Read Online More than the Sum by Fran Riedemann - Free Book Online
Authors: Fran Riedemann
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her mother there were advantages to having a morning wedding. By havig a brunch reception afterward, they could begin their honeymoon the same day, flying out later rather than having to spend the night in town and be obligated to hang around for a brunch with out of town guests the next morning. That suited Brittany fine. Her dilemma was that if they offended her mother, she would lose her gift for design, and her flair was vital because Brittany lacked it.
Brittany truly did not want a lot of fuss and chose to have only two bridesmaids who wore a different colored spring-hued, ankle length dress and carried bouquets of purple violas with yards of streaming yellow ribbons that fluttered down their skirts. Accompanied by Alma, Brittany tried on scores of dresses and couldn’t find a dress she loved or her mother approved of. One of her colleagues at work found a picture of a dress she thought suited Brittany in a magazine. Brittany loved it on sight, and took the picture to a dressmaker who created a pattern from it. The gown was a halter style that was form fitting and elegant, high the front and dipping provocatively low in back with no train. The fabric was a taffeta-like silk in white, finished it with a sash at the waist.
One fly in the ointment, so to speak, was that Brittany neglected to show her mother the sketch of the back of the dress. Later, in a counseling session, her counselor called that omission “passive rebellion”, specifically due to the fact Brittany had deliberately calculated the shock value as a way to zing her mother. Brittany later told Craig she could feel her mother’s eyes boring into her back through the entire wedding ceremony. The only cloud over the honeymoon was anticipating there would be payback when they returned.
Craig reminded her that ‘he who laughs last, laughs longest, and the comment was on target. Every time they remembered their wedding day, Brittany’s daring skin exposure was front and center of their memories. It was a good bet it was Alma’s, also. Other than a few candid pictures some friends took, the pictures that survived the day were all frontal.
So, each anniversary the couple would relive the hilarity. For some reason her mother never acknowledged their anniversary.
***
It was late afternoon and the sun was setting, bringing a chill with it. Brittany had completely blown off keeping track of her time, and the luxury of having too much of it had run out. All she had eaten was a not hot, hot dog and a warm diet Coke from a vendor, which she ate only because she was starving and felt jittery from low blood sugar and dehydration. Passing a restaurant she peered longingly inside, longing for an iced tea and something to eat, but there was no extra time to sit and wait to be served.
She located a public bathroom where she could pull herself together, freezing in place when she looked in the mirror. Holy cow! I can’t go to an art event looking like this! She gasped. The disheveled woman staring at her from the mirror looked every bit as horrified and disgusted as she did. She ran her fingers through her hair hoping that it was the florescent lighting that was causing her face to look so red, raising her hand to her feverish neck.
Okay, you have fifty dollars, your American Express card, your metro card, your cell phone, and Chapstick. Yikes! How could you have forgotten lip gloss ?
She looked back at the face in the mirror. “Just be glad your mother isn’t here to see this!” She scolded her reflection, while trying in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of the front of her jacket.
***
In the time that passed between exiting the washroom and arriving at the gallery she fantasized about some possible scenarios that might get her in and out of the show quickly. One was making eye-contact with her artist/painter across the room, getting lost in the crowd and leaving before he could make his way
Brittany truly did not want a lot of fuss and chose to have only two bridesmaids who wore a different colored spring-hued, ankle length dress and carried bouquets of purple violas with yards of streaming yellow ribbons that fluttered down their skirts. Accompanied by Alma, Brittany tried on scores of dresses and couldn’t find a dress she loved or her mother approved of. One of her colleagues at work found a picture of a dress she thought suited Brittany in a magazine. Brittany loved it on sight, and took the picture to a dressmaker who created a pattern from it. The gown was a halter style that was form fitting and elegant, high the front and dipping provocatively low in back with no train. The fabric was a taffeta-like silk in white, finished it with a sash at the waist.
One fly in the ointment, so to speak, was that Brittany neglected to show her mother the sketch of the back of the dress. Later, in a counseling session, her counselor called that omission “passive rebellion”, specifically due to the fact Brittany had deliberately calculated the shock value as a way to zing her mother. Brittany later told Craig she could feel her mother’s eyes boring into her back through the entire wedding ceremony. The only cloud over the honeymoon was anticipating there would be payback when they returned.
Craig reminded her that ‘he who laughs last, laughs longest, and the comment was on target. Every time they remembered their wedding day, Brittany’s daring skin exposure was front and center of their memories. It was a good bet it was Alma’s, also. Other than a few candid pictures some friends took, the pictures that survived the day were all frontal.
So, each anniversary the couple would relive the hilarity. For some reason her mother never acknowledged their anniversary.
***
It was late afternoon and the sun was setting, bringing a chill with it. Brittany had completely blown off keeping track of her time, and the luxury of having too much of it had run out. All she had eaten was a not hot, hot dog and a warm diet Coke from a vendor, which she ate only because she was starving and felt jittery from low blood sugar and dehydration. Passing a restaurant she peered longingly inside, longing for an iced tea and something to eat, but there was no extra time to sit and wait to be served.
She located a public bathroom where she could pull herself together, freezing in place when she looked in the mirror. Holy cow! I can’t go to an art event looking like this! She gasped. The disheveled woman staring at her from the mirror looked every bit as horrified and disgusted as she did. She ran her fingers through her hair hoping that it was the florescent lighting that was causing her face to look so red, raising her hand to her feverish neck.
Okay, you have fifty dollars, your American Express card, your metro card, your cell phone, and Chapstick. Yikes! How could you have forgotten lip gloss ?
She looked back at the face in the mirror. “Just be glad your mother isn’t here to see this!” She scolded her reflection, while trying in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of the front of her jacket.
***
In the time that passed between exiting the washroom and arriving at the gallery she fantasized about some possible scenarios that might get her in and out of the show quickly. One was making eye-contact with her artist/painter across the room, getting lost in the crowd and leaving before he could make his way
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