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Trouble in Spades |
“Maria hates me.” My mother’s voice floated over the dressing room door. “She most certainly does not.” “She might,” my cousin Ana piped in. I heard a muted ugh and figured my mother had elbowed Ana. I slid the latch on the door and stepped out, heading toward the full-length mirror. My mother and Ana stepped up behind me, each of our reflections taking up one section of the trifold mirror. We all wore the same horrified expression. My mother brought a quavering manicured hand to cover her mouth. To keep from laughing, Ana was biting her lip so hard tears slipped from the corner of her eyes. “Ana, chérie, this isn’t amusing,” my mother chastised. My mother called everyone “chérie”. It was her way of reminding people that she had been born in France and had class. I blinked at my reflection. Maria was out of her mind. Plumb crazy. Demented. Loco. Utterly, thoroughly delusional. I closed my eyes trying to come up with more adjectives, but came up empty. Trauma must be setting in. Opening my eyes, I found my reflection hadn’t changed. I turned to Ana. “You could have warned me.” Wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes, she snuffled. “I did.” Reluctantly, I remembered she had. I turned to my mother for her reaction. It was unlike Celeste Madeline Chambeau Ceceri to keep quiet for so long. She always had something to say, even when I didn’t want to hear it—which was often. “Mom?” She stared into the trifold mirror, mouth agape, her bright blue eyes wide. I followed her doe-in-the-headlights gaze back to the mirror. Shifting my weight, I hoped to blur the horrifying image. No blurrage, just the billowing of the dress’s full skirt—a dizzying palette of shimmery green and toad brown. My mother finally found her voice. “I think you look...” She swallowed audibly. “Interesting.” Oh God. When my mother couldn’t find something nice to say, then I knew it was bad. Very, very bad. “I’m going to need a new dress.” I stepped off the platform, simultaneously reaching for the row of lime green pearls that marched down my chest. Ana leaned against the mirror, wiping away streaks of mascara from her eyes as my mother said, “Out of the question. There’s not enough time.” I stood firm. “I am not wearing this...this...” I couldn’t even say the word “dress.” It looked more like the result of an ice cream truck crashing into an army fatigue factory. “...thing,” I finished. “It’s not so bad,” Ana said, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “Hmmph.” My mother’s hands flew as she spoke. “The dress, perhaps, needs some tailoring, is all. It’s haute couture, you know.” “Don’t care. Not wearing it,” I said, slamming the dressing room door behind me. I worked the pearl buttons loose. Sliding the dress over my shoulders, I let it puddle around my feet, kicked it into the corner for good measure. Pulling my T-shirt over my head, I said, “We need to find another dress.” The wedding was next Saturday. There was time. Lots of it. Almost two weeks of it. There had to be something off some rack somewhere that would fit me. My mother’s voice carried over the stall door. “You have no other choice,” she said. “Rocks and hard places, Nina. Rocks and hard places.” Groaning, I picked up the balled dress and pulled open the door. “If you hadn’t procrastinated so—” She broke off. I raised an eyebrow, the one that had the thin six inch scar above it—one of the results of that run-in with the train. The doctor assured me it was still healing and would fade over time. I was still trying to decide if I believed him. Ana coughed. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Think I’ll go flirt with Armande.” “Coward,” I said. Her dark hair shimmered as she cocked her head. “So?” As she scampered off, contrition threaded through my mother’s blue eyes. “You know what I meant, Nina.” I knew. I had procrastinated, but that little matter of me almost being killed hadn’t helped my time crunch at all. I tied the laces on my Keds. “We have time to find a new dress.” She tapped the pointy toe of her strapless shoe. “When?” I bit my lip. She had a point. I’d never been so swamped at work, and with Riley... My mother gestured with her arms, much like Maria’s had earlier. “Your sister’s counting on you. You must get this dress fitted today.” “It fits,” I growled. “But I am not wearing it.” My mother swore under her breath in fluent French. I was blissfully glad I’d never learned the language. “You must. For Maria.” I wondered if Maria had heard from Nate yet. Something about him going missing was eating at me. It was just so out of character. My mother looked at me with those eyes. The ones that said, “I am your mother. I gave birth to you. I will guilt you for the rest of your life if you do not do this for me.” I sighed and looked away. I figured if I didn’t look directly at her, she had no power. My mother hung the hideous dress on a hanger. It dangled, taunting me. I shuddered. My old flannel pillowcase looked better than that thing. “Nina.” Damn, damn, damn. Now she’d added the Voice. The one that could make the Leaning Tower of Pisa straighten just to please her sense of style. My mother continued to give me the evil eye. “Listen to Ma-ma...it is for one day only.” “The pictures will last a lifetime.” And the memories of that dress would undoubtedly give me nightmares for years to come. As I came out of the dressing area, I noticed that the bridal boutique was empty save my mother, Ana, Armande, and me. Armande was holding both Ana’s hands and looking adoringly into her eyes. The man knew how to charm. Ana spotted us, murmured something, and Armande kissed both her cheeks. Decorated in nauseatingly frilly tulle and chiffon, the shop was designed to conjure images of joy, of happily-ever-afters. As if there were such things. I tried not to be such a cynic. It was true my beliefs in marriage were somewhat tainted what with the way my Kevin had cheated on me and all, but I supposed true love did exist. Somewhere. Far away. Again, the thought of skipping town popped into my thoughts. Taking Riley and leaving it all behind—the wedding, work, Kevin. Hmmm. “Don’t even think about leaving town,” my mother warned. How did she do that? I hated that about her. “Leaving town?” Ana moseyed over. “You’re going somewhere?” I smiled. “Disney World, maybe.” Color tinged my mother’s cheeks. “When?” Ana asked. I could sense Ana already mentally packing her bags. “Tomorrow.” “I’d have to call in sick, but I could make it.” The French swearing started again, and Ana’s mouth dropped open as she stared at my mother. “Aunt Cel!” As my mother began rambling about her weak heart (which she didn’t have), I rolled my eyes. I felt a poke in my ribs and looked up into Ana’s mischievous eyes. “Did I tell you,” she said to me, “that my mother was flying in early for the wedding?” Color infused my mother’s pale complexion. The feud between she and my father’s sister Rosetta, Ana’s mother, hadn’t diminished any since the summer Aunt Rosetta moved her family into our house, sans Uncle Sal, over a decade ago. My mother knew how to hold a grudge. Innocently, I asked, “When?” “Wednesday.” “Wednesday? As in the day after tomorrow? Or next Wednesday?” Ana smiled wide and bright. The feud between our mothers had become a source of entertainment in our family over the years. “The day after tomorrow.” French cursing filled the air as my mother put her hand over her heart dramatically. Armande’s cheeks pinkened. “Oh my,” he murmured. My mother looked at him. “My dear friend, do you have any whiskey?” My mother followed Armande into a back room, then came back a second later with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey in her hands. She slumped into an overstuffed floral couch. Looking up at us, she offered up her glass in a silent toast, and gulped the whiskey back. After the day I’d had, I knew the feeling. Ana poured herself half a glass and offered the bottle to me. I knelt in front of the glass coffee table and filled mine halfway. The phone rang in the background. “Mrs. Quinn?” Armande said, his hand covering the mouthpiece. The look on his face told me that half a glass of whiskey wasn’t going to do me any good. I poured it to the rim, took a fortifying sip for good measure. Okay, two sips, but who was counting? I took the glass with me to pick up the phone. “There is a very hysterical woman on the phone asking for you,” Armande whispered. I reached for the receiver, not sure what to expect. Who knew I was here? And why wouldn’t they call my cell phone? I patted my pocket, suddenly realizing I’d left it in the truck. “Hello?” Sniffles echoed in the background. “Nina?” “Maria?” I whispered so my mother wouldn’t hear. I glanced over my shoulder at her. She continued to slug courage from her glass. There was no need to worry her about this Nate business if there was no need. “What’s wrong?” I hoped to heaven that fancy wax hadn’t burned down her condo. “I shot him.” My glass slipped from my hand. I heard my mother murmur something to Ana about me not being able to hold my liquor. I turned so they couldn’t read my lips. “Nate?” I whispered. “You shot Nate?” His name practically stuck in my throat. “Good God, no.” I heard more sniffling and a few hiccups. “The man.” I rolled the phone cord around my finger. “What man?” “The man who broke into my house.” Longingly, I looked at the whiskey staining the floor. “Call the cops,” I said. “I’ll be right there.” |
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| A Hoe Lot of Trouble |
Thou shalt not stuff pictures
of thy husband down the garbage disposal. |
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