“I’m not trying it on. No need for panic.”
Silence.
I straightened up my hair and clothes and was about to head back out to the lobby when there was another knock.
“Sloan? You promised to try the dress.” It was Mom.
“Mom, I’m not trying it on today. I’m ... not wearing the right kind of underwear.”
“Sloan.” Mom’s sigh was audible.
I didn’t let the disappointment I heard in her voice change my mind. I stepped out of the dressing room and handed the salesclerk standing behind her the dress. “I’ll come back another time.”
“This woman is a professional,” Mom said.
“I’m sure she is. Like I said, I’m not wearing the right underwear. Now let’s see what we can find for you.” I headed toward the bridal gown section, intentionally blocking out my mother’s guilt trip.
I grabbed the first gown I found in her size and shoved it into her hands. “Try this.”
She looked at it. Frowned. Extended an arm. “This is far too ... glittery. Look at it. I think it came out of Elvis’s closet.”
“And I think the dress you wanted me to try came out of Liberace’s.”
Mom looked at me. Blinked. Then laughed hard until she was crying. Once she had herself composed, she lifted her tear-filled eyes to me and said, “You’re right. That dress was hideous.”
“Why’d you insist I try it on?”
“Because it’s a Mizelle. Anyone would be impressed with a Mizelle. Even the queen of the elves.”
“Don’t you worry about the queen of the elves. We’ll impress her pants off. You’ll see.”
Six hours, and over a hundred dresses later, Mom still hadn’t found
the
dress. My stomach was digesting itself. My blood sugar was so low, I didn’t dare move quickly, for fear of passing out, and Mom was nearly in tears ... again.
“I can’t believe I haven’t found a dress here,” Mom blubbered. “This is
the place to come
for a wedding gown. Everyone knows that.”
“Maybe their inventory is low. We’ll just have to come back another time.” I gently coaxed my mother back to the fitting room to remove the last gown. It was a gaudy confection of tulle and lace that was so sugary sweet that it threatened to put my mother into a sugar coma. “Hurry up and change. I’ll buy you some dinner.”
Ten minutes later, Mom still hadn’t come out of the fitting room. I didn’t see the dressing-room attendant who’d been helping her, so I assumed she was in the room with my mother.
I knocked. “Mom?”
“Yes, Sloan.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m ... stuck.”
“Stuck?” I knocked.
The door swung open, and my fully dressed mother came ambling out of the room. The red-faced salesclerk followed her, making a beeline for the office.
“Whew! It’s so good to be out of that claustrophobic closet.”
“Why haven’t you changed out of the dress yet?”
Mom tugged. Mom wriggled. Mom scowled. “We tried. We can’t get it off without tearing it.”
“If you got it on, you can take it off,” I reasoned. “Taking it off should be the easy part.”
“So you’d think. I guess I’ve swelled a little. It was a snug fit, going on.”
I slumped onto a bench. “Great.”
“You think it’s bad for you,” Mom said, doing a movement that looked a lot like a pee-pee dance. “I need to use the bathroom, and Gwen, the salesgirl, says I can’t, since the dress costs eighty thousand dollars.”
Gwen returned, with arms crossed over her chest. “I’m sorry. My manager said you can’t wear that gown into the restroom.”
“Well, if she peed, she might un-swell a little,” I reasoned.
“I said the same thing.” Mom gave the salesclerk a glare.
Gwen shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go into the bathroom in the gown. It’s against company policy.”
Mom’s face turned an interesting shade of pinkish white. “If I can’t go to the bathroom in the next sixty seconds, it’s pretty much a guarantee that the gown will be ruined. As will be the carpet.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better make it quick,” Mom warned. The minute Gwen left, my mother chuckled. “She bought it. Now help me out of this thing.”
“What?”
“She was doing it all wrong. Come on.” Mom dragged me back into the room.
I shut the door behind me and went to work unzipping the gown. It stopped at around the middle of Mom’s hips. “I’m thinking this mermaid look isn’t for you.”
“Believe me, I’m with you.”
I tugged while pinching the fabric together. Finally the zipper gave. I put up a little whoo-hoo of victory.
“The battle’s only half won.” Mom wriggled while I cautiously pulled, trying to work the beaded fabric over her hips.
It wasn’t budging. And a couple of seams along the sides were pulling.
“Mom, how the heck did you get into this thing?”
“I swear, it wasn’t this tight when we put it on.” She swiveled her hips. “Is that helping?”
I dug my fingertips into the fabric to try to get a grasp. “Not really. It’s so tight! I can’t get a good grip.” I tipped my head to say something, but whatever I’d been about to say completely flew from my mind. “Mom, your face is swollen.”
“It is?” Mom smacked both hands over her cheeks.
“Yes, it’s puffy. It wasn’t like that a minute ago.”
“Oh, no. It must be an allergic reaction.”
“To what? The dress?”
“I don’t know.” She twisted. A loud
riiiip
made her jerk. I jumped too. “What w-was that?” she stuttered.
I knew what it was. That was the sound of eighty thousand dollars going out the window.
A frantic knock cut me off before I had a chance to answer.
“Excuse me!” a harried-sounding woman shouted through the door. “I need to come in and assist.”
I opened the door and stepped out. “Do you have any scissors?”
The woman’s face turned the shade of the gown. “I think I ...” She hit the floor hard.
Ten minutes later, we were in my car, speeding toward St. John’s Hospital. The store manager had refused to let me call 911. I would’ve left her, but then she fainted again. I grabbed my phone and started dialing, but she came to and smacked the phone out of my hand. It slid across the floor and became lost under a rack full of gowns. So I did what any well-meaning girl would do, I dragged her stubborn butt out to my car and threw her in the backseat.
In return, she vomited.
“Sloan, you missed the turn,” Mom said as we were speeding through an intersection on an orange light. My mother was looking a little like the Pillsbury Doughboy in drag.
“I’m sure it’s this way, Mom.”
“No, I’m certain it isn’t.”
“Ohhhh ... ,” the store manager moaned. She was sort of lying across the backseat now.
Mom glanced over her shoulder. “She isn’t looking good. I think she may throw up again.”
My car would never be the same. “Please make sure the bag is under her mouth.”
“I’m trying.” Mom’s ass was in the air as she knelt on the passenger-side front seat and reached to the back.
“We should have used the store’s phone to call an ambulance,” I grumbled.
“They take too long,” Mom said. “She’ll be at the hospital much faster—assuming you can find it.”
I mumbled something Mom wouldn’t have appreciated hearing.
Our passenger threw up.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said.
I knew what that meant.
I muttered something else she wouldn’t have appreciated hearing as I turned into the hospital’s driveway. I parked in front of the emergency entrance, and a guard approached Mom’s window.
She opened it.
The guard peered inside.
“I have two patients for you. This one,” I said, pointing at Mom, “is having an allergic reaction to something, and that one,” I said, pointing at the backseat, “passed out and has vomited twice in the last half hour.”
“I’ll get some wheelchairs.” The guard grabbed an empty chair from the breezeway between two sets of sliding glass doors; then he hurried back to the car to help our backseat passenger out first.
A second guard, pushing another wheelchair, jogged out of the building for Mom. I parked, took a quick peek at my backseat, swallowed a sob, then called Dad to let him know what had happened.
No answer.
Next, I tried Katie. She answered.
“I’m at the hospital,” I told her.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“No need. Mom’s probably just getting a shot of Benadryl.”
“Ah, okay. What happened?”
“She’s allergic to wedding dresses that cost over fifty thousand dollars, I think.”
Katie chuckled. “I think I would be too.”
“I guess I’d better get in there. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Sure. You will tell me all about your dress-shopping experience when you get home, right?”
“You got it.”
I ended the call, tried my father’s cell phone one last time, left a message when it clicked to voice mail, dropped my phone in my purse, and headed inside. After checking in at the desk, I made myself comfortable in the waiting room and flipped through a magazine.
And another.
And another.
And another.
An hour later, I checked at the front desk again. After making a call, the lady informed me my mother was waiting for release instructions and the other patient was in radiology, getting a CAT scan of her head.
I went back to my seat and waited.
And waited.
Another half hour passed. Still no Mom.
Forty-five minutes after that, I headed up to the desk for another status check. I was getting concerned. It’s not uncommon for my mother to have issues in the hospital. Last week, she started having hallucinations in the middle of the emergency room and ended up being admitted to the psych floor for a couple of days.
The woman reassured me that everything was okay. I went back to my seat, hoping for the best but expecting another long stretch of waiting.
Have I said how much I hate hospitals?
The doors slid open with a
whoosh
for the millionth time since I’d sat down. Once again, my gaze shot to the entry. This time, I saw someone familiar.
My father’s long, hurried strides carried him to the desk long before I could get his attention. While he inquired into Mom’s status, I rushed to his side and patted his shoulder.
“They said over an hour ago that she was being released.”
He looked at me with concern-filled eyes and nodded.
“As I said, it was just an allergic reaction, nothing too bad. Only a little swelling.”
“There’s something you don’t know, Sloan.” He cupped my elbow in his hand and pulled me aside. “We were waiting to tell you... .”
A million possibilities flashed through my mind.
“Your mother’s pregnant.”
That hadn’t been one of them.
“What?”
“We’ve suspected it for a few days, but we found out for sure yesterday,” he said.
“What?” Pregnant? My mother? How?
“Sloan, are you okay?”
I staggered. Thankfully, the big, sturdy wall was behind me. It was holding me up. “Pregnant?”
“It wasn’t something we planned, but now that we know, we’re pretty happy about it.”
“Sure.” I did some math. My mother was forty-six years old. Not too old to have a child, granted, but certainly older than the average expectant mother. I did some more math. Dad hadn’t been around for long. The odds of Mom getting pregnant were statistically low because of her age. Add in the fact that they’d been together for only a little more than a week, and the odds fell to the nearly impossible range. Talk about fertile. Or really damn lucky. “Happy.”
“She had some problems with her allergies when she was pregnant with you too. I remember once she had a craving for strawberry shortcake. I bought her some. She ate it. And ten minutes later, she was covered from head to toe with hives.”
“I had hives between my toes,” my mother said. A man in a uniform was pushing her in a wheelchair. She was scowling, but otherwise looking much better. Definitely less swollen. She gave my father a great big grin, accompanied with a girly bat of the lashes. “Hello, dear.” She lifted her head and puckered for a kiss, which my father dutifully supplied. “I’m assuming the cat’s out of the bag?”