Page 51 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
The first dress she tried on had a satin bodice with a plunging neckline and a halter neck that tied in a generous bow. Tulle spilled out from the waistline, yards and yards of it. The color was gradated from ivory to a barely discernable pink, cut in choppy sections that lengthened toward the floor and trailed behind her as she stepped into the main room for inspection. Cherry gasped with delight but Babs simply tipped her head to the side and tapped her lips with a single finger, quietlyhmm-ing.
Marlowe tried to stand still as saleswomen pointed out the gown’s features or suggested shoe styles, but soon enough she was twisting at her ring finger. Despite a monumental effort at compartmentalizing, her memories refused to stay buried. An earnest proposal and an eager acceptance. Early wedding discussions. In the city or just outside? How many guests? What would “their song” be? Should they write their own vows? Video or still photography? Seated meal or buffet? What about flowers?
The lights grew a little too bright, the temperature a little too warm. Marlowe shifted foot to foot, counting as she inhaled.One, one thousand. Two. Three. Four.
Cherry held two veils out to Babs. Babs selected the longer one.
More memories burst into view. Handing back the ring. Kelvin’s face. The hurt. The anger. The questions Marlowe couldn’t answer.Why now? What changed? What do you think you’re going to find out there?Closing the door on her New York apartment. Opening the door on the one in L.A. The quiet. The stillness. The smell.The lack of anything familiar. Night after night alone. A trash can filled with takeout boxes. A side of the bed that never got rumpled. Empty chairs at the kitchen table. A single mug in the sink. A single fork. A single toothbrush. A single towel. Always one. Only one.
“We’d have to trim it,” Babs said from far, far away.
“And lose the edging?” Cherry suggested, also oddly distant.
Marlowe breathed. Counted to four. Pressed a hand against her uneasy stomach. Were the lights getting brighter? Why was she sweating so profusely? The long-line bra was probably hooked too tightly. The halter at the back of her neck also pinched. While she plucked at it, Cherry secured the veil on Marlowe’s head. It was just enough weight to tip Marlowe’s balance, forcing her to stagger sideways a step.
Cherry reached out and steadied her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just a little… um…” She caught her full view in a three-sided mirror: a bride, in white, ready for her wedding.
She took a breath. Then she fainted.
Marlowe awoke slowly, blinking up at a pebbled ceiling with a quartet of baroque chandeliers that caused hot spots in her vision. She patted a hand around to discover she was lying on a carpeted floor and still wearing the tulle wedding dress, though by the free movement of her rib cage, she guessed both the dress and the bustier had been unfastened. As she shifted, a slippery silicone cutlet slid into her armpit, confirming her assessment.
She started to sit up. “I’m so sorry.”
A firm hand rested against her shoulder, holding her in place.
“Stay there,” said a calm and soothing voice. “Get your bearings. Don’t rush.”
“She could rush alittle,” said a far less soothing voice. “We’re only costuming a new season finale with a week’s notice, but by all means, lie around as long as you like.”
Marlowe rolled her head to the side to see Cherry kneeling beside her, holding out a glass of water. Behind Cherry, Babs was seated on the corner of a gilded sofa with her legs tucked up and her eyes glued to her phone. She was perfectly coifed with her swoop of black hair, perfectly attired in her crisp silk suit, and perfectly unconcerned with the girl half-clad in a couture gown, lying on the floor, newly returned to consciousness.
“When you’re ready.” Cherry snuck a little side-eye at Babs. “Not before.”
Two saleswomen scurried over. One carried a pillow she tucked under Marlowe’s head. The other handed off a damp cloth Marlowe laid across her forehead.
“Was the dress too tight?” the first woman asked.
“Low blood sugar?” asked the other. “We can get you some juice. Or cookies.”
“I’m okay,” Marlowe murmured. “Just, you know, overactive brain issues.”
Cherry slumped forward, her expression pained. “Bench Boy?”
“Bingo.” Marlowe plucked the remaining cutlets from her bra and set them aside. When her brain fog cleared, she dragged her body upright and wedged herself against a sofa leg, tipping back her head to keep the cool, wet cloth there. As if sensing they were no longer needed, the saleswomen returned to the front desk area, slyly observing the action from a polite distance. Grateful to not be fussed over, Marlowe took the glass from Cherry and sipped at the cold water within. “This is so embarrassing. All of these doubts and questions. I keep thinking I’ve put him behind me. Thenbang!There he is again.”
Cherry flicked at the mountain of tulle. “The date’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”
“This weekend.” Marlowe smoothed her ruffles, making order from chaos. “For a second I saw myself in another life, the one I didn’t choose, wondering where I’d be now, wondering if I’d always wonder, and if I’d ever shed the last of my regrets.”
“It’s pretty natural that you’d feel some anxiety right now,” Cherry said.
“Is it?” Marlowe glanced over her shoulder and confirmed that Babs’s attention was still locked on her phone. Babs didn’t look up but Marlowe scooted closer to Cherry, just in case. “My parents made ending a relationship seem so easy. When they divorced, my dad moved closer to New York, grateful to focus more attention on his job. My mom gleefully redecorated every room in our Providence house. She reupholstered furniture, changed carpeting, switched out artwork, and painted every wall. He started dating right away. She amped up her exercise routine. They both treated the transition as a glorious fresh start. They moved on. They focused on other things.”
Cherry scoffed. “You know those are coping strategies, right? Not showing your pain doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”
“I guess.” Marlowe let her eyes glaze over at the pink-and-white froth in her lap, wondering if her parents’ “coping strategies” had left her ill-equipped to deal with loss, change, and even hurt feelings. Her parents rarely showed emotions, so she never knew what to do with her own, except feel ashamed of them. But hearts couldn’t be painted over like walls, primed and freshened up with bold colors that masked old marks. Some of the marks stuck around for a really long time. Some probably stuck around forever.
