Fashioned by Accident

I clenched my teeth and jerked the steering wheel in my hands to the right, pulling onto the gravel shoulder. “Okay, Michael,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
The adolescent at my side drew his head higher: it reminded me of a turtle he had once had as a pet. “Huh? What?”
“Come on, kid. You’ve been hang-dogged and mopey since the moment I mentioned meeting Mark for dinner tonight. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he barely whispered, his head lowering again. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
I sighed and turned to face my son more directly. “Look, guy,” I said, deliberately softening my tone. “We’ve always talked things out, right? Since the day you learned to talk, we’ve worked through things together. You turn thirteen, and you think that’s going to stop? No way, kid. What’s the problem?”
Michael raised his head and met my eyes. I thought he might be fighting tears for a moment but resisted the urge to hug him the way I could when he was much smaller. I waited. “I guess I feel weird, a little, around Mark.”
“Oh.” Of course: Mark. How dumb of me. I should have guessed weeks ago when Mark and I began to date. Michael thinks I won’t understand.

The year I started the fashion design track at the university, every time I looked, Cathy was there. She was there on Tuesday, in fleece and jeans, holding hands with my father as they started out on a long evening stroll. She was there on Friday, in flowing black silk, sipping a glass of wine after the symphony. She was there on Sunday, in cashmere and corduroy, making pot roast and carrots in my mother’s kitchen. She was nothing like my mother.
I owed my creative genius and my future career to my mother. She had enchanted me with a miniature, pink and white Hello Kitty sewing machine for Christmas the year I was seven. We used to spend hours together in fabric stores, where she taught me how to spot quality materials. My favorite memories of her still are the afternoons when I sat beside her in her sewing room, our machines humming in harmony as we stitched. I felt her presence there years after the stroke that took her from me so suddenly. When I sat in her place at her sewing machine, continuing to create illusions out of fabric and thread even in her absence, the happiness and the comfort that were my mother remained.
Cathy’s increasingly frequent presence in the house was jarring to me. Bringing women into our home was not something that my father did—at least, not before Cathy. We hadn’t needed outsiders since Mom’s death; we depended on each other. I liked going to the grocery with Dad on Saturday mornings and reminding him of the things I knew we needed but he always forgot. I liked skipping church on Sundays sometimes in favor of going out for a leisurely brunch and an afternoon movie that he always liked to call a “matinee.” Sometimes, when I thought about growing up and going to college, I felt guilty. I wondered how Dad would manage on his own.
To be fair, I have to admit that he had tried to prepare me. I have some vague memories of him talking about some woman that he met on an interview for the magazine where he worked. Still, the first time I met Cathy, I felt a little hijacked. The first thing I really noticed about her wasn’t her size or her hair: It was her suit. I remember the soft beige wool and the way it draped around her. The fabric was finely woven and clearly expensive, and I recall admiring the tailoring that had gone into the suit’s design. I barely remember anything we said. Beyond the fact that we were in a restaurant for dinner, I cannot even recall where we were. I had two thoughts in my head: one, that Dad was probably going to marry this stranger some day; and, two, that she at least had some appreciation for finer clothing.
When he finally decided to propose to Cathy after almost two years of “courtship,” as he called it, he made up his mind without asking me. I had always thought that she was only around because I had kept my mouth shut about her. Sometimes, when she seemed too comfortable in the kitchen or when she wandered into the sewing room to talk to me as I worked on a project, I wanted so badly to let her know that the power to force my father to throw her out was all mine. I never said it aloud; I kept it to myself; but when I was really irritated, I could hear the voice in my head, screaming, “I can make him leave you any time I want.” I was a little less sure of that power after he asked her to marry him.
I was Cathy’s only bridesmaid, in spite of the fact that she had sisters and friends that she could have asked who would have helped her more. The wedding was planned just before my senior capstone project, which would take me to New York for several months, and I was inundated with designs and assignments in the flurry of activity leading up to my departure. Dad had once hinted that Cathy might enjoy it if I would design our gowns as a wedding gift. I think the first time I ever really felt grateful to her was when she defended my refusal to do it. She told Dad that it wasn’t fair to put one more burden on me, but the truth was that I didn’t want to be that invested in the event.
Their wedding day was so filled with tension that even the air felt electric. Dad had been packing and repacking his worn leather suitcase all morning and nearly forgot to load it into the trunk before we drove to the church. He dressed, then he undressed before deciding that maybe he would wear his tuxedo to the church after all and dressed again. As he slipped the car key into the ignition and I settled into the passenger seat, he patted my leg. “What lives we have ahead of us, Dana, my girl,” he said.
“Just be happy, Daddy,” I heard myself say, in spite of the fact that I hadn’t called him ‘Daddy’ in years. We drove off in the direction of the church, my father humming bits of tunes in place of conversation.
I settled my bags and boxes on the seat of the Bride’s Room’s solitary armchair, glad to have some place to put them. A table in the corner held a portable lighted makeup mirror and a few bottles of water. Two mismatched dining chairs were tucked beneath the table. The long mirrors fitted to the opposite wall made the room feel more light and larger than it really was.
In this compacted space, the opportunity to dress while I was still alone seemed like the best plan. I wiggled out of my old clothes and drew the bridesmaid’s dress from its garment bag. The gown slithered deliciously over me. I loved the texture of the satin against my legs and the sheen of the fabric at my bust. My complexion seemed truly porcelain contrasted against the deep blue of my dress as I watched my own transformation in the long mirror before me. I loved the way I looked.
Cathy’s gown hung from the high rack near the table. It was much like mine: the same luxurious satin, ice blue, higher at the neckline and more sophisticated in style. As I rummaged through one of the boxes, I conceded to a grudging admiration of her taste in clothing. In much the same way, I felt obligated to tolerate Cathy, herself. I drew some comfort from knowing that I was moving out as she moved into Dad’s house. At least I would never need to live with her.
I located the poster board and the marker that I had packed, and sat down at the table to compose some appropriate decoration for the back of Dad’s car. I suppose my attitude had kept me from starting this project earlier, although I told myself that I was hoping for a more creative idea than “Just Married” in black block letters on white cardboard. The marker’s top flipped out of my hand as I uncapped it, and it rolled across the floor. As I clenched the barrel between my teeth and bent to retrieve it, I felt the marker pull against my lips. I knew before I looked that it had to have touched Cathy’s gown.
A black track nearly two inches long displayed itself across the side of the dress. I felt my heart pound. My hands grew cold and damp. Cathy would never believe that this was an accident. And Dad—would he side with her? I strained to think of any way to make it right: acetone. Fingernail polish remover. Maybe she would never need to know. I snatched my makeup bag from the armchair; in it, I found two foil wrapped pads. I tore one open and began to work on the dress. The black seemed to fade, and the mark began to feather into a wider but more subtle defacement. I was earnest and intent when the door flew open behind me.
“Dana!” Cathy said. “What happened here?” She stood in the doorway, her arms filled with our bouquets. When I turned to face her, I knew that she had seen what I had done by the look on her face. Her lips seemed thin; her color paled; the flesh around her mouth was drawn tight. Her eyes were direct and unavoidable. The silence in the moment that I took to form an answer screamed with accusation.
“I swear it was an accident,” I said, my voice thin and barely a whisper. “I- uh, I was trying . . .” Coherent thoughts just would not form. “Oh, my God, Cathy, I’m so sorry.” I started to tremble.
Somehow, the flowers found their way to the table and I found myself crying and embraced in Cathy’s arms. Words describing what I had done stammered from my lips while Cathy gently calmed me. “You must be totally disgusted with me,” I finally finished.
“Oh, Dana,” she began. She stepped away from me and took my hands in hers. “It was an accident. Of course I wish that it hadn’t happened. Of course I wish that it could be repaired. But disgusted?” She shook my hands just a little as she spoke. “We’re becoming family today. Of course I forgive you.” She smiled gently and lightly squeezed my fingers. “Now, would you help me get dressed?”
I wasn’t sure I should believe her, even as I watched her unfasten the clothes she wore. I was sure that the gown would look hideous, as I unzipped the dress, removed it from its hanger and handed it to her. I worried that I had ruined her wedding, while I watched her slip into the garment that I was responsible for marring. She took up her bouquet, stepped into her shoes and twirled before me, asking what I thought. I thought she was beautiful. I didn’t notice a single flaw.

Sunset was beginning to wash the sky as I finished my story. Michael had sat perfectly still as I spoke, his hands unusually motionless in his lap. He turned to look at me; I thought for a moment that he was smiling. “You were a renegade, Mom,” he said. “I never knew that stuff about you and Grandma Cathy.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t go around thinking that I don’t understand things.”
“Does this mean that you and Mark are getting married?”
“God, no,” I replied. “I don’t know what might happen with Mark. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks, and we’re not even close to thinking about anything more. Look: See, the thing is; I like Mark. I think he likes us. It seems like we have a choice to enjoy people around us instead of just living in a hole.”
Michael had become quiet again.
“I don’t think I like holes very much,” I said.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Don’t you think we’re going to be late for dinner?”