I'm not sure how long I've been curled up on my closet floor, tucked between a pile of discarded clothes and the shoe rack. But, here I am. I had come in looking for something to wear to Gaby's funeral. And nothing fits. My post-baby body has been transformed into something that just doesn't fit my old clothes. It has shifted, widened in some places, narrowed in others. My nursing breasts can't be squeezed into my pre-pregnancy size small tops. My belly - still soft, like kneaded dough, looks awkward in my dresses and bulges over the top of my pants. To make matters worse, I'm crying. And not just because nothing fits, but because I am picking out something to wear to Gaby's funeral and that means she is really gone. Dead. She is dead. And I don't want it to be real.
As I wipe my eyes with the corner of my pink terry cloth robe, something flutters in my peripheral vision. The gauzy, fabric of a black dress seems to be calling out to me. It is peering out from behind a canary yellow cardigan. How could I have missed it? I stand up and push the surrounding clothes aside, giving it the spotlight. As I caress the expensive fabric, I struggle to remember when I bought it. It is a knee-length dress with a plunging neckline and capped sleeves. It is lined with a an opaque, silky, soft fabric on the inside and has a light, fitted sheer overlay on the outside. I slip it off the hanger and put it on. It zips easily, which is a good sign. I haven't been able to zip a dress all morning. I cautiously peer into the mirror, hoping this forgotten one will work. I just don't have the time or energy to go shopping for something new. Not with Lily. Not without Gaby. I'm surprised at my reflection. My boobs fill out the top and the material slides over the curves of my new body - disguising instead of drawing attention to my soft middle. It hits just below the knee. It looks amazing. I look amazing and for the first time today, I smile at myself. It is then that I realize where I got the dress. The memory overwhelms and my smile is replaced by more tears.
"When would I wear it?" I had said. "It probably won't fit."
"Trust me, you'll find an occasion to wear a dress like that. Lots of good memories in that one. It is one of those dresses that looks great on everyone." She had waved my comments away with a flick of her hair. Her real hair, this was before the wigs. Before the cancer.
I had fingered the lush fabric, much like I had a few minutes ago. Gaby had been cleaning out her closet and wanted me to have it. We weren't really the same size, but close enough to have traded the occasional piece of clothing through the years. But not a dress. Never a dress. She had bigger boobs and a more curvaceous figure. My little B-cup-on-a-good-day boobs could never fill out one of her dresses. I had taken it and tucked it in my closet, lamenting the fact that Gaby had wasted the dress on me.
Yet, here I am. Standing, wrapped in Gaby's dress - wearing it like a second skin. I suddenly feel strange wearing her dress, my dead best friend's dress. But at the same time, it feels wonderful. I feel close to her. I can smell the faint scent of her perfume. And I can hear her laughter in my ear. As usual, she is right. This is the perfect dress for this occasion and I can't imagine wearing anything else.
