Mrs. Gallagher goes on. “Wedohave a few items in stock. And there’s one in particular I think might work.” She looks directly at me, a gentle smile lighting her face. “Could I convince you to try on one more?”
No. No fucking way. All I want to do is get out of this place and back to Baltimore and online with the Raiders. We’re planning our hit on MaskedMarauder’s bookie acquaintance, debating the best approach to breach the arsehole’s firewall.
But Breagha looks so hopeful that I hear myself say, “Yes.” My sister barely refrains from clapping before she goes to sit with Mam.
The dress Mrs. Gallagher brings me looks like something a Greek statue would wear. It has a V-neck and a lace bodice with silk panels that cross on the diagonal. Mrs. Gallagher calls the fabrictulle.It hides the fact that I barely fill a B cup. My shoulders are covered with soft little caps of the same material. The skirt falls in gentle folds that Mrs. Gallagher says arefluted. The back fastens with two dozen cloth-covered buttons.
It’s beautiful.
And even more amazing: I’m beautiful in it.
Mrs. Gallagher accepts my stunned silence as a good thing. “Just a moment,” she says. Before I can stop staring at myself in the mirror, she’s back. She does something magical to my hair, weaving it into a loose braid and tucking under the end with pins that materialize from nowhere. She settles a veil into place, centering a headband that doesn’t even pinch. She hands me a pair of shoes—plain white with a tiny heel, something even I can walk in.
“There,” she says, fluffing the veil so it swirls around my shoulders. “What do we think of that?”
“We think you’re amazing,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“What’s that?” Mam calls. “Katie,a stór.Do you have something to show us?”
Mrs. Gallagher waits for me to nod. When she steps out of the fitting room, she holds the door for me to make a grand entrance. I expect the shoes to pinch my toes the instant I take a step, but they fit like they were made just for me. I feel stronger, steadier, just having them on my feet.
“Katie, you can’t waste any more of Mrs.— Oh!” Mam is knocked speechless.
That alone proves Mrs. Gallagher works miracles.
“Kate,” Breagha whispers. “That’s exactly what I was thinking of.”
I laugh, because she’s my little sister and because she means well and because weddings are infinitely more important to her than they are to me.
Mam recovers before Breagha or I do. “I don’t know, Katie. Those buttons will be very difficult. You won’t be able to dress yourself.”
That’s classic Mam. If she can’t be the center of attention, she’ll drag everyone else down with her. I answer levelly: “Breagha’s my maid of honor. She’ll help me.”
“And those cap sleeves,” Mam says, and she clicks her tongue. “They look awfully flimsy. You know how clumsy youcan be. I would hate for you to rip one just before the service.”
I eye my mother with the same glare I’d give a venomous snake. “The dress is well made. Nothing will rip.”
She’s on a roll now. “Those shoes look like something an old lady would wear. You want strappy sandals, a couple of inches. Something to make your ankles look less fat.”
I have a sudden vision of Wolf’s hands on my ankles, tightening a terrycloth belt. I’m almost breathless as I say, “Wolf doesn’t have any problem with my ankles.”
Mam ignores me. “That veil is a disaster. It makes those freckles on your arms look like smeared paint… You’ll need a lot of makeup to cover up those blemishes.”
“Like the makeup you use to cover your scar?” The venom drips out without my even trying. Just once in my life, I want my mother to tell me I’m beautiful. Just once, I want Mam to treat me like her daughter, like someone it’s possible for her to love.
Very calmly, very carefully, I turn to Mrs. Gallagher and hand her Wolf’s black credit card. “We’ll take it,” I say.
Breagha comes with me into the fitting room. She helps me with the buttons. She makes sure my hands don’t get caught in the cap sleeves. Without saying a word, she gathers up the dress and the veil and the shoes and she scurries to the front of the store while I’m still pulling on my sweats.
When I step out of the room, Mam is studying her fingernails. “I have to get a manicure before Sunday,” she says. “So many hands to shake in the receiving line.”
“Excellent,” I say. “While you’re doing that, I can stop at the tattoo parlor.”
Mam offers a tight laugh until she realizes I’m not smiling. “You arenotgetting a tattoo, young lady.”
“I’m twenty-six years old, and I can do whatever the fuck I want to do.”
“Your father and I will not spend a penny for you to mutilate?—”