I’ve just picked up my third child from school and we’re driving up to the stop light on Wedowee Street, or Highway 100 as I like to call it, when someone from the backseat utters, “Slow down, mamma!”
“Yeah. New dresses, look! Oh, I love that one on the left!” another voice explains.
“Which one is your favorite?” One of my children asks me.
“I’m looking, hold on. I can’t make a snap decision about something as important as this.” Selecting just one dress from the line-up, well, it’s harder than you’d think. There are four to choose from. The one on the far left has me mesmerized; I can’t take my eyes off of it.
The strapless white gown, with a simple waist of glittering diamondesque jewels makes me think of Cleopatra. My peripheral vision takes in the other three dresses, also white, which are stunning. But the one on the left has pulled me in, or rather pulled me out. Out of my car, into the world of beautiful columns surrounding a Grecian tile bath. I can feel warm water, poured from a decorated vase, cascading over my shoulders. I involuntarily sigh.
“Go mamma. The light’s green.”
“The first one. It’s so simple.” I state.
“Yea, I like it too.” My son agrees with me.
“I liked the one on the right best. Number four.” Says one of my daughters. She gives no reason. She doesn’t have to. I understand what happens when you merge with a dress.
“Lilly, you still didn’t say which one you liked.” We all sit in silence waiting for her answer.
“I just couldn’t decide. It was between number one and four.”
We have the mannequins numbered. Starting from the left, they are one, two, three and four. Secretly, I wish we could name these ladies: Monique, Scarlet, Virginia and Zsa Zsa. They are exotic ladies and should have ‘stage names.’ In a way, they are Bowdon’s most famous nameless ladies. But I think it’s better that way, really. Because their personalities change like the seasons. Wearing white, the one on the left couldn't be anyone but Cleopatra. However, a few weeks ago, when she wore that mermaid-style blue sequin dress, I’m sure she was Victoria. Last year, ready for Valentine’s Day, the Spanish Flamenco style red dress announced her name: Carmella Rosita Jimenez de Avila.
Without saying anything, I circle around by the bank and turn in the narrow street beside the former diner, Jerry’s Kitchen. My kids continue to chatter about school day events-oblivious to what I’m doing.
“Okay, Lilly. Look.”
“Hey. You came back?” My son asks.
“She needed more time to look at them. This is important. It’s her wedding gown we’re talking about.”
“No it isn’t,” someone says, breaking the spell, reminding us that she's only eleven years old.
“Well, it could be,” I respond, feeling like the only one that was hit with fairy dust.
“It’s hard to pick just one,” she declares.
“Well, how about picking two this time. There could be a tie.”
“Okay. The first and the last. I love them both,” she says. And the whole car seems to sigh with relief.
“Yeah. They are both dazzling, aren’t they?” I support her in her indecision.
The radio is on and Katy Perry is singing about California girls having the most fun. As it fades out, the news begins. The stock market report is first these days. The announcer says something about the Dow Industrial Average doing something due to the Yen doing something… I tune it out because it’s not part of my reality right now. I have created a new one, thanks to the gowns in the window at Simple Elegance.
A magical cloud descends over me as I sit next to this little shop in my old, black, Chevy Prizm with a busted-out headlight.
“The worst since The Great Crash of 29,” the news continues. It runs off me like water over a whale. I keep driving and keep dreaming. Things are gonna get better. It’s a fact, because the nameless ladies wearing the fairytale gowns told me so.
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