Page 17 of Gulfside Girls
She thought back to what her dad looked like back then, really for most of his life. He was strong. At six feet, he was tall for an Irishman, her grandma used to say. He was military in his bearing, meticulous in his grooming, but utilitarian. He was a man who went to the barber, shaved every day, and kept everything ship shape but nothing “froofy,” as he called anything that had the whiff of feminine energy—no cologne or hair products for Bruce Kelly.
She needed to do that more often, force her mind’s eye to put the younger Bruce in place of the one she’d just watched die.
It wasn’t fair to the pillar of strength that he was to hang on to what he looked like in the end.
Ali wiped a tear. Her father may have been stern, harsh even, but he was a rock. They never worried that there would be food on the table or a roof over their heads. He was tough, and he taught them to be, too. He was always there, whenever and for whatever they needed him.
She remembered, with shame, the anger she’d had at her mother for leaving, as though it was her choice to do so.
Enough. She was getting lost in the emotions of the last few days.
Ali opened the box and looked inside.
A slightly musty smell wafted in the air around it.
She carefully removed three large manilla envelopes and laid them on the table. They were all sealed with string wrapped around a cardboard disk. Ali had the urge to open them first but resisted. She decided to get it all out and then dive into each after the box was empty.
She gasped when she saw what was under the envelopes. A photo album!
As far as she knew, there was one lone picture of Joetta Bowles. It was that framed wedding day shot on the tea cart in the corner.
My goodness, what if these are more pictures of our beautiful mom?
There were Valentine’s cards, thank you cards, and little notes. They were signed “JB.” The “b” looked practically like calligraphy. Her mother’s writing was so flowery and feminine that it was almost art.
Ali ran a hand over the puffy cover of the album but, again, set it next to the envelopes instead of opening it.
At the bottom of the box was a jewelry case.
Wow. Okay, jeez, Dad, if this is Mom’s jewelry, why the heck wouldn’t you have given it to us?
She was freshly annoyed with Bruce Kelly at that moment.
She lifted the blue jewelry box out and set it next to the rest of the items.
Two more artifacts made up the rest of the little treasure trove.
There was a mason jar. She picked it up, and dozens of little snow-white seashells shifted in the jar.A souvenir from a long-ago beach vacation?
Finally, the bottom of the box was wrapped in a deteriorating plastic dry-cleaning bag. Ali’s emotions nearly knocked her over.
It was the dress! The wedding dress! A mini; so pretty, so modern for its day. Bruce had hung on to his dead wife’s wedding dress.
She slid it out of the box and then placed the box on the floor. Shehadto see this dress.
The plastic bag fluttered to the kitchen floor, and she put her hands on the fabric. It was cream, not yellow. The photo made itseem yellow. It was so much more delicate than the picture, now fading, in the frame.
This dress was expensive. It was easy to see, to feel. In fact, Ali was quite sure she’d never held a garment this luxurious in feel. It was simply beautiful. A mock turtleneck and long sleeves gave it a modest vibe on top, and a paisley pattern in light caramel overlaid the ivory fabric and added interest without making it look too busy. A tiny fabric belt cinched the waist, and the more conservative top part of the dress contrasted with its length.
A mini!Ali still couldn’t quite believe that.
The buttons were all covered and the stitching, the finishing, were clearly a higher quality than anything Ali had ever owned. Her mother looked so sweet in this dress. Ali had gazed at the picture a million times. And now it was in her hands!
Ali found the label: Miss Dior.Was that Christian Dior? Wow!
Another shocker. How did her mother afford this? She wondered if Joetta Bowles Kelly had thrifted it. What a detail to learn now, after this expanse of time, that her mother liked to find quality thrift pieces. Maybe she’d snagged it at a garage sale in nearby Ottawa Hills? Ali did have vague memories of walking the sidewalks with her mother at the exclusive and more well-to-do version of Old Orchard. It was just a few blocks away and could have yielded this treasure for her mother’s wedding day. Ali’s imagination was unlocked as she held the garment.
She looked at the label, size 2. Her mother was tiny.
