The evening continued.
Dinner was served.
The staff caught up with the schedule.
The missing servers were still delayed, but the banquet captain had adjusted the work as best she could.
I noticed that Brenda had become quieter.
She no longer called out complaints every few minutes.
She seemed more interested in watching what happened around my table.
I tried not to pay attention.
Carol remained beside me for much of the meal.
She asked about my son.
I told her David had gradually taken responsibility for the business.
"He sounds like a good man."
"He is."
I asked about her family, too.
She told me about her children and grandchildren.
We talked about ordinary things.
It was pleasant.
For the first time in a long while, I was enjoying a reunion.
Then someone mentioned the prom.
I hadn't expected that subject to come up.
A woman named Susan remembered the blue decorations and the music.
She laughed about how nervous everyone had been.
I smiled politely.
Then she looked at me.
"Martha, didn't you wear a homemade dress that year?"
My fingers stopped around my glass.
I remembered the fabric.
The kitchen table.
My mother's hands.
The zipper.
I nodded.
"Yes, I did."
Susan looked thoughtful.
"I remember it being blue."
"It was."
She didn't seem to realize what the memory meant to me.
She continued talking about the dance.
I listened.
Then she said something I hadn't expected.
"I always thought you looked nice that night."
I looked at her.
She seemed sincere.
I thanked her.
It was a small thing.
But I had spent fifty-six years remembering the laughter.
It was strange to hear someone remember the same dress without making it a joke.
I looked toward the empty space beside my chair.
For a second, I wished my mother could have heard it.
She would have been pleased.
She had never needed a room full of people to approve of her work.
She had only wanted me to feel beautiful.
And she had been right.
The dress had never been the problem.
I understood that now.
A little later, Brenda came over again.
This time, she brought one of the women from her table.
"Martha, we were talking about your business."
I looked at the woman.
She introduced herself as Linda.
I remembered her face, although we hadn't been close in school.
Linda smiled.
"Brenda said you have a laundry company."
I nodded.
"Yes."
"How large is it?"
I gave her a brief answer.
"We work with several hotels, restaurants, and hospitals across the counties."
She looked impressed.
"That's a lot of work."
"It is."
Brenda stood beside her.
She seemed to be waiting for me to say something more.
Perhaps she expected me to boast.
Perhaps she wanted me to list the contracts and the value of the company.
I didn't.
Linda asked how the business had started.
I told her about the old laundromat.
The leaking roof.
The ancient machines.
The nursing home.
She listened with genuine interest.
Brenda looked away.
I noticed.
But I didn't comment.
Linda finally said, "You must have worked very hard."
"We did."
I deliberately used the word we.
Arthur deserved that.
Our employees deserved that.
I wasn't going to turn our entire history into a story about one woman's success.
Linda nodded.
Then she asked whether I enjoyed attending the reunion.
I looked around the room.
"More than I expected."
She smiled.
"Good."
Brenda remained quiet.
I could tell she was uncomfortable.
I didn't know whether she was embarrassed about the apron or surprised by the business.
Maybe both.
But I wasn't going to guess at her feelings.
For years, I had spent too much time trying to understand what made Brenda behave the way she did.
I had wondered whether she disliked me.
Whether she thought I was an easy target.
Whether she simply enjoyed having an audience.
At seventy-three, I no longer needed an answer.
I had spent enough years thinking about her.
I wanted to think about my own life.
After Linda returned to her table, I excused myself for a moment.
I walked toward the quiet hallway outside the ballroom.
The noise softened behind the doors.
I stood near a window.
I could see the hotel lights reflecting on the glass.
My hands were resting against my purse.
I thought about Arthur.
I thought about my mother.
Both of them had helped me become the person I was.
Neither had taught me to measure my worth by how other people treated me.
My mother had given me that lesson in the simplest possible words.
Arthur had shown me what it looked like to live it.
I had forgotten those lessons sometimes.
I had let Brenda's laughter stay with me for years.
But I was tired of carrying it.
I returned to the ballroom.
The gray dress was still comfortable.
My black shoes were still comfortable.
And the folded apron remained on the service cart where I had left it.
I passed it without stopping.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: I Had Expected to Face the Girl Who Once Laughed at My Dress, but I Finally Saw How Much of My Life Had Passed Her By
The Blue-Checked Dress That Taught Me How Much One Cruel Laugh Could Cost
Part 7 of 20
