“I think we can manage that,” she chuckles and leads the way to Macy’s.
∞∞∞
After spending about ten minutes in the Macy’s juniors’ section, I’ve deduced that they have something against sleeves or maybe just protecting shoulders, because even when these shirts have sleeves there seems to always be cutouts at the shoulders.Do they not know it’s fifty degrees outside?Don’t get me started on the fabric that feels the thickness of tissue paper.
I pull back a rare unicorn of a blouse that has both the shoulders covered and has sleeves-- sleeves that are three-quarters in length and have enough bunched fabric to ensure they will never fit inside a coat. I groan. It’s official. The fashion industry wants women to freeze to death.
“That’s it. I’m wearing nothing but jeans and Henleys in protest until the industry stops wanting to give women hypothermia,” I grumble to myself and sigh. “Maybe I can pull something off from the men’s section.” Then I remember I’m tiny. “Make that the boys’ section.”
I turn in defeat and hanging on the wall, ready to make me a hypocrite, is this black blouse that is nothing but lace with a nude tube top sewn in for modesty. It has long sleeves and a large keyhole neckline. It’s girly in an old gothic romance kind of way, and I’ll definitely freeze wearing it, but I want it.Damn it, they got me!
Grabbing a size small, I find my aunt flipping through the racks. Gingerly, I hold it up to her and mutter, “This one.”
Mildred fingers one of the lace sleeves. She’s found a few other unicorn grade shirts with long sleeves that cover the shoulders, and these will actually fit under a jacket. They’re nice if not somewhat formal looking.
“Very pretty,” she murmurs with an approving smile. “You’ll need a strapless bra, and I’d recommend getting a nice jacket or coat. I don’t think your red sweater will quite match, nor keep you very warm.”
I nod and chew on my lip, relieved that she’s here. Before now, clothes shopping was a twice a year thing with my father hurrying me along, and me fumbling to figure out things like bra sizes.
With one blouse, this trip slowly turns into buying me a new wardrobe. New bras that fit, socks, underwear, new pairs of jeans, more Henleys and shirts that I’m not going to freeze in, a pair of pretty knee high boots that have only a one inch heel and rubber tread, and my favorite, a new leather motorcycle jacket with four zipper pockets. Four!
By the time we stumble out of Macy’s, it’s a struggle to move under the weight of all the shopping bags, and I’m starving.
“Thank you for all of this,” I say, hefting up some of the bags in illustration. I can’t admit to her the relief I feel to wear something not provided by my bastard of a father. Instead, I tell her, “I never got the chance to do these kinds of things with my mom, so it’s nice that I get to do this stuff with you.”
There’s a bittersweet pull to her lips. “I wish your mother was here. She would’ve loved to do these things with you, but I’m also glad that I can be here with you.”
“Were you and my mom close?” I ask, it finally sinking in that this womanknewmy mother. For how obsessed he was, the bastard never talked about her-- to me anyway.
“Surprisingly so, yes,” she answers wistfully.
“Were you two very different?” I question, confused by her statement. I don’t have siblings, but sisters being close isn’t weird as far as I know.
“What?” she blinks, almost like she was lost in her thoughts for a moment. The smile on her lips is at odds with the sadness in her eyes. “How about we go get some dinner, and I’ll tell you a bit about her?”
“It’s like you read my mind,” I beam. “I’m starving. Who knew shopping could work up an appetite?”
∞∞∞
We end up at a small bistro down the street from the mall, and it’s more upscale than I had in mind. My aunt fits in perfectly in a cream, cowl neck cashmere sweater, brown slacks and matching ankle boots. My jeans, clunky boots, and hoodie, not so much. I don’t care what these strangers think of me, but Iamgrowing more aware of other people. Before, anyone that existed outside of my hell was white noise. Now, I can focus on more than simply surviving.
We’re seated quickly at a table near the window, and the whole place is set for mood lighting. The overhead lights set low and a candle on the table.
I feel a strange unease that takes me a moment to place. This feels like the evenings when my father would dust me off and dress me up for functions the university he worked at held. Those were torture of a variety that in some ways were as painful as the physical blows in the basement. Watching his colleges fawn over the bastard as he worked the crowd, it felt like inside I was beating against soundproof glass. I wanted to scream that he was a monster behind that smile. Beg someone to save me, but I knew none of these people would believe the hysterical cries of a girl with no proof against the suave charm of their coworker. He was a god in their small circle, and they all worshipped at his Alter.
I grit my teeth and push down the ugly memories. He can’t reach me now, and sitting across from me is someone who cares about me, who believes the truth, even though I don’t know how she knows. I want to ask, but I’m not sure I want to know the signs that were clear to her but others were too blind to see. Some other day I’ll ask, but not tonight. This night will be a happy memory that will stand against the evils that want to swallow me whole.
I sit up straight and attempt to smile up at the waiter when he comes to take our drink order. Water for me and a glass of wine for my aunt. She also puts in an order for a cheese and fruit board as an appetizer.
“Something to tide us over until food arrives,” she winks at me over the table.
He returns surprisingly fast with both our drink orders and the appetizer. For dinner, I order thePenne alla Salsicciaand my aunt orders thePenne al Salmone.Taking our menus back, he smiles, tells us we made excellent choices, then scurries off to put in our orders.
I take a sip of my water then fold my arms on the table. It’s time to learn more about, well, everything. Mildred has answers to the pile of questions that keep stacking taller since I got here. Does she know what I am? What my father was really after?Shit, why didn’t I ask the guys if being a witch was hereditary?I know Gina’s mother is also a witch, does that mean at least one parent has to be a witch? I want to ask flat out if my mother was a witch, but if my aunt doesn’t know what I’m talking about, then it could be a one way ticket to straightjackets and colorful drug cocktails.Ugh. I wish I was a little more Velma, and a lot less Shaggy at the moment.
Rubbing the fabric of my sleeve between my fingers, I stutter awkwardly, “Can you tell me more about my mother? I…I don’t even know her name.”
“That bloody prat didn’t even…” she growls, and I fear for the glass in her hand.I wonder what the tensile strength of a crystal wine glass is.
