I spent the day shopping, but not for clothes for the CEO of an insurance company who needed new outfits, or for the criminal lawyer who wanted a few new elegant suits for an upcoming trial. I spent the day going to children’s clothing stores like Jacadi, Adrian East, and Lester’s, looking for the perfect dress for a perfect little girl who lived in an imperfect world, a world that wasn’t fair.
Consumers perpetually complained about the lack of attention from salespeople in Manhattan stores. For me it was a relief not to have people asking me if I needed help. There was no way I could tell them how old she was, what size she wore, or worst of all, what the occasion was.
I looked through racks and racks of dresses, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Nothing was magical enough. Nothing transported me. I wanted a dress an angel would wear. Finally I decided to make it myself. I went to Paron Fabrics on West 39th Street in the Garment District, where I found the perfect blush-pink silk and tiny pink silk roses to edge the sleeves and hem.
I learned to sew in high school. The first thing we made was a blouse. I bought a hideous mustard-color cotton with a small cranberry print. The pattern was simple: cap sleeves and a round neck. It was short, extending just a couple of inches below the waist. Of course, every time I lifted my arms, the entire blouse lifted with them. None of that mattered to my teacher, aptly named Mrs. Singer. Her only concern was that none of us put straight pins into our mouths. If we did, it was grounds for immediate failure.
Sewing was hard for me at first. It was tricky keeping the seams straight, and learning how to turn corners. But there was a girl in the class who was better than any of us, and she was an inspiration. It didn’t seem to be a hindrance to her that she was blind.
After high school, I bought a sewing machine of my own, and on weekends I took a sewing class. Because sewing required tremendous concentration, it took my mind off everything else in the world. Eventually I made dresses for myself, a bathrobe, and even curtains for my first apartment.
But the stakes were so much higher now. I wanted Laura’s dress to be perfect. The pattern was simple—sleeveless with a rounded neck, a full skirt, and a narrow self-belt. After I finished it, I’d decorate it with the roses. I started early in the morning, just after breakfast, and worked through the day with no breaks. When I finished, shortly after dark, I put it up on a hanger and hung it in front of the window. Every time the breeze blew, the dress seemed to sway, as if it were dancing. I sat in front of it, watching how it moved, remembering Laura and feeling the sting of all the could-have-, should-have-beens in her short life. Finally I packed it up into a big box and carefully covered it with tissue paper. I wrapped it with pale pink dotted paper and lavender ribbon. I wrote a card to Laura’s mom and brought it to the West Side building where the family lived.
“This is for Laura Morgan’s mother,” I told the doorman, handing him the box. He looked at me for a long minute.
“We prayed for her,” he said, finally. “Every one of us.” He shook his head in despair. I looked back at him and nodded. Then I ran outside into the night, forgetting where I was going.