Mom dressed up for today’s outing. She wears a pink gingham dress, low spectator pumps, and pearl earrings the size of june bugs. Every now and then she slips out of view, disappearing behind billowing white dresses.
We are at Elegant Evening, Charleston’s go-to dress shop for balls, cotillions, weddings, dances, proms, galas, and black-tie events. I am sitting on the bridal boutique stage—a raised, carpeted platform bordered on three sides by full-length mirrors. My reflection, framed by hundreds of lavish white dresses, is repeated over and over—shattered fragments and vivid reminders of the way my life could have been. I remind myself that it was my decision to call off the wedding. This is what I wanted.
While our relationship has cooled since I broke my engagement to Trip, Mom still swung by to deliver the occasional basket of Johns Island tomatoes or soft peaches from the South Carolina upstate, but our visits hadn’t been much more than a quick embrace and a hand-off. After Laudie’s stroke, however, Mom hadn’t said a word. Nor had Tito or Dad said anything. So, when Mom texted to say she’s taking Caroline dress shopping, she was extending an olive branch. Somehow, this shopping trip will right some wrong, if only a little. I’ll do what it takes to be accepted back into the tribe. For her, I put on foundation and some pearl studs from my debutante days.
Laudie is still hospitalized. Doctors confirmed an ischemic stroke; she had a blood clot in her brain. They say most of the recovery will happen in the next three to four months. She has already regained most of her speech, but they are not yet letting her walk around unassisted. She has spent five nights at the Medical University of South Carolina. She’ll be discharged any day, her doctors say.
Our family has developed a routine. I visit her in the early mornings. Mom comes at lunchtime, and Dad often stops by on his way home from the office. Tito visited the second day but since has stayed at home, apparently too busy hiring a handyman to remove the barre.
Afraid of catching some nasty virus in the hospital, Weezy opts to video chat with Laudie through Mom’s phone during her visits. Afterward, Weezy calls me to report on Laudie’s afternoon status: “She’s tired. She still slurs her words a bit, but her spirits are good.”
Last time I checked, she didn’t seem too tired to me. Even though she was stuck wearing a hospital gown, she refused to look like a patient. Her hair was coiled in a dancer’s bun; she even dabbed on the peacock-blue eyeshadow she wore to La Sylphide. Although confined to bed, she sat up straight, ready to receive company. Her speech sounded fine, too. When I pressed her for the end of the story, she said, “You’ll have to wait until we can do it over lunch.”
“I’m sorry you’re stuck here, Laudie.”
“Simons, listen to me, I’d rather die going to the Gaillard than wither away at home. Really.”
That statement raised my spirits. “We were brave, weren’t we?”
“We were.”
Caroline emerges from the dressing room with the gait of a princess. She holds her arms inches away from her body, her wrists flicked upward. The ivory gown cinches in at her waist, balloons out just below her midsection. She steps onto the stage and engulfs me in a whirlwind of fabric. I have to scoot over so I won’t be devoured by her massive skirt. “Jesus, Caroline. Just a sec.” I bat at the layers of her dress.
Caroline gathers up handfuls of fabric to clear the space between the two of us. “Simons!” she whispers above the rustle of crinoline and organza. “Why do you have to sit in the one spot where I am supposed to stand?”
“I didn’t think—”
“I know. You weren’t thinking at all. Seems to be the theme these days.”
“Caroline, don’t you think I feel horrible enough?”
Mom appears behind me, or at least I think that’s her behind another blizzard of fabric. “Caroline, what do you think about the dress?”
My sister returns her attention to the mirror. “I don’t know. It’s pretty, but I want something a little more . . . fun.”
“Oh, but, honey, that one is so elegant on you.”
“Thanks, Mom. Why don’t you help Simons find a few dresses to try on?”
My dress? I glare at Caroline, angry at her for bringing up the fact that I was originally supposed to be buying my wedding dress on this shopping trip. Though, I’m sure, Mom hasn’t forgotten that minor detail.
“You still need a dress to wear to the ball, Simons,” she clarifies.
True.
“I’m buying you one,” Mom says, more of a statement than an offering. “Just don’t tell your father.”
Another olive branch. An expensive one, too. “Thanks, Mom. Will you help me pick it out?”
We gather a half-dozen non-white dresses—in tulle, lace, organza, silk—and I carry them over my arm to the dressing room. I start with the navy-blue one—the one she picked out. I slide it over my head. The heavy lace dress is itchy. I wouldn’t normally pick out a dress like this anyway; who under the age of fifty wants to wear a high boat neckline?
Now it’s my turn on the stage. I’m surrounded again by hundreds of copies of myself.
“It’s lovely, Simons. It’s flattering.” Mom is pleased with her choice. She climbs on the platform and adjusts the bodice so there are no creases. “You haven’t told me who the lucky man is.”
“Who?”
“Your date for the ball, Sims,” Caroline hollers from the dressing room.
“You can’t just pick anyone off the street, honey. He’s got to be able to do the foxtrot at the very least.”
“I know.”
Caroline steps onstage in a different dress. This one has a mermaid cut and is far sexier. “How about Clay?”
Oh, Jeebus. Clay? First, he’s Ashley’s younger brother. Second, he’s Caroline’s age: a rising senior in college. And third, we’re plainly not each other’s type: he can’t drink a beer without his camo koozie, and his main topic of conversation is his recruitment duties for Chi Psi. Besides, I doubt he’d want to go with me, anyway.
Mom shrugs. “Well, I know his mother did send him to cotillion. He must own tails.”
True as well. Clay would be a fun, easy date. But I hold tight to the idea that the evening has potential for romance, a new start even. “Give me a week and if I can’t find someone by then, I’ll see if Clay’s free.”
A desperate electronic jingle bleats from inside Mom’s purse. Mom drops the dresses and digs for her phone. “It’s the hospital,” Mom says and retreats to a corner of the showroom. “Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Smythe.” She hunches over the phone, every fiber of her being tuned in. “Well, is she okay?”
Caroline and I follow her, lifting our dresses so we don’t step on the hems. Caroline places a slender hand on our mother’s back. “Mom, what is it?” Caroline asks.
Here’s the thing about Charleston women—the true-blue bloods: They are not dramatic. They do not scream or sob or faint. They do not cry tears of joy when their children marry, and they don’t squawk like chickens over gossip about a friend’s divorce. They don’t fall to pieces in public at a funeral. They act with decorum. They respond politely. They do not draw attention to themselves.
Instead, they focus on the moment—the marriage, or maybe news of an accident. As members of the tribe, these women ready themselves as support troops, to celebrate the wins and to collect the fragments of loss to help put a member’s life back together. So, when Mom reports the hospital’s news about Laudie, she remains composed and dry-eyed.
“Mother had another stroke,” she says neutrally, though she looks as though she’s made of dust.