Lori Toppel

Word Count 278

My mother sits in a velvet armchair. She’s not often happy: her feet hurt, her back aches, she’s a perpetual insomniac. But happy is what I recall most about her that day. A close friend suggested we try Vera Wang on Madison Avenue for my wedding dress. It’s 1992. I had no idea we’d end up in such a “posh” place, as my mother put it when the saleswoman invited her to relax in the velvet armchair.

The sequined sleeves reach almost to the elbow, the neckline is low, the shoulders exposed, the bodice fitted, and the skirt billows out in a satin cloud. I like this, I say, relieved. I like its simplicity. It’s a bargain compared to the other two you tried on, my mother tells me

Later, she calls my cousin, What a beautiful Vera Wang Lori got. One of my bridesmaids is impressed. Vera Wang! Do I care about a name? No, I’m not that kind of woman, but the more pre-wedding compliments I get about the designer, the more I start to feel very Vera Wang myself.

After the wedding, I took the dress to be cleaned and requested a box that was moth- and moisture-proof. I glanced at the tag and saw the name of a designer I’d never heard of, Marisa.

The dress is in the attic, in that same dry cleaner’s box, still sealed. The other day I was walking with a friend not far from my house that’s north of New York City, and she said, Vera Wang lives back there. Really? I said, My wedding dress was from Vera Wang, and I left it at that.

Lori is the author of the novella The Word Next to the One I Want, the collaborative memoir Still Here Thinking of You, and the novel Three Children.