’t know which was worse—the fact that my mother had completely betrayed me, that a blind woman was going to choose my wedding gown, or that I was about to put on a public girdle.

  “I’m leaving,” I said simply, and made for the door.

  “Evelyn, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I gave birth to you, for heaven’s sake. I know every part of you. And I’m sorry if you feel that I’ve put pressure on you to lose weight. You know I don’t mean it, it’s just that you have to learn how to control yourself. Besides, God made us in his own image, and He loves each of us, no matter what we may look like on the outside.”

  Scratch that. The worst part about this was getting naked in front of my mother under fluorescent lights.

  “Forget this,” I hissed at her. “This is a living nightmare, and you’re not helping. You said you wouldn’t do this to me. I refuse to even touch anything she brings back. All I wanted was to try on a few dresses that I like. But you won’t even let me do that! And I didn’t come here to be insulted, either.”

  “Oh, lighten up. You’re getting hysterical. Greta didn’t mean to insult you.” So now it was Greta. “This is supposed to be fun, Evelyn. And who knows? Maybe she knows what she’s doing. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Mom, please,” I whined.

  “Nobody’s saying we have to buy a dress here. But we did make an appointment, and Greta hasn’t done anything but try to help. I’m sorry, but it never hurts to try. If you don’t like anything, we’ll leave.”

  Before I could insist we do just that, Greta returned with another old woman in tow, both of them carrying as many dresses as their osteoporotic arms could handle. They hung them up on a rack.

  “Thank you, Ingrid. That will be all. Now Evelyn, let’s get you into this foundation garment,” she said, extending something gray.

  “I will not wear that.”

  “It’ll help with your tummy,” Greta said, shaking it at me.

  “Can’t she try the dresses on without it?” my mother asked. Finally.

  “Well, I suppose so. But with your bust you’re definitely going to need something. I figured you’re around a size fourteen or sixteen.”

  “I am definitely NOT a size sixteen! I’m not even a fourteen!”

  “Hush, Evelyn, people will hear you,” Mom whispered loudly. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the dressing rooms on either side of us. Poor twin-setters. They were probably having trouble finding dresses small enough.

  “Let’s not get bogged down by a number. Wedding dresses are made small. Most brides have to buy a size larger than they normally wear. That’s why they make most samples in a size eight,” Greta reassured me.

  “How horrible. Imagine how all those poor size sixes must feel.”

  “How ’bout we try this one, first,” she said, freeing a dress from its plastic bag. “I thought this one would suit you because of the sweetheart neckline—it will draw attention up to your face. And you have such a pretty face.”

  It was hideous. The exact antithesis of every wedding gown I’d clipped out, dreamed about. Instead of thin, elegant spaghetti straps there were puffy, stiff sleeves dotted with rhinestone-studded rosettes. Instead of a smooth, sleek bodice there was a wide trunk covered in the tackiest sort of lace-and-pearl appliqués. Instead of an elegant A-line skirt, there was a shiny satin tablecloth covering so many crinolines that it stuck out at right angles from the waist. And it was stark white, almost fluorescent (Bridal Guide, Fall: “Why Off-White Is Right-On”).

  Perfect. I’d show them. “Mom, I’d like to surprise you, if you don’t mind. Let me try it on, and then we’ll call you in.”

  She seemed to like that idea, and obligingly trotted out of the room. Alone with Greta, I took off my clothes and let her help me into the dress.

  The first time you see yourself in a wedding gown is supposed to be an experience yo
u never forget. We’ve all heard those stories about the brides who buy the first dress they try on because they can’t get that heavenly, haunting first image of themselves out of their minds, and nothing else can compare. You’re supposed to feel like a goddess, a virgin and a model all rolled into one. But what I saw in the mirror was beyond horrible, beyond my wildest nightmare—a blur of bulges and rhinestones and flounces and fabric. A pregnant white hippopotamus, with sausage links for arms and shiny balloons for breasts. In the mirror, I could see Greta’s pointy face light up in a twisted yellow smile. She clasped her hands together and sucked in her breath.

  “You see? I told you! I do have a knack for this!” she shrieked. “Mrs. Mays, Mrs. Mays! Come in and see!”

  Mom pushed the door open and froze. Now she would see how wrong she was to make me do this, how evil Greta was, how horrid I looked, how ashamed I was.

  “Oh, Evelyn,” she breathed, her bottom lip trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

  At that moment, I made three very serious vows—to never go wedding dress shopping with my mother again, to lose more than forty pounds, and to go home and smack Bruce for making me go through all of this. If he hadn’t proposed, I would never have been publicly humiliated in so many different ways in so little time.

  A few days after her little tantrum, Bertie finally got over her selfishness and came through with the wedding plans. Through a grand concession of my own—agreeing to give up my dream of a June wedding—we were booked in for August 18 at the posh Fairfield Inn on the Connecticut shore. It was absolutely perfect—a grand, white, colonial-style mansion with an elegant ballroom and a newly renovated Bridal Suite (Bridal Guide, Winter: “Finding the Perfect Venue: Five Features You Can’t Live Without”). Bertie’s friend Cookie had two of her daughters’ weddings there, so it passed the snob test, too. It had been reserved, of course, but by a brilliant stroke of luck, Bertie popped in on the very day when one Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe called to cancel her daughter Sukey’s wedding, due to the unfortunate suicide of the groom-to-be.

  Even Bruce liked the place when we popped in for a look, and whistled when he saw the four-poster bed.

  “So this is where it’s all gonna happen,” he whispered into my ear while Bertie discussed the merits of veal versus roast beef with the event manager. “After all these years, you’ll finally be unable to resist my charms.”

  “Yeah right,” I snorted. “I don’t know how we’ve waited so long. Oh, wait—weren’t those your charms I succumbed to on our first date?”

  He snickered, and Bertie shot me a mean look. “Yes, Brucie dear,” I said loudly. “This is where we’ll spend the most romantic night of our lives. The only thing that could possibly make it any more perfect would be knowing that our guests had thoroughly enjoyed the milk-fed veal in the mushroom-cream sauce.”

  The event manager raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement.

  Despite a few minor glitches, Bertie and I were getting on remarkably well. Thanks to her years on the Palm Beach charity ball circuit, she’s the type of person you really want on your side if you’re planning something big—she acts fast, she has good taste and she won’t take no for an answer (unlike Mom, whom I was very happy to leave out of the entire process). Bruce, on the other hand, wasn’t dealing well with his mother at all—and we’d barely been engaged three weeks. He almost lost it when he heard she wanted to have 150 people at the engagement party (tentatively scheduled for January 20), and threatened not to show if she invited more than ninety.

  Mercifully, Bruce and I were to be spared most of the remaining meetings with florists and photographers, although we felt it was important to step in and approve any final decision, in case we wanted to veto something. But I have to hand it to Bertie; she knows how to get things done. She indiscreetly prodded the event manager at the inn into telling her exactly who else Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe had hired for her daughter’s ill-fated nuptials, and then booked them immediately.

  Although it was shaping up to be the event of the season, I have a feeling poor Sukey Pimbleton-Smythe would not have wanted to be a guest at our wedding. By all rights, it should have been hers, were it not for a few handfuls of Xanax and a very fine bottle of cognac.

  5

  The morning after Thanksgiving, I swore to Bruce that I didn’t want to see our families in the same room again until the wedding. And quite possibly, not even then.

  “Your mother was a shrew,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “While you and your dad were watching football, she was lecturing my mom about the importance of buying a new dress for our engagement party. You didn’t hear her. She was cruel. Christ! Did you use the last Sweet’n Low?”

  “I’ve never tried that stuff in my life. Just use sugar. It won’t kill you.”

  “Are you trying to sabotage me?” I growled as I jealously eyed Bruce’s bagel.

  “Evie, get a grip. It’s not a reason to be upset. This is not a big deal.”

  “Oh, so you’re saying it’s okay for your mother to treat mine like she’s an embarrassment? It’s obvious she’s worried what her friends will think if my mom wears a ratty old dress. Like she’s the help, or something.” For all his intellectual wisdom, Bruce has a surprisingly limited understanding of the subtleties of class politics.

  “No, I’m saying it’s okay to use sugar instead of aspartame for once in your life. And you’re putting cream in your coffee, for God’s sake. You think a teaspoon of sugar’s going to make a difference?”

  “If you’d bought milk like you were supposed to—”

  “That’s enough, Evie,” he snapped, slamming his Harry Potter book down on the table. “I’m not going to sit here and be your punching bag. If you’re upset about last night or your diet or whatever, we can talk about it, but I’m not going to let you insult me for no reason.”

  “First of all, I’m not on a diet. It’s a lifestyle change. And as far as your mother’s concerned, if you’d been there to hear what she was saying, you wouldn’t have stood for it. I didn’t know what to do. She knows my mom can’t afford to buy fancy clothes and she was deliberately making her feel bad in front of everyone. Why do you think Claire came in to watch with you? You think she likes football? She probably had to leave the table before she said something horrible to your mother and ruined the entire dinner.”

  “Well, you did a pretty good job of that yourself when you asked Rosita to sit down and join us. You think that helps? All you did was make everyone uncomfortable as hell, especially Rosita!”

  “It’s just that dinner was already served, and there was nothing left for her to do, so I don’t understand why she has to eat alone in the kitchen when there’s plenty of room at the table for her. God, she’s been living in your house for like twenty years!”

  I could feel the tears welling up. Maybe everyone was right—I think I do freak out when I can’t eat what I want to. Because I was honestly ready to fling myself into traffic, for absolutely no reason at all. And it had only been about eighteen hours since my last piece of cake.

  Bruce sighed. “Evie, my mother just thought it would be nice to have a Thanksgiving with our families together. She’s really making an effort.” What a saint. “Both my parents want to get to know your mother and Claire better, so I don’t think it’s fair of you to try and make a big thing out of this. If she was snobby or bitchy or whatever it’s just how she is and you’re all going to have to accept it.”

  “All? All? So it’s you against us, now, is it? The upstanding Fulbrights vs. the Italo-American Clampetts? And tell me, how should I comfort my mother? She looked like she wanted to die all night. I was the one who was embarrassed. And you should be, too.” The tears were flowing now, and I was nearly hysterical, but Bruce wasn’t biting. And why should he? I was being utterly ridiculous.

  “Puhlease! You make it sound like your mother is some poor helpless soul who can’t defend herself. She drives you crazy ninety-nine percent of the time and
now she can do no wrong. And you expect me to feel like it’s all my fault.” He paused for effect. “I’m sorry if you were that embarrassed by my family, Evie. I had no idea you hated them all that much. But you know what? You’re right. I was embarrassed—by YOU!”

  He waited a few seconds for me to say something, but I just sat there and cried. Then he stormed out of the kitchen. He turned the stereo on loud in the living room. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everyone was supposed to get along. Mom and Bertie should have been the best of friends by now, and Bruce and I should be picking out our china pattern. But all we were doing was fighting all the time. All of us.

  Bruce’s dad even got into the act last night when Bertie suggested he be the one to tell half of their friends why they wouldn’t be invited to the engagement party.

  “But Bruce doesn’t want a lot of people there, Daddy,” sister Wendy said sweetly.

  “This is the first I’m hearing of this,” he said with uncharacteristic irritation. “Do you actually expect me to tell James and Cookie that they won’t be invited? We were invited to their grandson’s christening just this summer!”

  “No, not James and Cookie, dear,” said Bertie, rolling her eyes. “They’ll be invited. But I don’t think there’ll be room for Phyllis and Harvey or Judy and Norman.”

  Bruce Sr. was shaking his head. “I won’t do it. I just won’t. We’ve known them for twenty-five years. And what about Barry and Lynne?”

  “Oh, there’s definitely no room for any work friends, Daddy,” said Brooke, looking up from her cuticles.

  It was all a big nightmare. On the way home, after we dropped Mom off at her place, Claire started in with her usual advice.

  “It’s gonna get a lot worse from here on in, kids. If you want to keep your sanity, you’re going to have to take hold of yourselves. Don’t let other people’s expectations get in the way. Engagement’s supposed to be a happy time, an exciting time.”