Page 26 of Sister of the Bride

I’m right. The string is secure.

Polly proceeds to try on an endless parade of dresses in various shades of white and cream and champagne. There’s even a pale pink one in the mix that Birgit calls “blush.” There are ball gowns and mermaid dresses and delicate sheaths. Strapless ones and ones with straps and sleeves. I quickly establish a system, because otherwise I know we’ll spend hours fawning over the dresses and leave blinded by white fabric with no final choice. And I wasn’t kidding—we don’t have time for an eternal dress hunt. This needs to happentoday. So each time Polly comes out, I ask if she likes the dress she’s in more or less than the previous dress. If the answer is less, the dress goes back on the rack. If it’s more, then the previous dress heads back to the rack and this dress gets to wait in the dressing room for the next bracket. This leaves only one gown in the dressing room at any given time, and it means we’re only ever comparing a dress to one other, not every other option. It’s honestly genius and maybe is the way we should be electing the president. I should write a letter to my senator. Or maybe just send the suggestion to I-To-Do.

It’s all going swimmingly, clipping along now that most of the tears from the first gowns have dried, and I can feel us coming close to a decision. A delicately beaded sleeveless dress with a deep V and pockets has remained in contention for the last six rounds. I think Polly is about ready to call it, but then Birgit emerges from the dressing room. Her face shows all the seriousness of someone about to engage the nuclear launch codes, and her hands are clasped behind her back.

“Polly vould like me to tell you zat zees eez zee dress, and she vants you all to be ready so no one makes face and ruin it for her,” Birgit intones in her cold, imperious accent.

Nonna turns to Mom and me, waving her finger in the air, and says, “Arrange your faces, ladies.”

Birgit pulls backs the curtain, and Polly emerges, gently holding up the front hem of a dress, and I can tell immediately that my sister is right. This is the one. And I didn’t need a warning to prepare me. I couldn’t control my smile if you paid me.

The dress fits her like it was sewn directly onto her body. The lace bodice is fitted down to the thin satin sash, and then the skirt flows gently to her feet. It has sleeves that stop just above Polly’s elbows, an unusual length that looks delicate without being matronly. When Polly turns, I see a perfect line of silk buttons that begins at the nape of her neck and trails all the way down to the floor, ending just before the short but tasteful train that pools behind her.

I have spent days watching Mom and Nonna tear up every time the wedding is mentioned, but I’ve never felt that impulse myself. To me, the wedding is just stress. Or worse, dread. Sometimes thinking about it still evokes shock. But now, seeing my twin sister in the dress that is absolutely meant to be her wedding gown, I get it.

“I’m thinking that instead of a veil, I can do flowers in my hair,” Polly says, and that image sends Mom into gasping sobs as Nonna dabs at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

“Greenery and fall leaves could also be nice,” Birgit supplies, and Polly’s eyes light up. Everyone is halfway down the aisle in this thing, but glancing at the app perched on my knees, I’m reminded of one very important question.

“How much?” I ask, and four heads turn directly to me with a look like I’ve just farted in church.

Birgit sniffs before answering, a sort of verbal punctuation that frankly I don’t appreciate. “Vell, ve’ll have to put rush on it if you vant in time, plus alterations on accelerated schedule. Zat vould put you just over eight.”

“Thousand?” I bark.

Birgit nods, the corners of her mouth turning down, like my outburst has offended the dresses. “Yes. I write up invoice so you see zee breakdown and exact price,” she adds, though I suspect this offer is merely a way to get out of the room so we can all have the meltdown we need to have right now.

“Quick, take a picture,” I say to my Mom, who is fiddling nervously with her phone like it’s a worry stone. “We can show the photo to a seamstress and have a dress just like it made.”

“And you think that would be cheaper? Pippin, a dress like this takes a craftsman,” Polly says.

“She’s right. That kind of work costs money. Frankly that price is outstanding for all that lace,” Nonna says.

“Okay, then, I guess we need to keep looking. Because eight thousand dollars for a dress you’re going to wearoncefor like four hours is anoutrageousamount of money.”

But nobody moves. In fact, they all avert their eyes like I’ve fartedin the bridal salon. Nobody seems to think this is a wild amount of money except me.

“You can’t be serious. Where do you even plan to get eight thousand dollars? What is the vibe of this wedding, the Rockefellers? The Hiltons? TheKardashians?”

“I’m using my trust,” Polly says, her voice high and full of air.

I gasp, unable to arrange my face into anything other than total shock. And I thought an eight-thousand-dollar wedding dress was a surprise. “You’re using Dad’s money?”

Our father had life insurance when he died, and Mom set aside some for each of us for school. But Polly, being the smarty-pants wunderkind she is, didn’t use hers. She went to Harvard for undergrad on a full scholarship and grad school at Yale fully funded. I know she’s dipped into the trust here and there for auxiliary school things, but she has always had a job to help pay her way, so she hasn’t needed it much.

“But that money is for big things! Like a house. Or a car!” I try again, but Polly remains placid.

“I have a car, and Mackenzie already owns a condo,” she says, watching the way the dress moves in the mirror. Her voice is calm and quiet. “And I want to spend the money on this.”

“But why? It’sone day.”

And then Polly’s eyes are off the dress and pointed directly at me, a fire igniting in them.

“Because Dad won’t be there!” she cries, and it echoes off the mirrors. The seismic effect of the quiver in her voice causes my throat to constrict. “He won’t walk me down the aisle. We won’t have a father-daughter dance, and he won’t make stupid dad jokes in a toast.” Polly takes a deep breath, looking down at the dress before leveling her gaze back at me. “This way he’ll be there. And I’ll always have these memories, and they’ll always be connected to him.” She blinks once, releasing the tears that were welling up in her eyes. They stream down her cheeks, and I can barely hold back my own tears. I sneak a glance at Mom and see her leaning into Nonna, who is passing her a handkerchief.

“But Dad always told us to keep an emergency fund, and if you spend the money on this, you won’t have one,” I say, the words coming out in a whisper.

We’ve always lived lean, never taking big vacations or making huge purchases, so we could have a family emergency fund. That was why Mom was able to set aside most of the life insurance money. We experienced the worst emergency possible, and we were able to fall apart safely because of it. It’s why I still haven’t touched my own trust. I lived at home while I went to UMass Boston on scholarship and got my business degree, taking classes through the summer. I barely spend any money and am saving even more now by continuing to live at home while I run the restaurant. If the unimaginable happens again, I’ll be prepared, and the thought of Polly being caught unawares because she bought a fuckingdressmakes my breath feel trapped in my lungs. I have to convince her that this is a bad idea.

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