Page 74 of Saint Céline
I looked at the black dress lying on the sofa.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“It’s depressing,” Katherine replied.
“It’s black.”
“You are fifteen, not a widow.”
My mother made a small sound that was not quite a laugh.
Katherine unzipped the garment bag and revealed a pale blue dress with a soft square neckline and tiny buttons down the front. Simple, but clearly very expensive, the fabric was luxurious to touch.
My mother’s face changed before she could hide it.
“That’s too much.”
“It doesn’t fit me right,” Katherine said.
I looked at her. “Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She was lying. We all knew it.
My mother touched the fabric carefully between two fingers, not quite stroking it, as if afraid to leave a mark.
“Katherine,” she said gently, “your mother might not want—”
“My mother won’t notice.”
I changed upstairs while Katherine waited in my bedroom and pretended not to watch me too closely. The dress fit like it had been made for me, which was unfair because nothing in my life had been made for me. It skimmed my waist, softened my shoulders, and made my legs look longer. When I turned toward the small mirror above my dresser, I barely recognized myself.
Katherine stood behind me, reflecting over my shoulder.
Her face was unreadable.
“Well?” I asked.
She stepped closer and adjusted one loose strand of my hair. “You look like Céline.”
The words made me feel happy.
My mother was quiet when we came downstairs.
She smiled, but her eyes looked wet.
“You look beautiful,” she said.
I turned away too quickly. “It’s just a dress.”
“No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”
Katherine looked down at her shoes.
For the first time, I wondered if she heard the same thing I did beneath my mother’s voice.
That every beautiful thing I wore belonged to someone else.
