The Dress

Dresses clothe bodies, symbolize milestones, and evoke emotions.
For me, they also hold the power to weave grief and love.

 Six weeks before the wedding

At forty-eight, I was an older bride, but the Blazy U Ranch was a newer wedding venue, nestled in a valley framed by the Colorado Rockies.

Deb and Jen ran the place, so I met with them to review my to-dos and due dates. While scanning my planning spreadsheet, Deb laughed.

I squinted, trying to see what she found so humorous in my meticulous project plan.

Deb pointed to the item in question. “Find a fricking dress!!” She looked at Jen. “Two exclamation points. Fricking!!”

Crossing my arms, I slumped in the chair. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a wedding dress. It seemed frivolous to spend a bunch of money on something I’d only wear once.

Jen placed a hand on my knee. “Honey, you don’t have a dress yet?”

 
In my teen years, the glorious eighties, I loved the romantic Jessica McClintock styles and fantasized about my own wedding dress—shoulder pads, long sleeves, and a high neckline with frills at the top, where my head would poke out, revealing my face, framed with big hair and a poufy veil.

Needless to say, that type of gown is no longer in style. Now everything is strapless, revealing as much of the bride’s chest and back as legally possible.

Who looks good in that?

Okay, plenty of gals look phenomenal in those types of dresses. Not me. I am a small chested and pasty white woman. Dad is half Swedish, one quarter Danish, and the other quarter of him plus all of Mom is of mixed European descent, mostly northern European. I am tall and pale. Transparent, almost. My décolletage is not the silky-smooth variety of renaissance masterpieces. No, my décolletage is painted with the spindly branches of my veins visible below my surface. Possibly of interest to medical students, but more of a run-and-hide visual for anyone who believes in zombies or the undead.

I turned to the sisters and shrugged. “I just don’t think I’ll find a dress I like.”

Jen and Deb called a few days later. “We’re taking you dress shopping in Denver.”

No!

Mom had also offered to escort me to bridal stores.

No!!

This would not be a fun girls’ outing, playing adult dress-up, then gleefully skipping home from fantasyland with the perfect gown. It would be a nightmare of ugliness and despair, ending with empty-handed tears.

So, I snuck away, alone, to the local bridal consignment shop. If everyone wanted me in a dress, I would take a peek. But I wasn’t going to like it.

As predicted, the session wasn’t pretty—some gowns pushed things up that I preferred to remain concealed, while others washed out my skin-tone and hung limply on my frame.

Yet there had been a moment of fleeting potential in that otherwise dreary stall. After trying on a string of I-knew-none-of-these-would-look-good-on-me dresses, I slipped into one that might be okay. The gown would have been strapless except for the lace tacked on above the bra-line, extending to the base of my neck. That might do.

When I stepped outside the fitting room, a seamstress pounced on me, “We can take this in here.” With a giant clip, she secured several inches of fabric behind my back. “And here, and here.” I could kinda see it once all the clips were in place, but it would mean significant alteration. The dress was a size fourteen and I was a size six. The left-over satin would be enough to create a matching white tux for my dog.

Now that would be funny—a scrappy brindle mutt all fancied up in a strapless tux.

Unclipped, I returned to the fitting room, removed the gown, and glanced at the label, “David’s Bridal.” I wonder if that store has a size six.

If I really was going to do this whole dress thing, I might as well let my mom in on it. Insecure as I was about being an older bride, this was my first wedding, hopefully my only wedding, and the reason I wanted an official ceremony was to share the day with friends and family. I didn’t want to deprive my parents of their only chance to finally see me committed to another person. After years of watching me get my hopes up only to have another relationship flounder, I wanted Mom and Dad to see me happily coupled with the right partner, one I was glad I’d waited for.

Appalled at the idea of going to a retail bridal store, I made an appointment, nonetheless. Then I called Mom with the time—high noon—like in Gunsmoke.

Inside a large fitting room, the bridal consultant held skirts open while I raised my hands and dove upward. I wriggled through the appropriate openings to fill out gowns that looked lovely on hangers but ridiculous on me.

My options were nearly exhausted by the time I spread my arms and swam into one that felt different. Crinoline and satin swooshed over me and when the mix of materials rested their weight on my body, the heaviness was satisfyingly solid. The consultant zipped me up and I felt a gentle squeeze as the dress formed to my shape—hugging my waist, supporting my breasts. Patterned lace disguised my décolletage and extended to the tip of cap sleeves that covered my shoulders. I ran my hands along the front of the dress, feeling how it had transformed me.

Mom clapped. “Yes!”

I grabbed the David’s Bridal bell and Mom snapped pictures of me ringing and spinning in my new ivory, tea-length dress.

 
Mom didn’t invite me on her own dress shopping expedition. Instead, she slipped off by herself. A friend of hers told me she ran into Mom at the mall, all aflutter and nervous about finding the perfect mother-of-the-bride dress. Dad must have taken her picture after she returned home, because four days after she’d clapped for my gown, she emailed me a photo of herself standing in the living room, a sculpture of birds in flight behind her. Blue, her dress was blue. She’d put on her pearls, and she looked beautiful, shrouded in blue sunflowers.

In the text of her email, she asked if her new ensemble would be appropriate for the wedding.

 I replied immediately. “Can’t wait to dance with you in our new dresses!”

Although it would never happen, I pictured the moment clearly—grabbing Mom’s hand, pulling her onto the dance floor. She wouldn’t have resisted; she was always up for an adventure. We would have spun and twirled and laughed, sunflowers blurring with lace, like a sapphire sky backing a snowy mountain, a blue bird day. I could almost smell her Oil of Olay as I imagined holding her close, feeling the texture of flowers on her dress. Dad would have taken a picture then, too—no, a video, better for capturing all that motion.

 
Three-and-a-half weeks before the wedding

When I described how cute cowboy boots would look poking from my tea-length gown, Mom furrowed her brow. “I just can't picture that gorgeous dress with boots." 

“Then I’ll show you.”

The distinct click-clacking on the hardwood floor in the hallway helped raise the anticipation. Then I turned a corner and sauntered into the living room, where Mom and Dad waited. Her eyes grew large when she saw my dress-and-boots combo.

"I see it!" she said, opening her arms. “You’ll be a uniquely fabulous bride.”

I laughed as I struck a new pose. “I’m glad you approve of my eclectic style.”

Mom made a celebratory dinner—Moroccan salmon with wild rice, sweet and tangy aromas mixing and filling the house. We clinked glasses and I felt heady with alcohol and anticipation. In that instant, exchanging smiles and glances with Mom, I believed everything wedding-related would work itself out.

At the end of the evening, I gathered my things. I held onto bootstraps with the fingers of one hand while my dress, now tucked inside its garment bag, hung over my other arm. Mom had been shrinking with age, and lately, when I bent to hug her, I sensed frailty where there used to be a quiet strength. I tried not to let my boots kick her when I wrapped my full arms around her shoulders, and as I squeezed, I heard the crinkling of my dress’ crinoline. Mom’s cheek felt downy, and her hair smelled of floral shampoo. I closed my eyes as I held her warm body; a body that still evoked a special kind of power.

“Bye, Mom, I love you.”  

Twenty days before the wedding

Does it even matter what we wear? What meaning does our outerwear hold when our insides are matted and torn? When Dad called, saying he’d taken Mom to the ER, I just threw on jeans and a t-shirt and drove to the hospital.

Mom must have been wearing her tan jacket because I saw it on the floor when I arrived. After she died, the hospital gave Dad a bag with cheap plastic handles that clicked shut, to hold the rest of Mom’s clothes.

At my parents’ house, Dad showed me a red oval on an otherwise blue rug. When Mom had fallen, the metal-framed corner of an old exercise bike had ripped a hole in the back of her head, allowing blood to seep—onto that rug and into her brain, erasing her life. I bent to touch the rug’s fabric; it was flaky and dry.

I pressed what felt like stained fingers to my wet face; creating a veil of black behind lids squeezed shut.

 
Twenty-four hours before the ceremony

The day before the wedding, I slipped into a white sundress. I thought that dress would lend me confidence as I prepared for the Welcome Dinner. Instead, I cowered inside its lacy pattern, wishing for a subtler hue.

My dress screamed, “Bride!”

But I wanted to hide—behind vague shades of grey.

Standing beside my fiancé, Doug, awaiting the arrival of our guests, my heart raced. I feared every conversation would begin: “I was so sorry to hear about your mom.” My mind prepared responses as I imagined being reminded, over and over, of her loss.

Yet as friends and family approached, the dreaded words never came. That omission should have been a relief, but became a shadow instead—everyone knew, yet no one said a thing.

Internally, my body drooped, while externally, I forced the corners of my mouth up. Partly that smile was genuine, rising from an instinctual celebration of each familiar face. Yet I still felt conflicted about whether we should have cancelled the wedding.

 How can I celebrate without Mom, express joy and grief in the same breath?

Doug and I filled our plates from the buffet and sat at a big group table. I was starting to relax into familiar banter when a friend’s husband leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’ve got to say something about your mother.” 

Hot blood rushed to my face.

His words were different from what I’d expected because they were issued like a command.

I took a deep breath and said, “I know.”

“It is the elephant in the room, and you’ve got to do something to put everyone at ease.”

If I hadn’t prepared anything to say, that comment would have undone me. I would have felt pressured to formulate something sufficient to address the enormity of that particular elephant on the spot, and I might have collapsed into a cavern containing all the unexpressed emotions that had been digging into me since Mom’s death.

Instead, I tapped a folded sheet of stationary and said, once again, “I know.”

Once the guests were settled at their tables, I rose and clinked my glass. Unfolding my paper, I released the breath I’d been holding. “Life is filled with both joy and heartache and in the midst of our current happiness, we are also experiencing grief.” I shifted my weight, swaying as I spoke. “As most of you probably know, my mother suffered a fatal fall just three weeks ago.”

I glanced up, hoping I hadn’t surprised anyone with this news. Stoic faces surrounded me, so I lowered my head and continued, confessing to our guests how we dared to have a wedding so soon after my mother’s death.

Somber faces I couldn’t read stared at me. Were they judging? Shocked? Sympathetic?

I straightened my shoulders and cleared my throat before continuing. “I miss my mother terribly, as I know many of you do too. And I’m sure I will feel many different emotions this weekend, some of them happy and some of them sad, and many, many shades in between.”

I put down my paper and picked up my glass. “But right now, Doug and I want to toast to you, for joining us in both our celebration and our sorrow.”

When I looked up, I found myself gazing into red, watery eyes. I’d wanted to ease the tension, not make our guests sad, but I’d reached the end of my prepared words and didn’t know what else to say. My glass was already poised for a toast, so awkwardly, I took a sip. Then, not knowing what else to do, I just sat. Stunned, numb, lonely—even with Doug’s hand resting its steady weight on my shoulder.

Eleven days after the wedding

I stood in front of the closet, with my sister-in-law, Anne. Dad had asked us to remove Mom’s clothes, so there we were. Some of the more familiar items elicited smiles and fond memories. Yet even as we allowed moments of levity into the room, phantom images of Mom fluttered in the fabric, reminding us of times she provided form and movement to the now lifeless garments.

The closet was almost empty by the time I discovered a beige Talbots bag, the item inside shrouded in mystery. I leaned down and lifted the edges, revealing a row of blue sunflowers.

“What a beautiful dress.” Anne said.

Yes, it was. A dress that had been tried on, photographed, but never worn to the occasion it was purchased for. A string of pearls looped around the hanger, the whole ensemble ready for the wedding.

I bent and slid the plastic back over the blue. I could never, ever, bring myself to wear that dress, nor could I bear to see anyone in it but Mom. Without giving Anne a chance to claim it, I said, “It’s still got the tag. I’ll return it to the store.”

Eight weeks after the wedding

“You missed something in your mother’s closet,” Dad said.

“I’ll take care of it today,” I replied.

I hadn’t forgotten. Mom’s mother-of-the-bride dress was heavy with meaning for me.

Folding the garment bag over my arm, I shuffled to the car. Then I drove to Talbots and placed it on the counter. "I want to return this dress.”

"Do you have the receipt?"

I’d dreaded this moment, where there would need to be some explaining.

"No. My mom bought it for my wedding, except she died and never got to wear it.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry." The sales associate reached across the counter and laid her hand on top of mine as she offered me a look of—Pity? Compassion? In any case, it was enough to bring a rush of blood to my face.

"Yes, of course you can return it." She removed her hand and averted her eyes.

I hadn't intended on causing a scene. It was a quiet cry at least, and we all tried to ignore it—the clerk scanning the dress’s barcode; the other customers in line dispersing, as if taking one last look around the store, while I fished a tissue from my purse, to wipe the embarrassment from my face.

Once the transaction was complete, I forced myself to make eye contact with the clerk. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would be this difficult.”

Then, I walked out of the store. But not before looking back one last time at the blue sunflower dress that now lay, prone and exposed, on the counter behind the clerk.

 
Mom’s wasn’t the only dress I’d later ache to retrieve. After the wedding, I’d returned to the bridal consignment shop and signed papers so my tea length gown could make another appearance at a different ceremony. Practical, or so I thought, the dress could be worn more than once. Yet it was harder to say goodbye than I’d thought and before zipping the garment bag closed, I ran my hand along the dress’s lace—was it the woven thread or the holes that made it so beautiful?

With Mom’s closet empty and the most emblematic clothing from my wedding virtually erased, I didn’t feel relief at completing those difficult tasks. Instead, I felt unmoored from the outward symbols of my identity and Mom’s. I no longer had the dress that defined me as a bride, someone who has made a lifelong commitment to another. And Mom’s dress, the dress intended to define her as mother-of-the-bride, my mother on the day I was a bride was gone now too, as if neither ever existed, as if we never embodied those roles. I wanted the fibers of those clothes to somehow, magically, hold us together.

Suddenly, my body felt amorphous, like it no longer had borders, as if it were connected to nothing, to no one.

What had I done? How could I have destroyed that tenuous connection I still had to her?

After all my superficial worries about how to present myself at the wedding, I now felt…exposed, untethered, floating, drifting—

Naked.

-Lisa C. Peterson

Lisa C. Peterson holds an MFA from UNR at Lake Tahoe, where she served on the editorial staff of the Sierra Nevada Review. Her other degrees include a BA and an MA from Stanford University as well as an MS in Library Science from UNC Chapel Hill. Lisa’s work has appeared in Hypertext Magazine, HeartWood Literary Magazine, Writer’s Foundry Review, Sport Literate, The Writing Disorder, The Closed Eye Open, Sierra Nevada Review Blog, and elsewhere. For kicks, Lisa has jumped from a plane, skated with Disney on Ice, and traveled to every continent except Antarctica. Currently, she lives in the Colorado Rockies with her husband and a dog who looks like a cross between a cat, a dog, and a fox.