The Dress Would Be Mine

The dress would be mine one day. 

I would float down the aisle on my father’s arm wearing a champagne-colored, hand-stitched, beaded v-neck sheath dress handed down by my Grandmother June. She wore it for her wedding in 1942 before my grandfather went to the war in Europe. She came from a wealthy family and had a large society wedding. Grandpa Ed Senior returned from the war, they had my Dad and lived a contented life until he died many years later. For 70 years, the dress laid in a box, preserved for me, her eldest grandfather, to wear on my own wedding day. This had been the plan since I wore pigtails and played with dolls.

I visited my Grandmother June at her home in California every summer while my mother, Brenda, had her annual week to be completely alone. She and my father, Ed Jr, split up when I was seven. He moved to Seattle and got a bachelor apartment I never saw. I only saw him when he rolled into town once or twice a year. 

The visits to Grandmother June were spent in her old Victorian cottage near the cliffs over looking the sea in Northern California. Mom and I lived in a slip level suburban house in Idaho, and visiting this house was like stepping into a time machine. The paint-peeled stairs groaned with my weight and the doilies on the back of the wingback chairs were lacy and the windows were stained glass scenes of flower gardens. The beach was a couple blocks down a sandy path from the house. We spent these magical, brief weeks sipping lemonade on her screen porch, an ancient box fan lazily swirling around the salty air, and walking slowly to town where we’d pick up another batch of romances from the red-brick library and a chocolate ice cream from the drugstore. 

“None of these romances are as special as mine and your Grandfather’s,” she said, swaying gently in the rocking chair with an open book in hand, “but they’re still sweet.”

Usually halfway through the week she would pull down the old photo albums, their leather covers bent at the edges, and show me her sepia-colored wedding photos. Grandpa Ed Senior, clear-eyed and handsome, wore a dark tuxedo with a vest and bowtie and shiny shoes. Grandma June stood beside him, smiling broadly, resplendent in her wedding dress. The dress was considered modern for the 1940s, and certainly an extravagance for a country in the middle of the war and coming out of the Great Depression. I’m not sure how my Great-Grandparents’ made their money; I was only told it was family money that slipped through their fingers by the time I graced the world.  

The wedding pictures gave way to images of my father as a baby, plump in a button down onesie on a tricycle. After feigning interest as she turned the pages, I couldn’t help begging her to see the dress. I’d coax her to the guest room closet that smelled of cedar and the sea. She would slowly lift the box with her wrinkled arms from the back shelves. A cloud of dust would erupt above my head and she’d mutter something about dusting, then carry the box out of the closet, where it was gingerly placed onto the faded floral bedspread. The lid was tugged off and the protective cover slowly opened, to reveal the glorious dress inside. 

The dress never failed to stun me. 

On what would turn out to be her last summer alive, she let me try it on. I slipped this beaded dream over my head and the fabric skimmed down my tiny 12-year-old body. The bottom fell past my feet and the waist floated around me like a little hula hoop, but I could see where I would grow into it. 

You can get it taken in, if you stay so little,” she said, pinching at the waist and the sleeves with her spotted fingers. “You can make it yours, when it’s time.” 

“It’s perfect the way it is,” I declared, staring at my reflection in the full length mirror. I felt like a princess. 

When I was all grown up, I’d meet a wonderful man like my Grandpa, brave and tall, and wear this dress in my own fairytale. With this dress, I could have the loving stability of Grandparents’ marriage, instead of the bitter temporary one my parents’ had. 

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Four years later, Grandmother June was buried in the cemetery down the street from her hours, which had been sold, renovated, and later re-opened as an AirBnB. Her dress and other treasures were shipped to Dad, who promised to look after them until I was old enough to take them. Dad later moved back to Idaho with his new girlfriend. I lived with my mom, and at age 16, counted the days until I could go to college, preferably California where I could smell the ocean again.

Dad’s girlfriend, Sylvia mostly ignored me, which was fine. After they moved to Idaho, she tried to invite me to weekly family dinners. After a couple of painful evenings spent picking at spaghetti and seeing them make out with each other, I started making up excuses. Watching grown-ups date was gross. 

The only good part of Sylvia was her preschool-age daughter, Laurie, who had brown curls that shot out around her head like a halo. I didn’t know all the details, but I think Sylvia was married to Laurie’s dad when she met my dad. There was drama, they moved to Idaho, and now wanted the four of us to be a happy family. I already had a family, me and my mother, and wanted no part of it. 

A couple months after they settled in, I got a text from my Dad. 

Sylvia and I are getting married in June. Will you be a bridesmaid?

I replied with thumbs up and heart emojis. 

It’s not like I had a choice. I’d walk down the aisle and smile for the photos and maybe score a free dress I could also wear to prom.

Sylvia and Laurie picked me up to go dress shopping a few weeks later. Mid-term exams were killing me and I was tired and cranky. I patted Laurie’s was strapped in her carseat in the back. She squealed when she saw me, and my mood brightened. I patted her hair through the open window before sliding in the front passenger seat. Sylvia drove a white Audi SUV and wore a fitted lilac dress. Her highlighted blonde hair had been curled and hung down her back. Mom called her high-maintenance. Her manicure was perfect, hair shiny and styled, and always wore 4-inch heels. 

The dress shop was stuffed with bridal gowns, like a shop full of wedding cakes you could wear. I walked down the aisles and petted the material, letting the silk and satin flow through my fingers, before going to the bridesmaid dress area. I doubted any of the gowns were as nice as Grandmother June’s. 

“What dress are you going to wear, Mommy,” Laurie asked, her eyes wide. We’d were leaving the store after deciding on our pale pink dresses. “Are you going to wear a princess dress?”

“I’m wearing Ed’s mother’s dress. It’s an heirloom. Do you know what heirloom means, honey?”

I froze and looked at her, my face going pale. 

“Grandmother June’s dress is mine.” I said, my voice shaking. 

“Oh-“ she opened her mouth, then shrugged. “Well, you can wear it after I do, though I should probably save it for Laurie.” She hesitated and looked at me intently. “It’s actually being altered, it was a little old fashioned for me, so I’m changing it up a bit.”

My stomach heaved and I thought I was going to be sick. It was a vintage dress, it was supposed to be old-fashioned. It was classic, like Grace Kelly or Katherine Hepburn. 

The drive home was quiet. Laurie wanted to stop for ice cream, but I asked Sylvia to drop me off first, telling her I had to do chores for my mom. 

“I can’t believe she got Grandma June’s dress. It’s mine!,” I cried to mom. She rubbed my back and handed me tissues. “It is all I have left of her.”

I felt deceived and angry. How could this callous woman take my dress? Grandma June and Dad promised it was mine, not this woman my dad chose to marry. My own mother didn’t get to wear the dress, because she and dad had eloped. It was my dress. Not Sylvia’s. She had no right to get the dress, and especially no right to change it. 

###

The week of the wedding, Dad and Sylvia asked me to stay with them to help with Laurie while they made the final preparations. Family were flying into town and there were airport runs and errands and dinners. I took off work at my summer job and planned to spend the week at their house. I didn’t want to but mom said I should try to make things easier for them. 

The night I got there, Dad and Sylvia went out for dinner with some cousins. I stayed home with Laurie. After a chicken tender and broccoli dinner, we settled on the couch with popcorn and grape Kool-aid to watch an animated movie about dogs. 

“Do you want to see mom’s dress? It’s so pretty.” Laurie asked. Her brown eyes were huge in her little round face. She’d gotten some freckles from the summer sun, and wore a pink princess night gown with red cowboy boots. Her wild hair was tied on top of her head with a sparkly silver scrunchie. 

We tiptoed into our parent’s closet, like thieves. In the back of the closet hung a white dress bag. 

Laurie put her finger over her lips. “Shh, be very quiet, we not supposed to be here.” 

I nodded my head, curious to see Grandmother’s dress. It had been 4 years since I last felt the silk and beading with my fingers and smelled the salt and cedar house. I choked back tears as I gently pulled the zipper down. It opened with a soft purr, so unlike the tugging we had to do with the old box and fine muslin. 

I pulled away the bag and pulled out some of the fabric with my hands. I let out a yelp and Laurie looked at me. 

“You ‘kay?” she asked. “It’s pretty, huh?”

I opened and closed my mouth as tears poured down my cheeks. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Grandmother June’s lovely treasure had been turned into a nightmare of a dress. The bottom had been cut off and replaced with a diagonal mermaid tail made from cheap organza. Cap sleeves had been added and much of the fine detailed beading had been removed. It was hideous. The dress had been ruined. 

I quickly stuffed the material back in the bag like it was burning me, closed up the closet and herded Laurie out of the room. She looked at me anxiously as I rubbed the tears from my face with my shirt. 

“You no like,” she said in a sad little voice.  

I shook my head and held in the sobs. We watched the rest of the movie, her tiny hand in mine, until she fell asleep. I tucked her in the little princess bed and turned on her nightlight. I turned off the lights of the house and stared blankly out the window. 

Dad texted at midnight. We’ll be home in an hour of so.

I numbly cleaned up the kitchen, putting the plates in the dishwasher and turning it on. The Paw Patrol cup full of purple Kool-Aid was still on the coffee table. In a daze, I picked up the cup and tilted it, watching the purple liquid slosh from side to side. I walked to Sylvia’s closet, and opened the closet door. I unzipped the dress bag, and as if watching myself from above, poured the purple liquid all over the dress. It ran down the material, staining it in rivers of purple, until it reached the organza mermaid tail at the bottom and landed in a puddle at the bottom of the bag. I choked and sputtered, then a wild laugh came out of me. If I couldn’t have Grandma June’s dress, then no one could. 

I heard a noise in the hall, and quickly put everything back to normal. Laurie was in the hall rubbing her eyes. 

“Heard something,” she said. 

I picked her up and hugged her to my chest. 

“Just the wind,” I said. “just the wind.” 

The next morning, I slunk out before breakfast, saying I needed to get something from home. Dad and Sylvia were downing coffee in a poor attempt to get rid of their hangovers and paid me little attention. Laurie was watching cartoons and nibbling toaster waffles and strawberries. I gave her a hug, unsure if I’d be able to see her again. 

At home, I went in my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I turned off my phone and waited for the world to erupt.