The Outside (16 page)

I bathed in the tepid water of the fountain with a plethora of products from the cosmetics counter, including a body wash that was purported to smell like pomegranates. I had never smelled a pomegranate, but the fragrance was pleasing. I found some shampoo that was supposed to “rehydrate and restructure damaged hair.” It lathered up in a wonderful way. I even indulged in a conditioner in a black bottle that was supposed to be made of “hydrolized keratin protein and fresh acai berry.” It smelled like dessert.

I toweled off with some extraordinarily plush towels, then slathered a mint and rosemary body cream over my skin. It smelled close enough to real food that Fenrir came by for a sniff. I wrapped the towel around myself. I glanced upstairs, at the sporting goods department. I could hear Alex digging around up there, but I didn’t know what he was up to. As long as he gave me some privacy, I was fine with that.

I shrugged into a soft robe. Carrying a candle and leaving damp footprints behind me on the marble floor, I began to think about a dress.

Here I was out of my element. I knew about Plain clothes. I knew how they were constructed, knew exactly what was expected in terms of hemlines and seam allowances and reinforced stitching. These English garments seemed flimsy and needlessly complicated, covered in shiny bits of beads and zippers and buttons.

And the sizing made no sense to me whatsoever. I’d used store-bought fabric patterns, and I knew exactly what size I was from those measurements. A twelve. I was a slender girl, and a twelve fit me well for modesty’s sake—no clinging. A dress was made to work in. But there was no similarity in these misses’ garments. A size twelve seemed too large.

I reminded myself that I was not searching for a dress to work in. This would likely be the only fancy dress I ever had on my body in my life. All that was required was that it cover me decently and that I could sit down and walk in it.

My fingers trailed over fabrics that were foreign to me—stretchy, sheer, and metallic. I picked up one, then another. Eventually, with an armload of dresses, I ducked into a mirror-lined area called the “fitting room.”

The first dress made me laugh out loud. It was a dark red and floor-length with no sleeves or straps. It reminded me of my mother’s red velvet cake. It had a curved neckline and some sort of stiff scaffolding inside it, but I simply didn’t have enough bosom to fill it out. I turned my upper body and the dress stayed in place, facing front.

Next was a metallic turquoise dress that reminded me of fish scales. It was made of a stretchy material that clung tightly to my body. I blinked when I saw myself in it. I looked like a full-grown glamorous woman from a magazine. The neckline was low and left little to the imagination.

Interesting, I thought. But not at all appropriate.

I stepped in and out of dresses, trying them on and twirling in the mirror. I had discovered that I was a size four, more or less, based on English sizing. Sometimes a two, sometimes a six. Once, I was startled to see that a dress marked a size zero fit. That seemed to make no sense whatsoever. I flipped through the tags. Some of these gowns cost hundreds of dollars. I was amazed, wondering how much wear an English girl got out of one of these dresses. Could she wear it to more than one prom?

But this was fun, I secretly admitted to myself. The dresses accumulated in a heap on the floor of the fitting room, and I had to step over them to get to the mirror.

I even tried on a bridal dress. Against my better judgment.

I think that I was fascinated because it was white. I’d never worn a white dress. It seemed very shiny and eye-catching. Vain. Prideful. All those things that were against how I’d been raised. When I pulled it on over my head, I got lost for a moment in all that white frothiness and had a moment of panic as I struggled to find the top. I found the opening of it and wriggled through.

I pulled the laces closed at the back and stood in the mirror, regarding myself. It felt like something out of a dream. An illusion. The white reflected in the candlelight off my skin, making it seem like I was more luminous than I could ever hope to be. My hair hung unbound over my shoulder, and my blistered feet were hidden. I stood up straight and moved my callused hands behind my back.

For a moment, I had a glimpse of what I would have been like if I had lived another life.

Not that I wanted to be married. Elijah had asked me and I’d said no. Plain unions were made of duty and solemnity. Submission to God and one’s husband. A pragmatic statement of commitment before the community. I had always felt that there was a bit of resignation to it. But this dress and what it represented seemed something apart from that, a fairy tale made of spun sugar.

For now, no one was watching, and I sank into that illusion, reveling in it. I tried to memorize every bit of it, from the weight of the skirt to the feeling of satin against my skin. I gave a twirl, and the skirt moved as if it had a life of its own. Maybe that was the idea.

But the illusion was too heavy. I struggled to get the dress off, feeling as if it had devoured me, was smothering me. I fought through layers of lace until I could breathe again.

In the end, I picked a dark blue dress for my date with Alex. It was the one I felt most comfortable in. I had no idea if it was considered stylish or not. It was made of a softly draping column of fabric, pooling at the neckline and sweeping over my waist and hips. The hemline reached the tops of my feet, where a good Plain dress should. However, it exposed much more than a Plain dress: my arms and collarbone were bare, and it dipped low in the back. But it looked like the night sky, and that was something I was familiar with.

I took a pass through the undergarments section of the department store and picked out some that I thought would work with the dress. I tucked the
Himmelsbrief
into my bra. Experience had taught me never to be without it. Everything they had was much fancier and more complicated than what I was used to. The same for the shoes. I tried walking up and down an aisle in a pair of high heels, but stumbled and nearly turned my ankle. I didn’t know how English women did this—it must have involved years of practice. I settled for a pair of silver flat sandals that tied at the ankle.

I had saved the cosmetics counter for last. I felt a pang of sadness, again remembering Ginger applying makeup to my face when she had been alive. My fingers slid over the golden tubes and mirrored compacts.

I gathered some items at random, then pulled a stool up to the counter and leaned in toward a mirror. I played with the pots of color, dumping one across the counter and dropping a lipstick on the floor with a sharp crack that shattered the tube. I applied the paints and peered at myself in the mirror.

I looked like a caricature of myself, as if a child had drawn me in crayon. I wiped most of it off, leaving behind only the stubborn waterproof mascara and sheer pink lipstick. Better. I still looked like myself, only slightly more glowy.

With more than a bit of nervousness, I walked past the fountain to climb the escalator stairs. Horace whickered at me. I think it was because I smelled like perfume and not sweat. I gripped my candle tightly and watched my feet, mindful not to trip.

A low whistle emanated from above.

I looked up. Alex stood at the top of the steps. He was leaning against the rail, dressed in a tuxedo. His hair was damp and combed back from his face. He looked . . . really amazing. And so unlike himself.

I blushed, looked down to pick up my skirt from the hip to climb the stairs. When I reached the top, he took my hand and kissed it.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, against my knuckles.

I felt my face flush more deeply, and was glad that I’d not left on any of the cosmetic blush. Alex’s fingers brushed the shoulder of my dress.

“I like this,” he said. “Very Grecian. It suits you.”

I looked up and found my voice. “You look nice too.”

He offered me his elbow. I stared at it until he folded my fingers into the crook.

“Dinner awaits,” he said, leading me to a grouping of patio furniture that he’d arranged around one of the fire bowls. Fenrir curled around the bottom pedestal of the bowl, drowsing. Heavy china plates were set on the wrought-iron surface, and I fingered the brocade cloth napkins.

“This is lovely,” I said.

He pulled my chair out for me. The iron squeaked on the marble floor, and he winced. “Wait until you try the popcorn.”

I grinned.

Dinner was the richest meal I’d ever eaten—and the most eccentric. Alex fed me chocolate-covered cranberries, hot chocolate, and camping entrees.

“They’re MREs,” he said, around a mouthful of something that purported to be beef stew. “The military makes them. But they’re also supposed to be popular among campers and survivalists.”

“It’s delicious,” I said, twisting the pepper mill to deliver six kinds of gourmet pepper onto my MRE. I meant it—hot food without fear of contamination was something to be treasured.

A pop sounded from the fire, and I jumped, nearly knocking over my hot cocoa. The pop was followed by a flurry of others, like hail on a metal roof.

“Popcorn’s ready,” Alex said. He turned toward the fire bowl to pick out our foil packages of gourmet popcorn. He dropped one in front of me with a pair of tongs and tore it open. I took a hot morsel and dropped it into my mouth.

“It’s good.” I grinned.

“It ought to be,” he said, around a mouthful of his own. “It’s supposed to include French cheese.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had French cheese before.”

“And we may never have it again.” He raised his mug, which was a ridiculously dainty cup shaped to look like a cupped leaf. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I said.

“To beauty. Yours.”

My cup stilled in my raised hand. I wasn’t sure that I could toast that. It felt vain. But anything seemed possible tonight. My uncertainty must have showed.

“You really are lovely,” he said. Sincerity shone in his eyes.

My fingers crept self-consciously to my unbound hair. I was unaccustomed to thinking of myself in that way. “Am I beautiful when I’m dressed as an Englisher?” I asked. I was only partially teasing. I wanted to know the truth of what he thought.

“Nope. You’re beautiful when you’re covered up to your neck in Plain clothes. You’re beautiful when you’re plucking a chicken. You’re beautiful when you’re caked with mud. You’re beautiful when you’re praying. When you’re soaking wet. And when you’re lying awake, fretting, thinking no one is watching.”

I lifted my fingers to his lips to still them, but he went on: “You’re beautiful when you’re powerful. And especially when you let your guard down. When you trust.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Are you sure that’s not just because I could be the last woman on earth?”

He reached out to touch my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Bonnet, you’d still be the most beautiful woman on earth if you were one of seven billion.”

I smiled. He was much more eloquent than I would ever be. Eloquence was not really something Plain people valued. But Alex’s words and his deeds were consistent. And that was important.

When the fire had died down and Fenrir began to snore, Alex took my hand. He pulled me to my feet and kissed me. He smelled like some kind of artificial aftershave, but tasted like hot chocolate.

He turned on a battery-powered CD player and grimaced at the sound. “Barry Manilow was all I could find.”

“I don’t know Barry Manilow.”

“For the best.”

He placed my hands around his neck and settled his around my waist. He swayed to the music, and I tried to follow, feeling self-conscious. I stepped on his feet twice. I think that I was supposed to be letting him lead, but I lacked the experience to follow well. Meanwhile, Barry Manilow was singing about a girl named Mandy, who Alex said he used to believe was Barry’s dog, but then he saw a television program that said that was just a myth.

After Barry Manilow fell silent, I let Alex draw me behind him, away from the fire to the part of the department store that held the four-poster bed with the velvet coverlet. He had turned down the covers, added some blankets, and ringed the bed with candles.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

“I thought we both deserved a little romance.”

He cupped my face in his hands, kissed me. I put my arms around his neck, feeling the kiss deepen. His hands slid so that his thumbs rested on my collarbone, and I shivered to feel that touch in such a leisured, unhurried fashion. His body was warm against mine.

I suspended thoughts of love for now. I didn’t know what love really was. I was still sorting that out for myself. Whatever Alex and I had negotiated between ourselves suited us, and I resisted the idea of putting a label, an obligation, on it. I felt like the boundaries of my morality were growing more fluid, and that was both good and bad.

One of his arms slid around my back. He leaned back against the bed, taking me with him.

The
Himmelsbrief
fluttered out of the neckline of my dress. In another time, another place, we might have let it lie there on the floor.

But he paused to pick it up, to tuck it under the pillow.

And it was that amount of care that showed me what we had was a different sort of love.

Not perfect. It was, at times, clumsy and bumpy. Driven by outside forces and circumstances.

But it was unselfish.

And that was what mattered to me.

One of the most enduring lessons I had learned on this journey was that nothing ever stays the same. Not for long. That was in direct opposition to what I’d been taught as a child: to preserve order and to value the predictability of day-to-day life. This new world was constantly in flux, and we moved with it, as if pushed by a great and terrible river.

But sometimes we found ourselves washed up on a tiny island. Times like these were precious. But they had to end. We always had to jump from the safety of the island back into the river again.

At the department store, we had loved, slept, eaten, and gathered provisions. We stripped the camping department bare. We had found a tent, warm boots, a camp stove, a fancy metal stone that sparked fire, and a nesting set of camp dishes and cutlery. There were flashlights and batteries and even a radio. It never captured anything but static while we were in the store, but Alex assured me that it might be different elsewhere. I pretended to believe him and carefully read the cold rating systems for the sleeping bags. Fenrir was helping me; he had tunneled into one and installed himself as an immovable lump in the bottom. Horace had dismembered all of the scarecrows on the lower level, and his sides felt firm and round as he digested their limbs.