December 15

RAMONA IN CHICAGO IN THE MIDDLE OF AN ORGASM OF TAFFETA, TULLE, BEADING, AND LACE...

R AMONA STOOD ON THE PEDESTAL UPON WHICH SHE’D BEEN DIRECTED to stand by a well-appointed and extremely attentive sales attendant. In front of the elaborate three-way mirror gilded in rose gold, her own image was admittedly breathtaking.

“Oh my, Ramona, that one is just gorgeous.” Ramona’s mother, Melba Tucker, brought her hand up to cover her mouth. The other hand held a delicate stem of champagne. On this Saturday, the first one that followed Latrice’s very specific plan of a Christmas escape to Malibu, Ramona and her mother were in L’Atelier Elegant Bridal, a gorgeous boutique in the South Loop that seemed intent on making you believe you were a lucky guest in the boudoir of a very wealthy woman who had more money than you— much more, and no expense to spare. The gathered satin curtains that hung from ceiling to floor accented the sides of large shop windows. The windows allowed in perfect streams of light that bounced through the cream-colored shop interior, twinkled through the prismatic crystals of the hanging chandeliers, and danced in kaleidoscopic colors on the exquisite hardwood floors.

This exact location had been a dream of Ramona’s, as it was for many brides-to-be in Chicago—it was one of the most well-known and exclusive purveyors of bridal couture. L’Atelier only allowed one bride per appointment, and so for Ramona, it was extra uncomfortable to pretend on this particular Saturday that the thousands of dollars reflected on the price tag attached to her was even remotely within her realm of consideration. Behind her in her reflection, the long display of wedding dresses lining the walls stood like witnesses to her embarrassment. And unfortunately for Ramona, there was no style of dress that couldn’t be found in this perfectly curated bridal fantasy of a wedding apparel boutique. In another circumstance, this visit would certainly be the epitome of a girlhood dream—visiting with her mother, delighting in the designs, worried only about alterations, soothed by the bubbles in endless glasses of champagne.

This was not today’s occasion.

Melba Tucker and the sales attendant awaited Ramona’s response, which, based on how incredibly perfect she looked, surely was expected to be an enthusiastic “This is the one...” Given the circumstances, however, as this was obviously not something she could say, this was the exact moment that Ramona realized the lie she’d been living could possibly be worse than the lie she was about to tell. There was nobody who, wearing this particular dress, wouldn’t envision themselves getting married, whether there was a wedding to be had or not.

While the dress was fortunately still a spared expense, the wedding planning had otherwise been moving forward and, even before the breakup, had begun to run up quite a tab. Ramona’s father, a proud man of quiet tradition, was happy to take the background, like the bass line in the groove of her family dynamic. He had dipped into his retirement account to put the deposit down on her reception at the DuSable Museum of African American History, an opportunity to combine class and culture with a notable destination for their guests.

Such a popular venue as it was, the date needed to be reserved well in advance, with a nonrefundable deposit. Ramona hated, absolutely hated wasting money, and the only thing she hated more than wasting her own was the idea of wasting the hard-earned money of her working-class parents. This wedding was not just for Ramona, it was for the family. And so, it was the tipping point, standing there in the perfect dress, in the perfect boutique, that became the perfect moment to open the hatch. But first, she needed to escape the dress, which started to feel heavy and constraining, causing Ramona to shift in it, fumbling at the latches and closures.

The sales attendant looked instantly horrified. “Oh dear, let me help you,” she said.

“Do you not like it?” Ramona’s mother’s face dropped.

Ramona’s eyes scanned wildly; she was feeling suddenly too hot, and too tightly bound, and perhaps even too beautiful, just wanting to be regular again, with her own two feet on the ground.

“I... it’s... too tight...” Ramona said. It was the best she could come up with and, in the moment, close to the truth. “I... feel like I can’t breathe.” She fanned herself for emphasis as the sales attendant worked with fast fingers to free her from the innumerable latches and clasps. Finally, she felt a rush of cooler air at her back, and the weight of the gown loosened around her. The now very flustered sales attendant held the gown open for Ramona to step out of it.

“Would you like me to bring you—”

“—I just need a moment.” Ramona stood in her shaper garments and placed one hand on her hip. The other she used to try to wave away the growing concern.

Melba stepped toward her daughter with a crinkled brow and a strong shadow of worry across her face. Ramona felt doubly guilty.

“I think the... um... stress of... this wedding is—”

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Her mother smoothed a tuft of hair away from Ramona’s forehead.

Her stomach in knots, Ramona figured that it was now or never. And still, it was near impossible to get the words to meet her tongue. She hated lying. But, before she ruined anything else, it was necessary. She took a deep breath and, before she could change her mind, pushed the words out. “I think... um, I think that Malik is going to want to do a getaway for this Christmas.”

Instantly a stab of guilt struck Ramona so deeply she almost cringed. Melba examined her and brought her eyes to meet her daughter’s. She pushed back her own fluff of black-dyed curls and put her hands on her rounded hips.

“What do you mean ‘a getaway’?” Melba’s eyes narrowed with something that looked to Ramona like suspicion. “How do you get away from Christmas? From your family? From the wedding? Chile, maybe he was just talkin’.”

Ramona felt her heartbeat all the way in her ears and started to doubt the possibility that she could get away with this. To escape the gravitational pull of a Melba Tucker Christmas? Still, she tried again.

“No, it was a serious conversation. A good idea maybe. Just this year... to take a break from planning, and... maybe start our own traditions.”

Instantly, Ramona knew that she’d made a mistake. If anyone loved Christmas, it was Melba Tucker. If anyone loved her family, it was Melba Tucker. If anyone loved Christmas with her family, it was most certainly, absolutely, one hundred percent Melba Tucker, and she had the traditions to prove it.

“Ramona Tucker, what is wrong with our traditions?” Melba scolded. “You always loved the seven fishes on Christmas Eve, and you know Carlos is going to bring the coquito, and the costumes... the dancing. I don’t understand!” With theatrical- quality indignation and a dramatic flip of her hands, Ramona’s mother turned back to the dresses in front of her and seemed to be homing in on another selection’s intricate beading detail.

Ramona stepped forward to pretend to sort through dresses herself. In the air between them, Melba had clearly claimed victory and considered the matter settled. Circling now in a lie within a lie, Ramona had to choose the true path of least resistance. Tell her mother the whole truth now and ruin Christmas for everyone or find a way to stretch time just a little longer to give her a chance to make her lie much less lie-ish. Finding the slimmest thread of morality, holding on to a dress with way too much lace at the collar, Ramona found enough courage to push her point yet again. She had one more card to play, her mother’s own spirit of adventure, the calling of the larger world, of bigger dreams, a life she wanted for her daughter more than anything else.

“I was just thinking that next year might be... so different , with marriage and all. What if we never get the chance again? You’ve always told me that life is about taking chances.” Ramona studied her mother for a response. She hoped that the appeal to adventure would stir something in the woman who’d flown millions of miles in her career as a flight attendant. Melba Tucker was one of the first people in their neighborhood to have a passport filled with stamps. She’d bring back the most delightful artifacts, souvenirs, and traditions from her trips, proudly displayed in their home. If Melba Tucker loved Christmas, she lived for adventure. As much as Melba wished for Ramona to have this trait in common, her daughter the saver was much more like her father.

“Oooh! Look at this one!” Melba pulled a dress off the rack, holding it as high as her arms could reach so that she and Ramona could admire it together. “Why don’t you try this one on?” Ramona felt sick. The smiling sales attendant reappeared to shift the dress out of her mother’s hands.

“Lovely choice!” the sales attendant said. “I’ll just hang this by the mirror for you while you browse. Would you ladies care for more champagne?”

This has gone too far , Ramona thought to herself as she raised her palm to her forehead. Her mother nodded yes excitedly.

“Very well, shall I make that two glasses?” The saleslady smiled at them in sunlight beams.

“Sure,” Ramona said resignedly.

“I’m just so excited!” Ramona’s mother proclaimed her delight to nobody in particular. “We’ve never had a big wedding in the family.”

Ramona felt her face flush. Her last and best attempt hadn’t worked. And the one thing she hadn’t tried, was the truth... at least, some of it.

“The stress of planning for this, even though we haven’t gotten very far, has really taken a toll. Both Malik and I need a break from it.” Ramona took her mother’s hands. “Ma, we need this. I need this. It’s just one Christmas. Say you won’t mind.”

Melba’s face softened, and she reached up to gently tend to the spiraled strands of Ramona’s twist out.

“I can’t say I won’t mind, Ramona, because family is family. But I can say I understand. If you and Malik want to go off on your trip this year...” Melba raised an eyebrow and paused for a beat. “Then... don’t consider me trying to stop you.”

Ramona sighed in relief just as the grinning sales attendant came back with two slender flutes of bubbling effervescence.

Ramona’s mother patted her arm. “Don’t worry, if you don’t want yours, I’ll drink it.”

“Oh no, I definitely want it.” Ramona gave her best smile. She grabbed the champagne to swallow as much as she could in a single gulp.

***

I T WASN’T UNTIL EARLY EVENING THAT R AMONA’S WOOZY HAZE began to subside from the three whole champagne flutes it took to get through a try-on of the remaining dresses chosen by her mother at the bridal boutique. At home and comfortable, Ramona was grateful for the arrival of Carlos. For most of her life, since elementary school, even in the absence of a biological relationship, she knew him as her play brother . A non-relation fixture, Carlos was a permanent bolt-on. Ramona’s family was Carlos’s family, and Ramona was closer to Carlos than even her actual brother, who also called Carlos his sibling. Other than Latrice, Carlos was her closest person—he knew her character. And when push came to shove, very purely, he always aligned his interests with her happiness. Guilt prompted her to call him for an emergency intervention before her soul completely slipped out of her body. Reluctantly, she updated him on the disaster of a dress-shopping debacle.

“You told Ma what?!” Seated at the kitchen island, Carlos erupted from his goblet chair like a geyser. Carlos was six feet of all-boyish charm, dark-brown curls on his head, deep brown eyes, and long lashes that brushed cheeks of café au lait skin. Typically, in any conversation with Ramona, he brought the energy of a sports announcer. He took interest as if her stories were a spectator match, an active listener who never missed a detail—a delight for Ramona in normal confidence. But this reaction made for an extra shot of face-burning guilt as she elaborated.

“I told her Malik and I were going to go away for Christmas, Carlos. Honestly, I just can’t do this anymore. If she ever found out I’d been lying to her this whole time, my God, I can’t even imagine.”

Carlos raised a thick eyebrow, and his hand rose to rub the set of crinkles in his forehead. “Ramona, I can’t believe you made me cancel a date for this. Why can’t you just tell her—”

Ramona pleaded with her hands. “She’s so excited about the wedding, and—” At the word wedding, Carlos immediately raised both eyebrows, widening his eyes even further. Ramona felt the correction as sharply as if he’d physically poked her in her belly button. “—What was supposed to be a wedding. What could still be a wedding! Malik could come back, and then everything would just go back to the way it was supposed to be. It’s Christmas... so why take everyone through a breakup that might not be fully broken?”

Carlos looked around Ramona’s living room. “Moe, the man took all his clothes, his PlayStation, even his do-rags from the bathroom. I would say it’s broken. Broke down. Finito.”

Ramona interrupted him with a wave. “I get it, Carlos. It looks bad. But can’t you understand why just for Christmas, it’s me who needs to disappear?”

Carlos’s large grin widened. “Oh, for sure, I get it. At this point, you really have no choice. A ring and no Malik on Christmas Eve? Man, no one misses Ma’s Christmas Eve. You’d be busted anyway.”

“Thanks... for making me feel worse .” Ramona turned and pulled two wineglasses out of the cabinet. She tugged the loose cork out of the bottle on the counter, poured two glasses of a fragrant red blend, and walked one over to Carlos. He put a generous hand on her back. Holding her glass at her hip, she eased into the brotherly gesture and placed her head on his shoulder.

“Look,” Carlos said into her hair, “I’ll do what I can to help.”

At this, Ramona perked up.

“You will?” she asked eagerly, eyes and spirits lifted, surprised he hadn’t needed more convincing, especially given what she’d be needing.

Carlos cut his sip short, almost spilling the wine from his glass.

“Wait, what does that mean to you?” Almost as if on cue, an ambling Wookiee came up to Carlos’s knee, sniffing his hand for a petting. Ramona gave a wide grin, the same one she’d used thousands of times with Carlos when he was teetering on the edge of a much-wanted yes .

“Oh no. Moe. The dog?” Carlos let out a big sigh but reached down to pet Wookiee on top of his irresistible head, dipping his fingers in the curved tufts of caramel-colored fur. Wookiee gave a panting smile, all sparkling eyes and open mouth with his tongue hanging out.

“Carlos, you love Wookiee,” Ramona cajoled.

“No, you love Wookiee, and I love you,” Carlos corrected.

“You need some companionship.”

“I have plenty of companionship.”

“You go on plenty of dates.” Ramona made her own correction. “What’s wrong with doting attachment?”

“You know I have trust issues... and allergies...”

“You are not allergic to Wookiee.”

“Who said I was talking about Wookiee?”

Ramona resorted to doe eyes and batted her lashes. “Please?”

When Carlos groaned, Ramona knew she was close. “For how long?” he asked.

“Just a week,” she said blithely. “I’ll be back on the twenty-sixth of December.”

Carlos sighed away the rest of his remaining resistance. “One week, huh?”

“Yep, all I need is one week in sunny Malibu, California.”