Every young girl loves to dream of herself as a bride...

Another Country -21-
by Erin Halfelven

Before I had gotten free of the bridal gown sea, another customer came in through the shop front. I recognized Mrs. Gorman, fifteen or twenty years older than Mom; she used to teach music in the grade school near where I lived.

She saw me and smiled hugely. “Every young girl loves to dream of herself as a bride,” she remarked loudly before walking past me toward where Mom and Mrs. Merrit waited. I glared at her back. I’d taken her recorder class in fourth grade—she knew I wasn’t a girl.

“Nadine,” Mrs. Gorman called out, even louder than before. “I took some of my linens out of storage and they’ve been damaged.” She pulled a package from her duffle-bag-sized purse and began unfolding a mass of cream-colored cloth. “Do you think it’s moths? I had these in a walnut chest.”

Mom caught my eye and sidled out from behind the counter and started toward me, just as I finally emerged from the chiffon surf. She waved a bag at me, but shook her head slightly with a nod toward Mrs. Gorman. “We’ll see you later, Nadine. Bobby and I are going to lunch.”

“Try those on when you get home,” said Nadine, meaning whatever was in the sack Mom had now tucked into her own bivouac bag. “Give me a call if there’s trouble with the fit.”

Mrs. Gorman turned around, too, and waved at me. “Nice to see you, again, Bobbie!” she boomed. “Have you ever managed to remember which is G and which is F?” She laughed.

She meant the fingering on one of the cheap recorders from her class. I didn’t and barely remembered to smile at her. She did know me, but also she didn’t!

I was still annoyed as Mom and I reached the street.

“Let’s get some lunch, then we can go home, and you can try what Nadine put in the bag before deciding if you want to go to school this afternoon,” she offered, gesturing toward the corner.

I made a noise, then looked up at Papagallos, diagonally across the nearest intersection, about 60 yards away. The big green parrot on their sign and the rich smell of roasting meat, toasty tortillas and rich salsa quemada got us moving that direction without discussion, but I did say, “Mrs. Gorman,” under my breath as we took the second crosswalk to complete the diagonal.

Mom might have laughed, but I decided not to hear that and stepped quickly to hold the heavy oak and glass door open for her but someone from inside beat me to it. One of the waiters pushed it open from within then stood aside holding it open for us. “¡Bienvenidas!” he said cheerfully, then rushed ahead of us once we were inside.

“This way,” he said, leading us to a table beside the window. “¡Buenas dias!” He snatched menus from somewhere and put them on the table before we were even seated. “Can I get you pretty ladies anything to drink?”

I glared at him. Mom made a noise. He smiled directly at me, unbothered by my glare. “Coke,” I said, just so he would quit beaming at me. His nametag read, “Bernardo,” and I thought of the big sloppy dog breed, clumsy and too friendly by half.

Mom agreed that she would have a coke, too. He hurried off, taking my glare with him, pinned to the back of his shirt. The doctor hadn’t seemed to think I had a real problem, but it sure looked like one to me.

My aggravation must have shown as I watched Mom’s face go carefully neutral, like it did when she knew she was going to have to listen to Dad rant about someone mistreating his beloved heavy machinery.

I kept my mouth closed. Bernardo returned with our cokes, beaming at us again. “Have you decided what you’ll be having?” Mom ordered a taco salad with chicken and Bernardo turned his enthusiasm on me.

“¿Y tu, señorita?” he asked.

“Al pastor,” I said, not gritting my teeth at all.

“Tacos, burrito or a plate?”

I didn’t want rice and beans, so I shook my head. “Just two California tacos.”

“¡Muy buena!” he exclaimed. “I’ll bring chips and salsa!” And off he went.

At least he wasn’t trying to flirt with me like at Las Fuentas on Saturday. But would I have to stop eating in Mexican restaurants, completely? I glanced down at the swellings on my chest and felt of my teeth with my lower lip.

The tacos when they came were very good, the fried pork sweet and juicy with lettuce, tomato and cheese in a crisp tortilla. I almost wished I’d ordered a third but they were big enough.

Mom paid the check and we left, Bernardo holding the door for us again. “¡Hasta pronto, chicas!” he called after us. I fumed all the way to the car.

“He called us girls!” I complained to Mom after slamming the car door.

“Well,” Mom said, “I guess I don’t mind too much. For me.” She added the last part when she saw my expression. “Maybe what Nadine sent with us will help.” She touched the bag from the lingerie shop.

I almost cried.

###

At home, Mom showed me what she and Nadine had come up with.

It turned out to be less terrible than I'd imagined, which is not the same thing as not terrible.

She used words like opaque and minimizing and band size and the word I had been quietly dreading, which she used last.

"A bra," I said.

"A bra," she agreed, without any particular emphasis.

Which took the argument out of my lungs before I could find it.

She took two items from the bag. The first was small and nude-colored — the medical word, not the embarrassing one — and I made myself look at it the way I would look at a piece of athletic equipment. Which it sort of was. There were two of them actually. Two bras.

The second item was a chemise, darker than Mom’s, which I had already tried wearing. The color was a medium beige, with the narrowest possible strip of lace at the waist, the hem and the sleeves. Not at the neckline. I noticed they’d thought about the neckline.

"The wider straps will stay in place," Mom said. "And it won't show under a shirt."

The logic was airtight. I hated that the logic was airtight.

“Do you want to try them on?” she asked.

I shook my head but gathered all of it together and headed to my room—er, trailer. I didn't say anything because my mouth had stopped working, but I think she understood.