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All Dressed in White
by Branden Boyer-White
The first call I got from Cynthia about “the situation” woke
me from my sleep. I had begun to leave my cell phone on the bedside
table when I turned in for the night, as the nocturnal calls had been
occurring more and more frequently. But, what are maids of honor for?
“Hello,” I croaked into the phone, its keypad glowing Miami
nightclub blue in my sleep-pinched face.
“Deborah? It’s your best friend extraordinaire and the
jittery bride-to-be.”
“I know it’s you, Cyn. What’s with the nerves, babe? The
wedding is three months away.”
I could hear a large rustling on her end of the line, like an
elephant made of tulle and silk was scratching behind its ear. Cynthia
tittered. “Actually, sweetie, when I was marking off today’s date on
the countdown calendar, I realized it is now officially eleven weeks to
the big M. Doesn’t that place us more at two and three-quarter months?”
I was almost afraid to ask. “Are you trying on your dress
again?”
“Oh, no. I just finished trying it on. I’m re-bagging it.” I
could hear the elephant let out a wrinkled groan in testimony. “That’s
actually the reason I called—”
“Cynthia, doll, don’t think I’m an uber-bitch or anything,
but it’s two a.m., and this is the fourth night this week that you’ve
had a witching hour try-on. Where’s Tom? I’m sure he misses sleeping
next to you. Go back to bed with your fiancée, and call me in the
morning.”
“Tom’s fine. He has the rest of his life to sleep next to me.
Right now, I have wedding-talk to do. Are you sitting down, honey?”
“I’m in bed. Lying.”
“Great, because this is big. Ready? I have lace on my arm.”
I sat up and took a swig from the bottle of Evian on my
nightstand; this could be a while. “Your dress has lace sleeves.”
“I know that. But my dress is off now, remember? It’s like
part of my sleeve got left behind on my forearm, the pattern and
everything. It’s super vile.”
“It sounds like a rash. Maybe you’re allergic to your dress?”
The breath-catch at my ear was one of a wounded soldier hit
with yet another bullet in the field. I couldn’t tell which thought was
more horrifying to Cynthia: her beloved dress turning against her, or
starring in the most important day of her life covered with a pox. I
backpedaled as best I could, calmed her somewhat, and told her I’d call
an emergency meeting of the bridal party for brunch—this was nothing
some champagne and eggs Benedict couldn’t handle. I thought.
The situation unfolded quickly after that phone call, as if
it had been rolled up tight, volatile, ready to unfurl to its full size
at the slightest bit of give. By brunch that morning, Cynthia’s entire
arm seemed to be, indeed, crafted of lace; the other followed suit
within two days. By one week, she had a full torso of immaculate white
silk, her back sporting a row of pearl buttons that seemed to be fused
along her spine. Her real disconcertedness set in by week two, when the
large, cloudy bow that her butt had become caused a fight between her
and Tom.
“He says he’s sick of this ‘wedding shit,’” she sobbed over
the phone that I now wore on a belt around my waist. “Can you believe
he said that about my beautiful day to come?”
“Just try to see things from his side: this whole
becoming-a-dress thing must bother him on some level. He’s only human.
I bet he just misses you, sweetie.”
She sniffled and crinkled loudly—her skirt had started to
come in. “I just couldn’t do it, Deb. He should understand that I can’t
make love while I’m like this. What if we stain my bow?”
By five weeks to M-Day, Cynthia had again perked up. I
suppose it was the shoes, a pair of Swarovski-encrusted Minalo’s that
were true one-of-a-kinds because they couldn’t be removed. She did
revert to inconsolable despair when she thought her hair was suddenly
prematurely graying so soon before her big day, until she realized her
locks were simply turning into her eight-hundred dollar Vera Wang veil.
Then, she was ecstatic.
“Ladies,” she addressed her bridal party at the pre-shower
shower, Casablanca-themed down to the fezzes we all donned. “Am I not
the ultimate bride, or what?”
The days were swiftly crossed off the count-down calendar.
The bridesmaids went in for second and third fittings on dresses, for
in the stress of the planning all the girls had either gained or lost
weight. Cynthia was aglow: she floated amongst her brood in an
exclamation of white and glory, a living tower of lace and crinoline
and sequins. She was thriving in the repeat trips to the florist, where
she would outdo all the blazing lilies and snowy hydrangeas that fought
for breathing room in the presence of her unwiltable splendor. The
bakery had not a cake, despite tiers of fondant and pastiage, that
could match sugary wits with five feet, seven inches of animated,
giggling frills. I remarked to her during our second day of Jordan
Almond comparison shopping that it was her walk that did it: she was
dazzling when she moved, seeming to float along the ground the way she
did.
“Yes,” she chattered. “It’s been that way since my legs went
missing. See?” She lifted one layer of skirt after another in the
middle of the World Market candy isle until she had dug out her
treasure—there was the shimmering shape of her calves encased in French
hosiery, and there were her perfect lace panties, contoured with
fullness. There was her front garter strap stretched from thigh-high to
belt, and then, I could see straight through to her back garter strap.
Under that exploded cupcake of a skirt, every bit of Cynthia’s
underwear was completely hollow, as if it had been starched and
sculpted into the shapes belonging to the body of a blushing bride.
“Oh, honey,” I finally managed.
“I know,” she squealed. “Isn’t it the most? I’ll have the
smoothest leg of any bride, ever, no shaving required.”
It is now ten days before the wedding, and my cell phone is
buried, silenced, in a drawer in my kitchen. I stay with Cynthia now,
all hours—since she became her full nuptial ensemble, she won’t let Tom
see her. Apparently, it’s bad luck. With her fiancée indisposed as
such, it’s up to me to help her out, and help is something she needs a
lot of since her hands disappeared. (I had told her gloves would be a
nice touch when she picked her accessories; if only she had listened.)
She’s trying to stay chipper about the whole situation, but I know it’s
hard for her. I can hear a very un-bridal, melancholy wavering when she
speaks, in her voice that drifts out to me from the empty air between
her sweetheart neckline and the tiara of the veil that floats,
suspended, a head’s length above it.
I do everything I can think of to cheer her: turn the pages
when she browses her Martha Stewart “Wedding” magazines. Invite the
rest of the girls over for romantic comedy marathon nights. I take
changes of clothes over to Tom at the Raddison—I help out. What are
maids of honor for?
I suppose the most we can do is hope Cynthia is better before
her wedding. It is, after all, the most important day of her life.
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