Going Vintage (27 page)

“Are you on her list?” the receptionist asks.

“I don’t know.” Her accent is thick and distinctly Southern. “I was here last week, but y’all had to call her up. She might have added me.”

“I can check,” the receptionist says. “What’s your name?

“Candace Vintner.”

“You’re not on the list, but I do remember you, so let me call her and see if that’s an oversight.”

Gray Suit, Candace, continues to fidget while the receptionist calls my grandma. “Candace Vintner here to see you?” She hangs up the phone. “She said she’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Candace nods and wanders over to an armchair in the corner. The etiquette book would not approve of Grandma making this woman wait here. Then again, I have no idea who Candace is and what she wants with my grandma. If this were
a reality show, she’d probably be Grandma’s therapist, or life coach, or stylist, here to guide her through the backstabbing scandals of
Real Grandmas of Newport Beach
. That woman Grandma played tennis with is her archenemy, and they’re both vying for the affections of the tennis pro, Eduardo.

Wow. Three minutes back to reality TV and I’m already going there.

I eye Candace, who pours herself a lemonade and pretends to sip. Surely they have a sedative around here they can give this woman—her legs are crossed and she’s kicking the top one hard. Then she’s motionless, stiff, and I hear Grandma’s voice. “Mallory, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Grandma’s wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt, her former save-the-children-of-the-world uniform. She shoots a look to Candace but doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s homecoming week, so we got school off … No, that’s a lie. I ditched. I had a tough day. So I thought I’d come over a little early and we could do dress stuff.”

“Dress stuff,” Grandma mumbles. Maybe I get the echo thing from her. She rubs her lips, glancing between the two of us. Candace stares at me with an open mouth. Her teeth aren’t that great—she’ll need to get them fixed if she’s going to be a regular on Grandma’s reality show.

Grandma doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then: “I haven’t had as much time as I’d hoped to work on the dress. But can we talk about that later?”

“Oh. Okay.” What, is she too busy doing arts and crafts? This is a retirement community. Their whole day is supposed
to be about having time. This is like the other day, when she rushed me out.

Except it isn’t. I can feel that now. The tension in the room chokes back my snarky reply. Candace looks like she’s going to blow over from shock, telling me that no, this woman is not Grandma’s consultant or stylist. And the homecoming dress … the dress really doesn’t matter right now.

“Mallory, this is Candace.”

I hold my hand out to Gray Suit. “I’m Mallory. Vivian’s granddaughter.”

Candace takes my hand. Hers is cold and sweaty, and when I look into her eyes, they’re watery and warm.

“It’s fabulous to meet you, Mallory.”

“And how do you two know each other?” I ask.

Candace looks to Grandma for help. Grandma appears stumped. This pause is longer. This pause is minutes. This is a decision-making pause, heavy and life-changing. “I suppose we don’t really know each other. The name I gave her is Francesca. But they named her Candace.”

“‘They’?”

“She was adopted, honey. Candace is my biological daughter. Meet your aunt.”

Remember that time when my grandma ditched her awesome, charitable career and tried to start this new life and never wanted to talk about the past, especially high school? And remember when I took it personally and thought it was because
she didn’t want to hang out with her family anymore and kept pushing her to make me a dress that reminded her of the very thing she didn’t want to be reminded of?

Yeah, well. I suck.

Grandma gives me the quick version, the one she’d already explained to Candace, who’d tracked Grandma down online and is here for a week visiting. They’d met for the first time a few days before, the day that I’d come to visit Grandma and she’d been so out of it. Meeting the daughter you gave up for adoption fifty years earlier will do that to a person.

Bottom line—Grandma had a steady. That steady knocked her up spring of her junior year and broke up with her when he heard the happy news. So seventeen-year-old Vivian left town—her friends, her family, her church, her life—to live with an aunt in Baltimore and have the baby. She graduated high school, miraculously, and then went to college at Berkeley. Which explained why Grandma didn’t have a senior year-book. And why she didn’t want to talk about high school, no matter how much her granddaughter insisted.

Did I mention that I suck?

They’d planned on brunch, but we end up back in Grandma’s condo instead. I don’t ask questions, don’t need to. Most of the answers are in Grandma’s hope chest.

“This is a quilt that my great-grandma made.” Grandma lays out the threadbare patches of history on her bed. She’s made some tea for Candace, which seems to calm her a bit. I haven’t said much to my supposed aunt. Anything I say now, during our first encounter, will be memorable, and so I want to
choose my words well. Also, I still don’t know what the freak is going on.

Grandma unpacks a few scrapbooks and starts leafing through. She pauses on a yellow page and unsticks the vinyl holding the photos into place. “Here’s what I was looking for. There you are.” She holds a picture out to Candace, who takes it with tentative hands. She covers her mouth and shakes her head. Grandma doesn’t touch Candace, but she closes her eyes tight, like she’s practiced holding back the tears this long and she’s not about to break down now.

“That’s you at thirteen months. Your … your mother sent me that. Adoptions, you know, were closed then. So seeing my little baby, not so little anymore … it was a gift.”

Candace shakes her head. “It means a lot to me that you kept this.”

“What, you think I’d toss my one picture of my only daughter? Just because I gave you away didn’t mean you left me.” Grandma reaches across the bed and gives Candace’s hand the tiniest pat. It’s not even a squeeze or a hug, or a gushing recap of their time apart.

I have no clue what Candace is thinking, what she can possibly be thinking. What is it like meeting the woman who was just a name before, a name that probably popped up through a people-finder site on her computer?

Candace points at the hope chest. “What else do you have in there?”

Grandma sets out some baby blankets, an old doll, and bites her lip when she sees something toward the bottom. “Well, Mallory. How’s this for vintage?”

It’s her dress. Her snow-white, now slightly ivory, poof ball of a dress. And it’s glorious. I feel a pang as I help Grandma smooth out the wrinkles, the Ruminations jumbled in my heart. Does this make Candace bitter? Her daughter isn’t making dresses with Grandma, not like me. Does she like her adopted family? Is she happy with how things worked out? How different would they both be if Grandma had kept her—would Grandma have met Grandpa, had my dad, accomplished all she did? And either way, how does she feel now about her choice?

And this probably makes me a bad person, but my main thought is: Will Grandma let me try on the dress?

She does. Grandma had Ginnie’s build then, that muscular/ curvy/skinny combination, but the poof part is forgiving, and she could probably take the bust in a little. Okay, a lot. Not that I would ask her to do that.

Both women smile when I step out of the bathroom. “You’re going to want me to take that bust in, aren’t you?” Grandma asks.

“No, it’s your dress. I couldn’t ask—”

Candace is already pinching the side. “It should be easy, with the darts. I’m more worried about this cinching at the waist. I wouldn’t want to mess with the bias hem facing. What do you think, Vivian?”

And it is this question that finally makes my grandma cry. The daughter she’s never known is a seamstress and they’re discussing alterations on the dress that was a small part of Candace ever even existing. Grandma doesn’t acknowledge the tears slipping down her cheek; she just grabs a pushpin and the two get to work Mallorying up the dress. I guess sometimes
participation is just standing there and letting someone do something for you because she needs to do that something for herself.

List item #3. Sew a homecoming dress. Almost done.

Chapter 21

Five hints that a boy likes you:

1. He sings to you, or tells you that certain songs remind him of you
.

2. Thoughtful, homemade gifts, like string jewelry
.

3. He picks up on your emotional cues
.

4. Joins a club or activity so he can see more of you
.

5. Kissing. No-brainer
.

I leave two hours later. I invite Candace over for Sunday dinner so she can meet my dad. Her brother. She says she has a flight on Saturday, but maybe another time. Ginnie’s going to
have to cook a mother of a soy loaf to get us through that meal.

School hasn’t gotten out when I get home, but I don’t care if Mom sees me. The house still smells like syrup from Ginnie’s breakfast.

Oliver’s a senior, so he only has four periods and is home by one. He answers his phone on the third ring.

“Oliver Kimball speaking.”

“That’s seriously how you answer the phone?” I ask.

“Caller ID. I thought you’d like that.” I hear his smile. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“What?”

“On the phone. I completely broke all phone etiquette. I should be stripped of my Eagle Scout right now.”

Right. Our first tiff. When I saw the online group, the rest was forgotten. I guess sometimes that happens, that you forgive someone without discussing it with them first, and just kind of assume they forgive you back. “Don’t worry. I should have called. I sent you—”

“That dove. I saw that. It was my first virtual dove, you know. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”

I want to mention the group he set up, but I don’t want to mention it, because it’s tinged with Jeremy’s shadow. So I don’t talk.

“Were you calling with a purpose or did you just want credit for the dove?” he asks.

“What are you doing?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I just got home. I was going to finish the float—”

“Great, that’s what I was calling about. I really want to work on it. Can I come over?”

“Are you doing okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I needed a mental-health day.” And nothing is better for your mental health than meeting your grandma’s teenage love child. “What’s your address?”

I spray some perfume on, brush my teeth, put on lip gloss, and am adding a coat of mascara when I realize this is my about-to-see-a-boy routine, and that’s not what I’m doing. I’m going to work on a float. I grab the keys and I’m almost out the door when my mom pops her head out of the office.

“You left your sister this morning.” She checks the clock on her cell phone. “And what are you doing home? School doesn’t get out for two more hours.”

“I didn’t feel like going.”

“That’s it?
You didn’t feel like going?
You think that’s going to get you out of trouble?”

“I don’t really care.”

“Excuse me? What’s with the attitude?” Mom’s hand is on her hip and her lips are stretched into a thin, but not too thin, line. She’s beautiful. Always. Angry, sad, happy. She works hard at keeping that image up too. It bleeds into the expectations for the rest of us—where we live, how we dress, our associations. But our beautifully decorated home isn’t ours and Mom would die if I ever told anyone that we’re squatting for practically free in Uncle Rodney’s place, just like she makes a face whenever
she sees my thrift-store outfits because old and dingy doesn’t meet her high standards. Didn’t I read on her blog that the goal is to pay less but look like you spent more?