Page 137 of Secrets of the Brother
My mother spun me around.
I flattened my palm against the metal stall door as a wave of nausea hit me at the sudden movement. I still hadn’t completely shaken off the drug.
She unzipped the back of my dress. Yanking on the fabric, she said, “Get this rag off.”
I rolled my eyes. Thisragwas this season's Valentino.And I actually liked it quite a bit. Despite my mother’s critique it was an extremely flattering and classic A-line black dress.
She unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a white wedding dress. As she pulled it off the hanger, my eyes widened with horror.
It was Renata’s wedding gown.
I recognized it from the photos my mother had been cruel enough to send me.
I opened my mouth to refuse to allow the fabric to so much as touch my skin but thought better of it. Reminding myself I needed to buy Enzo time, I pushed back the bitter bile in the back of my throat and stepped into the gown, turning around to let her zip it up.
“Suck in your stomach,” she commanded.
I pulled in my stomach.
“Suck in your stomach,” she said louder.
“I can’t pull it in any further! Ow!” I turned my head over my shoulder as my mother caught my skin in the zipper.
“Face forward.”
I turned forward.
She zipped the obscenely tight gown the rest of the way and turned me to face her.
She stepped back and dug in her purse for a cigarette. She shook her head as she lit it. She blew smoke in my face before saying, “Well, I knew you wouldn’t look as good as your sister. No one would look as beautiful as Renata in this dress, but I thought you’d at least fit in it. You look like a sausage. What did I tell you about eating?”
I bit the inside of my cheek again. “Not to do it.”
“Exactly! You should smoke like I do. How do you think I’ve kept so slim all these years?”
I refused to give in to my mother’s body shaming. I was a normal size. I ate normal meals.
Of course I wouldn’t fit into Renata’s gown.
Like my mother, she had smoked like a fiend and existed on honey, cayenne pepper and lemon water most days, with a side of laxatives.
I refused to live my life that way. It was part of the reason why my own mother rejected me as the daughter who would never measure up to her extreme beauty standards.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was almost glad there was still a lingering haze from the drug. I was wearing my murdered sister’s wedding gown.
This was beyond sick and twisted.
If I hadn’t already numbed myself to the fucked-up things my mother said and did to mentally attack me most of my life, this definitely would have sent me straight into therapy for a very long time.
Claudia took a step back. Her overly rouged and artificially plumped lips curled as she picked a nonexistent flake of tobacco leaf off her lips. I resisted the urge to remind her that no one but me was watching.
"You look too pale."
Before I could stop her, she slapped me.
I cried out.
As I straightened, she slapped my other cheek.
