My father chewed on his chicken, swallowed the bite with a sip of water, then said, “Well, that was nice of you.”
My momma then talked about the investors and how their visit had gone well. My father then talked about a business trip he had coming up. And then dinner was over.
I cleared my plate, helped with the dishes, then went back to my room in a daze.
Did they not notice my burgundy polish? Or do they not care?
I couldn’t be certain which, but what I did know was that I’d made a change and I’d been prepared to defend my choice. Even though the confrontation hadn’t happened, I’d been prepared.
And that made me feel strong.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. My head was too full of ideas, of things I could change. The possibilities were endless.
Because, they aren’t me.
I’m me.
I have to live with me, all day, every day.
And I got to choose who—or what—I wanted to be.
***
Two large special orders were cancelled Wednesday morning and rescheduled for the following week, leaving me with a bounty of both bananas and time.
I’d planned to go home, catch a nap, maybe write a letter to Anne-Claire Noel, or Akiko, my Japanese pen pal. Instead, and without planning to do so, I found myself at the East City mall just outside Knoxville.
“Since I’m here, I might as well go in,” I muttered to the inside of my car, trying to recall how much money I’d brought with me.
If memory served, I had five hundred dollars. I’d been carrying it around in my purse since a special event in Nashville over the summer. An up-and-coming musician had wanted my banana cake for his birthday party. I made seven cakes in the shape of four-feet-long bananas and served every piece myself.
I guessed he liked my cakes because his manager gave me the five hundred dollars as a tip.
The East City mall was nothing extravagant. On one end was Sears—with a garden center—and on the other end was JC Penney, and in between were mostly national-chain retail stores with a smattering of locally-owned shops.
For example, the Garrison Meat and Cheese Emporium—an independent deli—and Lisa’s Crafts and Honey—which, as the title suggested, carried craft supplies and jars of honey—were two of the most prominent local businesses within the mall.
I could have gone to Bell Town mall. It had the fancy stores, but it was another forty-five minutes away. Time was the deciding factor; I didn’t have another hour and a half to spend, not if I wanted to make it home in time for dinner, and therefore avoid questions about my afternoon.
Presently, while unbuckling my seatbelt, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t wearing any makeup. As I locked the car, I glanced down at my hands. My nails were still burgundy.
My parents hadn’t said anything, but the absence of makeup had earned me several side-eyes from the bakery staff earlier in the day. I’d ignored these looks, feeling good about my lack of a mask, feeling more like myself than I had in a long time.
These changes, though perhaps subtle, had been my choice. And the thrill that accompanied making my own choices spurred me forward with a spring in my step, across the parking lot and into the department store.
Once inside, however, I faltered. I second-guessed myself, suddenly wondering why I’d come at all. I’d never gone shopping without my mother. I didn’t even particularly enjoy shopping. Usually the activity consisted of me trying on clothes my mother picked out, and turning this way and that as she scrutinized the fit. The only clothes I owned not picked out by my mother were several matching pairs of red lace bras and underwear, the overalls I used for gardening, a pair of jeans, and a few T-shirts.
The overalls I’d picked up at a yard sale.
The jeans had been a gift from my grandma Lily.
The T-shirts were mostly souvenirs sent by my pen pals over the years, places they’d visited.
But the underwear had been sent by Anne-Claire Noel for my twenty-first birthday. She’d warned me ahead of time that she was going to send them so I could intercept the package before my father came home from work. Toutes les femmes ont besoin de lingerie sexy, ?a leur donne un secret, she’d written, Une femme avec un secret est mystérieuse et séduisante
(Translation: All women need sexy underwear; it gives them a secret. A woman with a secret is by nature mysterious and alluring.)
With that thought in mind, I headed straight for the lingerie section and promptly picked up a black lace bra and panty set in my size. Then I made a beeline for the women’s section, my head held high in false bravery as I searched through the racks with shaking hands.