The apartment building was dilapidated but in no way quiet. Music filtered from the windows to the street as a crowd of people talked, danced, and drank on the sidewalk. Laughter mixed with anger as the crowd steadily got high on the night.
Janice passed through them as if she’d been used to the endless party. She did not stray nor deter nor stop to offer a friendly greeting, passing them with a swift foot. She was unseen, almost a ghost in the crowd, oblivious to loud chatter and music as she ascended the stairs and slipped through the front door.
Her apartment was on the second floor where the music was almost deafening. Janice keyed into her apartment, stepped in, and leaned against the wall with a deep breath; that same flat stare was prominent in her eyes. The apartment was dark, almost black, and if it had not been for the glow of the moon and the soft illumination of the street light outside the window, she would have been enclosed in total darkness. The windows were closed, but the music and talk could still be heard. She pushed the door closed softly, too softly to shut completely, leaving the thick wood ajar. Janice went to the bedroom where she fumbled through an armoire, drawers, and then the closet, leaving the clothes scattered across the floor and thrown over the bed. But she found what she was looking for—a white dress, which must have been stitched together more than eighty years ago.
She didn’t mind that the dress was covered in dust and smelled like mothballs. She put it on anyhow and stood looking the dress over in the long mirror by the desk. She ran her hands over the fabric; the dress was a perfect fit. Her eyes moved from side to side, and her jaw had tightened.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Mother?” she said in a saddened tone of a voice. “Don’t I look spectacular?” She even managed to force a smile.
“Grandma’s wedding dress, stitched by the hand of her mother for her wedding day.”
She turned from side to side, checking every inch of how the fabric wrapped around the curves of her hips.
“I know we have the same figure. You always told me we did.”
She clucked her tongue, and her eyes about lit up with wonder. The eyes in the mirror did not.
“Oh but you look so dreadful,” she said. “We must get you all prettied up. Come on, darling. Let’s fix your hair.” She sat at the desk that overlooked the street, let her hair down from the bun she’d always worked with, and proceeded to brush the knots from the matted brown curls.