I was never the screamer. I was the one teachers used to murmur about at conferences-bright future, they used to say, as though it were a secret, and one which they did not wish to jinx. That promise didn not go very far in our house where Mommy tallied groceries in wadded singles and Grandma cut coupons as though it was a hobby.
Dad had disappeared when I was seven–no flourishes, simply a bag under his arm and no sound in his place. We had been the three ever since, crammed into a home of secondhand furniture and fading family pictures. Nevertheless, love poured in the spaces that money had occupied. Somehow or other, we somehow got along.
When prom time rolled around I did not even ask to borrow a dress. I was too familiar with the contours of Mom face–that hurt in her eyes as she wished she could say yes but had to say no.
But Grandma was not the woman to allow sadness to remain.
I was surprised, she said one afternoon with a twinkle in her eyes, at what people will give away. Treasure hunting?
That was what she termed as thrift shopping. It was not being poor that mattered but being clever. And brave. And occasionally lucky.
The downtown Goodwill had a smell of forgotten memories. Grandma stepped into the racks like a woman with a purpose, and her hands went through sequins and polyester like a blindfold magician.
Then I caught it.
Midnight blue. Lace-trimmed. Floor-length glamour that had no place sandwiched between neon bridesmaid nightmares and ruffled nightmares of the 80s.
I whispered, “Grandma.” It is the end.
We examined the tag. Twelve dollars. Twelve.
“Every now and then,” she whispered, “the universe makes you a favor.
She took the dress home and laid it out ceremonially like a holy garment and began to hem. When she asked me I gave her the seam ripper, but something made me look—a bit of stitching by the zipper, it was done by hand, with a poor thread that did not match
“What’s that?” I murmured.
I pulled softly. Something crinkled. Between the lining and the outer cloth there was a piece of paper, folded up.
” what in the world…?” Grandma came up closer.
I opened it out. And spoke the words:
Ellie, this is the dress I sent you to prom. It is a way of me apologizing because I left you when you were such a little girl. I was too poor and too weak to bring you up at that time. I believed only giving you up at five would provide you with a better life. But today, when you are 18, I would like to present you this dress and to say… can you forgive me? I have cared about you daily. Want to see me, my address is below. I love you. —Mom”
I ceased to read. The room seemed hanging in mid-air.
“It was more than a note.” I said. That was a second opportunity.
Ellie, what she was, never received it. Somehow the dress came here–to me.
Grandma spoke steadily. “Well, then we will find her.
However, the clerk at the thrift store shaking her head the next morning. That dress has been two years here. Might have belonged to anybody.
It was the weekend of prom. Grandma had put so much love into the dress, that I could not not wear it. Well, I did.
And one night everything fit together.
I was drifting around in that gymnasium as though I was in a dream. The music, the lights, the heat, I felt gorgeous.
Then they called my name out.
Prom queen.
Me.
I was standing there with a crown on my head and a 12 dollar dress on and was still in shock when my literature teacher walked over.
What when Cindy, she asked. “What dress is that?
Downtown, I said, there is a thrift store. “Why?”
she smiled gently. It is exactly the same as the one I had on my prom. It was sent to me by my mom… I never did know why.”
My heart bounded. What is your first name?
“Eleanor,” said she. But I am Ellie to everybody.
I caught her by the hand. You must go along with me.
A few minutes later we were in my car and headed back to my house through the night. I did not speak a lot. Gave her the letter a moment ago.
I saw her read it–saw it strike. The change of confusion to disbelief to the tears that would not stop.
back, she whispered, “she came. It was, “She returned to me.”
She clasped me as one who found a buoy in a sea she had been years at a loss in.
In the morning we drove six hours to the address on the note.
Nerves dancing in our bones, we sat in the car in front of a little white house.
“What,–suppose she is not there?” Ellie asked.
Suppose she is?” I whispered.
She knocked.
The lady who replied blinked as though she was looking at a ghost.
Ellie, she said, hardly loudly.
and with that they fell weeping into one another arms.
I was sitting in their kitchen that afternoon, and they were telling each other stories over cups of tea and shocked silence. A life time of missing each other poured into each look, each caress.
Another thing that happened was that before I left, Ellie mom held my hands. Evidence pressed an envelope into them.
Oh, you changed both our lives, she said.
In envelope: a 20,000 dollar check.
I endeavoured to reject it. Sincerely, I did.
But they persisted.
I know you gave us a second chance, Ellie said. Please, allow us to help you launch your first.
The check altered my life. Food, rent, books paid for. It gave me some time to breathe as I pursued the future that everybody always told me I had.
And yet, the most that I love is not the cash.
It is the remembrance of that note. Of discovering a message that was addressed to another–and was intended to be discovered.
Because there are times, people give away more than dresses.
And sometimes they pass out miracles–and even do not know it.