Gaillard Auditorium’s main exhibit hall was a bright riot of sound and fabric: clothing, dishes, books, bags, posters, furniture. I browsed the eclectic and “gently used” offerings of the Charleston Junior League’s annual Whale of a Sale and walked cautiously amid stern-faced, sensibly dressed women moving in for the kill. One picked up a blue and yellow bedspread, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and sauntered on down the pile toward slipcovers and placemats. Another frowned over a mismatched set of china before scooping the plates into her arms and scurrying towards checkout.
Rounding a nearby pile of furniture and dishes, their sharp edges akimbo, I was confronted by a sea of white and cream-colored satin with flounced skirts and sparkling appliqué. The wedding dress section. A preppy brunette Junior Leaguer clad in matching red t-shirt and headband atop pressed khakis lovingly sorted the gowns, her left ring finger ablaze in a wreath of diamonds. Big diamonds. Smack dab in my ground zero of dread, I swallowed the waves of nausea slithering through my gut and bravely but coldly surveyed yards of duchesse silk and scalloped seed pearl beading. Maintaining my game face, I imagined the ecstatically married wives who charitably decided to part with their treasured gowns for “just a touch more room” in their blissfully shared conjugal closets.
My own wedding dress hung limp and crumpled in a tiny, unshared closet, with my short, miserable marriage slumped on the floor beneath it. The swath of icy silk with elegantly ruched waist and crystal-staggered, silver-threaded bodice was stunning, and yet I couldn’t look at it without the desire to gag bubbling up in my throat. The nine months of my nuptials had been spectacular only in their unhappiness.
The night of my reception, pausing to kiss my mother goodbye just before we drove away, my new husband honking the car horn as if he couldn’t wait to escape. The honeymoon, sunning on the deck of the cruise ship alone. Home at the apartment months later, the bedroom door, our bedroom door, locked hard against my grasp as I crumpled against the frame, my breath knocked out.
Five months down, seven to go: I was now almost halfway through the required one year of separation preceding divorce. Just midway through my jail term, the last thing in the world I could stomach was another wedding dress. What to do with the one I have? Squaring my jaw, I marched toward shoes and handbags. Shoes and handbags, after all, were safe, practical, size-constant, marriage neutral, and a real bargain at a buck a pop.
The flurry of movement caught my attention. The perky brunette was posting a sign like a white surrender flag on top of the foremost rack of dresses. The big black letters screamed out: ALL GOWNS $10.00. I buckled under the blow and sucked in my breath, drawn back by the tractor beam of fabric before reason kicked in: how could I even possibly consider a second dress when I was barely out of the first?
Heavy cream satin floating on the hanger. Miles of seed pearls affixed by a delicate hand in a chorus of flowers with tiny amber crystal centers. Beaded vines curving down a fluted skirt. The gentle bend of the strapless bodice, a simple, button-less back. A designer gown, the $920.00 price tag bobbing on the bodice.
How could I? How could I not?
Suddenly, it was less about The Dress. It was more about me. Hope and resignation fighting on a scale. A flicker of defiance against the smothering ash of guilt. My choice stretched out like an elaborately stitched alabaster train: bitterness, anger, crushing depression? Or faith, forgiveness, and courage? This gown was not to sweep me away in waves of ivory-towered illusion, but to lift my warrior soul back into the turret, fierce and fearless. To show that such a thing was still possible.
The bubbly brunette with the rock on her left hand cheerfully bagged the gown. I didn’t even try it on. I didn’t need to: so much of this second gown fit already.
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