Wouldn’t it feel so much better, though, to be free?
I can’t answer that because I won’t ever know.
We’re dropped off at the edge of a circular plaza with a splashing fountain in the center, shops stretching past it on either side of the landscaped sidewalk. My mother takes point, heels clacking on the bricks as we’re helped down by one of the security, three of which follow behind us at an unobtrusive distance as we start towards the shops. Two of them will stay with the SUV to make sure neither it nor the driver is tampered with.
It should feel good to be out. I can smell coffee and pastries from a café, the scents of other restaurants starting to cook for lunch, the soft scent of flowers beneath it all, and the warmth of the ever-present desert dust. I should be enjoying myself, but my stomach feels like it’s wound itself into a tight knot that won’t let go, cramping until I want to cry with pain and anxiety.
I can feel the walls closing in with every second that passes, and it feels as if they’re going to crush me.
“Shopping first, then lunch,” my mother declares as Elena looks longingly into one of the cafes, leading us down the sidewalk at a brusque, businesslike clip. “We have an appointment, and we’re nearly late.”
She leads us to a modern-looking store with all black steel, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, green plants everywhere inside, a marble floor with black décor, and perfumed air that smells like lavender and sea salt. There’s a prim, thin brunette waiting for us, wearing a sleek black shift dress with a long necklace—a black opal bar set in silver on a long silver chain–and myriads of silver rings artfully stacked along her thin fingers. She looks severe and stylish, and she smiles as we walk in.
“Lupè Santiago?”
“That’s me!” my mother says brightly, stepping to one side so the woman can see us. “Here with my daughters for our appointment.”
“And which one are we dressing today?”
“Isabella.” My mother waves me forward. “For her engagement party.”
There are few things in this world that my mother loves more than personal shopping. She loves the champagne, which is immediately brought out as we’re ushered back to the equally crisp and scented dressing room, where my mother and Elena are shown to tufted black velvet seats and served. She loves the tiny foods they bring out—small cakes the size of a thumbnail and cocktail shrimp and thin sandwiches. But most of all, she loves being doted on—and seeing them dote on her prized daughters, knowing that she holds the most power anyone can wield in this world of ours…money.
I fucking hate it. I hate being fussed over, poked and prodded, and brought dozens of dresses to try on that I’d never pick for myself. I won’t get to enjoy the champagne or the tiny cakes since my mother has been watching what I eat with an eagle eye lately.Must be perfect for the big day. Must be as beautiful as possible.All of it—my skin care, my diet, my exercise regime, picked over by my mother with a fresh eye since my father made the decision.
“Something to really accentuate her coloring, I think,” my mother says, tipping up the crystal flute of champagne as I’m ushered into one of the draped cubicles. “That dark hair and her big eyes. Jewel tones, I think. Nothing simpering and pastel.”
It’s a matter of minutes before the room is crowded with silk, satin, lace, and taffeta. I’m instructed to strip out of my dress so I can be helped into these, one after the other.
The first one to catch my mother’s eye is a confection of dark rose-pink taffeta, tight in the bodice with elbow-length sleeves and a full skirt caught up on one side. She nods eagerly, and I wince.
“I look like a rejected Disney princess,” I complain. “And I hate all-pink on me. A little bit of it in a pattern is fine, but this—I look like a busted cupcake.”
My mother wrinkles her nose. “Don’t be impolite, Isabella. But go ahead, try on something else.”
There’s a dress in every bright color of the rainbow. Canary yellow, ruby red, emerald green, peridot. The first one I don’t hate is a jewel-blue mermaid-style gown, strapless and fitted down past my hips, frothing outwards in swathes of shimmering silk. It’s uncomfortably tight, but it’s flattering, and I like the way it makes me look elegant.
“No,” my mother says sharply. “It looks old. Not for you. You’re a princess, Isabella, and you should look like one.”
Princessmeans big frilly dresses and loads of ruffles, making me look younger and more innocent than I already am. Things I don’t want. I want to be older, wiser, to know some way out of this. To be able to manipulate and turn this to my advantage, instead of being a helpless pawn.
“What about this one?” I ask a few dresses later as I step out. It’s ruby red, made of a shimmering taffeta, strapless and nipped in at the waist with a skirt made of layers of tulle. The belt that goes with it is a soft rose pink, studded with tiny pearls and diamonds that I know are real, matching the ones scattered throughout the tulle to make the dress shimmer as I turn this way and that. It’s fluffier and more princess-like than I’d prefer, but there’s also something faintly dangerous about it, like being swathed in blood. It suits my tanned skin and the thick, rippling waves of black hair, and with matching lips, I know it would be a knock-out.
It’s also not quite the innocent debutante look that I think my mother was hoping for.
She lets out a sigh, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes as she finishes the flute of champagne. Next to her, Elena is munching her way through a cucumber sandwich, watching me with wide eyes. I don’t know if she’s impressed by my pick or terrified at the thought of this one day being her—maybe both.
“Fine,” my mother says. “If this will get you to dress up for the gala without complaint, Isabella, at least it doesn’t age you ten years. You can wear my ruby jewelry with it. Family heirlooms will do nicely for this event.” She says it sternly as if I were about to ask for a trip to the jewelers, when more shopping is the last thing on my mind.
The dress is a small win, though, and I try to focus on that as I’m helped out of it and get back into my own clothes, browsing through the store as my mother goes through the details of purchasing. The store is sparse, meant to look elegant and rarefied, but one dress hanging on the wall catches my eye.
It’s another red dress, but it couldn’t be more different from the one I picked out. This one is short and silky, but clearly structured in a way to fit snugly, with a hemline that I’m sure wouldn’t reach past the middle of my thighs. It has straps instead of sleeves and a neckline that comes down in a sharp, reinforced ‘v,’ obviously meant to show off the wearer’s cleavage. It’s sultry and seductive, and I can picture some woman wearing it to a bar, confidently sitting down and ordering a martini, knowing the eyes of every man in the room are on her. Wielding power, I’ll never know or understand, because the only power a woman has inthislife is what’s given to her by a man.
I want to be that woman, but Ican’t. I never will be. I’ll never do something as simple as going into a bar and ordering myself a drink. Something about that makes my chest ache painfully as I turn away from the dress when my mother calls my name.
“Isabella? Isabella. We’re going to lunch now, comeon.” Her voice has a tinge of frustration in it. This high-pitched note says she’s irritated that I’m not playing along, soaking this up, being the perfect little doll of a daughter that can’t wait to be dressed up and wedded.
Reluctantly, I tear my eyes away from the dress, following her and Elena mutely out of the restaurant. I don’t look back, even though I can feel it pulling at me, calling to me. It’s stupid to want a dress so much, but it looks like excitement. Like adventure—like freedom.