“Cecilia, come see!”
She’d laid out a tissue-paper pattern for a shift dress, and yards of dark yellow cotton. Cecilia stood still while Etta measured her long, skinny body, one so unlike her own. Cecilia felt like she was being touched by a stranger as her mother’s hands ran along the inside of her leg, across her thin waist, and up to her shoulders. Etta wrote down the measurements on a napkin and declared that the dress would be beautiful.
There was an old sewing machine left in the hall closet from the owners before them, and Etta brought it to the kitchen table. She worked on the dress in the evenings for five straight nights and the old motor kept Cecilia awake until the early hours. In the morning there’d be straight pins and bits of thread spread across the kitchen table. Etta would come down, her eyes bleary, and stare at the fabric as she held it up to Cecilia. The project gave Etta a purpose that Cecilia hadn’t seen her mother have before. And less room, she knew, for the anger and sadness.
The morning of the dance, Etta was up early and went to Cecilia’s room with the dress. It was finished—pressed and draped over her arm. She held it up to Cecilia’s shoulders and ran her hands over the drop waist and pleated bottom. She’d trimmed the neckline and sleeves with a beautiful knotted silk.
“What do you think?”
“I love it.” It was what Etta wanted to hear, yes, but Cecilia did in fact love it. It was the most beautiful thing she had, and the only thing anyone had ever made for her. She imagined walking into class that day and watching the heads of the other girls turn to stare in jealous disbelief.
Cecilia turned her back and took off her nightgown. The zipper of the dress was stiff, but she managed to get it down and then slipped her legs in. She pulled the dress up and felt the seams rough against her skin. The waist was tight and flattened her small bum, but it wouldn’t go any higher. She wiggled the dress around herself and tried to yank harder. But the dress wouldn’t move.
“Put your arms in. Go on.”
She tried to crouch into the dress and slither her arms into the sleeves, but it was too tight. They heard the sound of fabric tearing.
“Come here.” Etta yanked her closer and pulled and tugged around her like she was dressing a doll. She whipped the dress down Cecilia’s legs and then tried pulling it over her head. Etta didn’t say a word. Cecilia let her wrangle the dress and jostle her however she wanted to. Etta’s forehead was slick with sweat and her face had turned a deeper red than usual. Cecilia closed her eyes as tight as she could.
Eventually Etta let her go and stood up.
“You’re wearing the dress, Cecilia.”
Her heart sank. She couldn’t possibly wear it. She couldn’t even get it on.
Fifteen minutes later, Cecilia came down to the kitchen wearing her usual beige slacks and blue turtleneck. She didn’t look at Etta. She sat at the table and picked up her spoon.
“Go back and put the dress on.”
“You saw. It doesn’t fit.” Cecilia’s heart pounded.
“Make it fit. Go upstairs. Now.”
She wondered if Henry might hear her. She put her spoon down and tried to decide what to do.
“NOW.”
Cecilia could hear Etta’s thick breathing behind her. She could feel Etta’s rage tickling her spine. She listened for Henry’s footsteps, hoping he’d hurry up and come down.
“NOW!”
For the first time then, Cecilia realized she had a kind of power over Etta. She could make her angry. She could make her lose control. She could have gone upstairs and pretended to try again, but she wanted to see how far Etta would go if she ignored her. They were trading gunfire.
“NOW, CECILIA.”
Etta was shaking and she screamed again. Now! Now! Every time she screamed, the rage seemed to pump through her like a drug and Cecilia could see the shame in her face as the high wore off.
Cecilia would come to know that feeling herself many years later.
Henry came into the kitchen just as Etta’s mouth opened again. Somehow, she found a way to calm down and she poured him a coffee. Cecilia ran out the door without the dress.
She waited until dark to go home that night, when she knew Henry would be there. Etta didn’t look at her. She went upstairs and saw that Etta must have taken the dress from her room. A few minutes later Etta walked to Cecilia’s door, the yellow fabric folded in her hands. She sat on Cecilia’s bed and held up the dress. She’d taken it apart and sewn extra panels in the sides. It looked boxy and crooked, but she had tried.
“You can save it for the next dance.”
Cecilia took it from her and ran her fingers over the knotted trim and then she hugged her. Etta stiffened in her arms.
A few months later she wore the dress to the school’s end-of-year dance. She sat awkwardly on the edge of the gym stage, trying to hide just how badly it fit. Cecilia didn’t change when she got home—she wore the dress to dinner. Her mother didn’t mention it, and neither did Henry, and Cecilia didn’t wear the dress again.
21
The party was more for us than it was for her. A whole year of parenthood. I ordered a huge bouquet of balloons in pastel colors with a giant foil “1” in the middle and bought fancy paper plates that were scalloped around the edges. The straws were polka-dotted. Your mother gave Violet a beautiful corduroy jumper the color of butter and ribbed tights with ruffles on the bum. She looked like a baby duckling, waddling around the living room, her pink, wet lips blowing spit bubbles as she babbled to her guests. Your father followed her, crouched on his bad knees, recording her every move.