Page 11 of Heritage of Fire

La Belle Robe Blanche, the name of the boutique, is scripted in glimmering gold leaf above a water wall feature. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over the soft, muted creams and golds of the boutique’s palette. Gowns are displayed on mannequins in the glass window cases, and many more are woven throughout the spacious showroom floor. There’s plush seating spread out surrounding small platforms where brides are trying on their dresses.

The wedding planner told my mom this boutique is known for its exclusivity and exceptional service. Consultants rush around refining the bridal attire and catering to each bride’s vision for their special day. Many of the brides’ guests have champagne flutes in their hands and refreshments in their seating areas. I’m overwhelmed, and I’ve only just walked in.

An older woman, around my mother’s age, approaches our party. “Ah, the Buscetta party, how are you? My name is Lisa, and I’ll be working with you today.” She smiles, clapping her hands together. “Where is the lovely bride?”

My sister betrays me by gesturing in my direction. I peek out from behind my two aunts—my mother’s sisters, who also married into the Cosa Nostra—to offer a small wave, then wipe my hands on my thighs. My throat feels too tight to swallow.

“I have a list of all the dresses we want to try on,” my mother speaks up, shuffling through her purse. “Yes, here they are.”

Beaming, she hands her phone to the consultant. They exchange a few words, going over the list of dresses I haven’t even seen myself before Lisa ushers us over to our private area.

Before I know it, I’m dumped into a fitting room adorned with full-length mirrors and luxurious furnishings. Lisa arranges for the six dresses on my mom’s list to be brought in, along with some options should we choose a custom design. However, with the timeline for the wedding, my mother informed me custom isnotan option. Figures.

Each dress has been meticulously crafted, and they are all beautiful. Luxury fabrics, delicate lace work, intricate beading, and other small details show each designer’s artistry. But though I’m surrounded by beauty, I can’t help but feel ugly deep down. This show of trying on dresses is just that—all a show.

Lisa helps me into the first dress. It’s a strapless ball-gown style. The full, voluminous skirt flares dramatically and buries any sign of my curved hips. The top has some light beadwork,and a lace tie wraps around the middle. I look like I’m drowning in fabric, but it’s at the top of my mom’s list. I have no choice but to try it on.

Lisa helps me out the door and leads me to the private area where everyone is seated. They’re all laughing, enjoying petit four cakes and glasses of champagne. Once on the platform, I turn to the large mirrors, all propped in a semicircle to get the best angle, and flush at the sight of myself in a wedding gown for the first time.

Chatter erupts all around me. My mother and aunts circle the platform, pulling fabric and pointing out things to the consultant. My sister sits cross-legged on a tufted, circular settee, typing on her phone and stealing sips of drink while everyone is preoccupied.

“No, she looks like a marshmallow.” My mom’s voice cuts through the air, and I lower my head to pick at my nails.

“She needs something plunging. We can’t let Sal make her a nun,” my aunt says from in front of me.

“Yes, I agree,” my mom says. “Lisa, put her in the A-line.”

The consultant dips her head in a nod and pulls me off the platform.

Back in the dressing room, she helps me out of the ball gown, and I temporarily enjoy the freedom from the strangling silk before another dress is shoved over my head. This one is flattering on my figure, flaring from the bodice, but still offering a relaxed fit in my hips and thighs. I’m paraded out, once again, in front of everyone. After some argument over this option, I’m ripped back again and doused with another dress. It repeats over and over.

I can’t even process what Lisa says next; my head feels like it’s underwater.

“—like it?” she says, grasping my shoulders from behind and looking at me in the mirror’s reflection.

“What?” I ask.

“Do you like this one? It suits your shape and complexion. I wish I had your tan skin.”

She smiles at me as she gathers up the back of the dress, then opens the door to lead me out. This time when I step onto the platform, I do a double take at myself in the mirror.

The dress is boho style with a lace sweetheart bodice, and it’s decorated with crystal beadwork. A plunging neckline comes to just above my belly button, and free-flowing lace and tulle fabric grant me a free-spirited vibe. With my brown hair spilling around my shoulders and a light glow in my cheeks, this outing suddenly goes from innocent try on to reality. I suck in air; it catches in my lungs as I try to breathe.

“This isperfect,” my mother squeals, and my aunts applaud in unison. “We’ll do this one. Get this tailored, and make it a rush priority.” She walks around the platform, eyeing the dress. She has yet to look at me.

I glance in the mirror; not disappointed in the dress, but devastated at my circumstances.

Lisa calls in another lady who begins taking measurements and pinning the dress to me. I continue to stare straight ahead. Lips trained in a thin line, I watch the hustle and bustle around me like I’m looking in from another world. It isn’t me standing here, but a stranger.

The roaring in my ears filters out the noise around me. Despite the cold air wafting through the boutique, the atmosphere is stifling. I’m sweating, beads clinging to my upper lip. A prickling sensation stabs at me from behind my eyes as I realize I’m dying—conforming to someone who isn’t me. Any future for myself has been sold off.

Did you ever have one, though?

Back in the fitting room, Lisa helps take the dress off, and I’m left standing in my underwear, topless and alone. All the dresseshave been removed. The only fabric left is my floral dress, which, in retrospect, was a pathetic attempt to assert myself.

I wrap my arms around my middle, tears trickling down my cheeks. My mouth hangs open in a silent scream. I’m begging someone, anyone—I don’t want this.

My legs start to shake and I lose feeling in my feet, collapsing to the ground. I tuck myself into a ball and bury my head in my knees. Soundlessly, I cry out until my mind is ringing and a headache blooms.

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