They were a normal family. But I knew that there was more to this family than just the laughter and jokes at the dinner table. Their happiness had made me forget about something. The empty chair that sat next to Nicholas reminded me. I bet that’s where he used to sit. Bobby’s seat. Where he would sit and joke with Nicholas. Where he would spill his milk and burp loudly the way young boys do. My eyes became fixated on that chair. And then it happened.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Mrs. Carter asked.
“I am, I am!” Nicholas shouted. “Is it triple fudge brownies? We haven’t had those in, like, forever.” The room went silent. I looked to Brandon who was looking at Nicholas. When I changed my view to Mrs. Carter, I saw her slightly slumped in her chair, her head looking down at her lap.
“Brandon,” she began, an audible crack in her voice, “please get the carrot cake from the kitchen and serve it. I’ll be in my room for a minute.” She excused herself from the table, her gaze never coming up. Her head continued to hang low as she walked away, and I heard her sniffle.
“What?” Nicholas said to Brandon, who was still staring at him.
“Nothing.” Brandon tossed his napkin on his plate. “Why don’t you grab some paper plates and plastic forks, and I’ll help you in a minute.”
“Okay.” Nicholas shrugged and bopped off into the kitchen.
I uncomfortably cleared my throat. “Is everything okay?” I knew it wasn’t but I didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s just, triple fudge brownies is, I mean, was Bobby’s favorite dessert. It just hits my mom sometimes. Like, she’s trying so hard to keep things normal for us, for Nick, and I can see her doing that. I know it’s good for Nicholas, you know, to have the stability and everything, but I hear her crying in her room at night. And it’s moments like that, like the brownie comment, that can hit her like a shovel to the face.” During the whole time he had been talking, he stared down the hallway his mom had walked, as if trying to send her his thoughts or his comfort.
****
Six months after my mom passed away, I stood in the junior’s dress department of the high-end department store that graced our local mall. It was prom season, and the place was milling with girls trying on every dress in the store, hoping to find that one perfect dress for that special night. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go. I mean, I don’t dance, and I didn’t have a boyfriend. But when Brian Smith asked me, how could I say no? We grew up two houses apart from each other. We shared the same bus stop, same homeroom, and same lemonade stand when we were five. My mother and his mother were close friends, and it was my grandmother who told me how wonderful it would be if we went together. She even layered on the guilt by saying how much it would have pleased my mother to see me and Brian going together. I didn’t think my mom wanted Brian and me to be an item, but my grandmother’s guilt was too powerful of a force to fight against. Plus the fact that she gave me her store credit card.
So there I was in the dressing room, surrounded by chiffon and lace and the sounds of girls gabbing and giggling. I had tried on three dresses so far. A pink A-line satin dress that made me look like my hips were too big. A knee-length, red, sequined dress that made me look like a street walker. A floor-length, aquamarine blue dress that made me look like a distant cousin of a mermaid. And then I found it. An eggplant, satin, swing skirt dress. It was classic and stylish. A demure pin-up style. Like a five year old, I twirled around in front of the mirror, and the fabric made a delicious swishing sound. To get a better look, I left the comfort of my dressing room and ventured out to the large three-way mirror in the hall. My hands smoothed down the front of my dress while I waited for a girl who was complaining to her mother about not letting her buy the dress she was wearing. The dress in question was shorter than a miniskirt, maybe micro-mini, silver-rhinestoned, and strapless. The girl was throwing a temper tantrum, and her mother just kept shaking her head. Finally, the girl stormed off, vowing never to speak to her mother again.
I stood on top of the circular platform and admired my dress in the mirrors. The grin on my face was that of a six-year-old girl who just came home from trick-or-treating with an overflowing bag of candy. Over and over again, I twirled like a ballerina, and the dress twirled with me. I couldn’t wait to show it to my grandmother. Just as I was about to step down from the platform, a sales lady beelined over to me.
“Oh my, look at you!” She was short and plump and had a tape measure hung around her neck. “Why you won’t even need any alterations with that dress. It fits you like a glove.” She was flattening out some wrinkles around the bottom of the dress with
