style that had been waiting,
covered in plastic from the dry cleaners, since the last time she'd needed it,
several years before. "Are you planning on wearing the red blouse or the
gray?" was all Anita had asked. And now she was here, with several choices
of outfits.
"I brought you something else." Anita was pushing a box toward her.
"Just a loan, but it will look so nice when you're dressed up."
Georgia opened the lid, saw the long strand of pearls, and pulled Anita into a
tight squeeze.
"What would I do without you? You're the kind of mom I always
wanted."
Anita gave a modest shrug, though Dakota, unable to miss out on the action,
jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around Georgia. "And you're the
mom I always wanted, too, Mom."
The three set to work, watching Georgia jump in and out of clothes, holding up
earrings and trying on lipsticks before dashing out to get the once-over from
fashionable Peri . Yes to the pearls, no to the
orangey lipstick. Too many sequins. Not enough skirt. And lose those old pumps!
Finally they narrowed the choice to the black sheath dress and silver silk
wrap—knitted, of course, by Walker. And about time: Dakota was zipping up her
coat and following Anita out the door as the two dashed off to make the curtain
of their matinee. Anita turned and whispered in Georgia's ear: "Stick with
the black and the long pearls and wear a push-up bra. Hike it up to your
eyeballs!" And with that, Anita patted her cheek, took Dakota by the hand,
and strolled out the door.
* * *
The bikes. Ack , they
were still on the landing. Georgia had been so flustered over the change in
plans— er , make that the actual having of any social
plan for an evening—that she'd completely forgotten about them. James! It was
his fault for bringing them up and he didn't even ask. He was just such a
bulldozer. When he wasn't charming everyone. A charming bulldozer. Georgia
caught sight of her squinty face in the little mirror on the office wall. Did
she always frown like that? She took her hands and smoothed them over her
cheeks, practiced smiling at her reflection.
"Hello, I'm Georgia Walker. Perhaps you read about me in New York ?"
"How do you do, I'm Georgia Walker. Oh, Cat and I are old friends.
Recently reconnected."
"Oh, pleasure. I do love what they've done with the place—very mod. What,
you're her decorator? Well, I'm her designer. Knitwear." She lowered her
voice to a stage whisper. "Isn't she a crank to work with?"
Georgia sighed. Hello, you, she said to the mirror. We'll get through it all
and we'll look damn smashing. She hefted up the clothes and walked out of the
office through the shop, told Peri she'd come back to
deal with the bikes later, and marched up the stairs to her apartment. Did she
even own a push-up bra?
As Georgia carefully hung the dress in her closet, a tattered cardboard box on
the upper shelf caught her eye. Her memory box. Some crazy idea she'd seen on a
talk show, to sift out all the little odds and ends and keep only the most
precious items. Well, it had saved on storage space, a precious commodity in a
New York apartment. But the truth was that she hadn't looked at the items
inside in a long time. Even though she knew exactly what was in there. She
quickly dragged a chair into the room, stood up, reaching, reaching, to the top
shelf until she was able to tap tap tap the box forward. She let a corner fall off the shelf
onto her body, then eased the container onto the chair as gravity worked its
magic. Georgia coughed; the top was covered with dust. A deep breath. And then
she took off the lid.
Dakota's baby blanket. Her first pair of shoes. Lots of photos—loose and in
envelopes. Random holiday cards from her granny in Scotland: "When are you
coming to visit?" written in Gran's scratchy
hand every year. A family photo taken in front of the fireplace circa 1970, her
hair in pigtails, her brother making a V behind her head. Her parents. Young
and looking happy. Then, clipped
covered in plastic from the dry cleaners, since the last time she'd needed it,
several years before. "Are you planning on wearing the red blouse or the
gray?" was all Anita had asked. And now she was here, with several choices
of outfits.
"I brought you something else." Anita was pushing a box toward her.
"Just a loan, but it will look so nice when you're dressed up."
Georgia opened the lid, saw the long strand of pearls, and pulled Anita into a
tight squeeze.
"What would I do without you? You're the kind of mom I always
wanted."
Anita gave a modest shrug, though Dakota, unable to miss out on the action,
jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around Georgia. "And you're the
mom I always wanted, too, Mom."
The three set to work, watching Georgia jump in and out of clothes, holding up
earrings and trying on lipsticks before dashing out to get the once-over from
fashionable Peri . Yes to the pearls, no to the
orangey lipstick. Too many sequins. Not enough skirt. And lose those old pumps!
Finally they narrowed the choice to the black sheath dress and silver silk
wrap—knitted, of course, by Walker. And about time: Dakota was zipping up her
coat and following Anita out the door as the two dashed off to make the curtain
of their matinee. Anita turned and whispered in Georgia's ear: "Stick with
the black and the long pearls and wear a push-up bra. Hike it up to your
eyeballs!" And with that, Anita patted her cheek, took Dakota by the hand,
and strolled out the door.
* * *
The bikes. Ack , they
were still on the landing. Georgia had been so flustered over the change in
plans— er , make that the actual having of any social
plan for an evening—that she'd completely forgotten about them. James! It was
his fault for bringing them up and he didn't even ask. He was just such a
bulldozer. When he wasn't charming everyone. A charming bulldozer. Georgia
caught sight of her squinty face in the little mirror on the office wall. Did
she always frown like that? She took her hands and smoothed them over her
cheeks, practiced smiling at her reflection.
"Hello, I'm Georgia Walker. Perhaps you read about me in New York ?"
"How do you do, I'm Georgia Walker. Oh, Cat and I are old friends.
Recently reconnected."
"Oh, pleasure. I do love what they've done with the place—very mod. What,
you're her decorator? Well, I'm her designer. Knitwear." She lowered her
voice to a stage whisper. "Isn't she a crank to work with?"
Georgia sighed. Hello, you, she said to the mirror. We'll get through it all
and we'll look damn smashing. She hefted up the clothes and walked out of the
office through the shop, told Peri she'd come back to
deal with the bikes later, and marched up the stairs to her apartment. Did she
even own a push-up bra?
As Georgia carefully hung the dress in her closet, a tattered cardboard box on
the upper shelf caught her eye. Her memory box. Some crazy idea she'd seen on a
talk show, to sift out all the little odds and ends and keep only the most
precious items. Well, it had saved on storage space, a precious commodity in a
New York apartment. But the truth was that she hadn't looked at the items
inside in a long time. Even though she knew exactly what was in there. She
quickly dragged a chair into the room, stood up, reaching, reaching, to the top
shelf until she was able to tap tap tap the box forward. She let a corner fall off the shelf
onto her body, then eased the container onto the chair as gravity worked its
magic. Georgia coughed; the top was covered with dust. A deep breath. And then
she took off the lid.
Dakota's baby blanket. Her first pair of shoes. Lots of photos—loose and in
envelopes. Random holiday cards from her granny in Scotland: "When are you
coming to visit?" written in Gran's scratchy
hand every year. A family photo taken in front of the fireplace circa 1970, her
hair in pigtails, her brother making a V behind her head. Her parents. Young
and looking happy. Then, clipped
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