by Rita Siligato
“I thold you to stand thtill!!!”, said Marina. One by one she removed the pins she was holding between her lips, sticking them one after the other into the foam pincushion she wore on her left wrist.
Then she said, very slowly and very loud: “I told you to stand still! How can I manage to fix the hem of your dress if you keep walking up and down the kitchen?”
Redenta looked at her sister, who was still kneeling in front of her, her heavy frame a lump of green fabric and white hair, bent down to pin the uneven hem and straighten it.
“It’s a bit too short, in my opinion,” said Redenta, trying to be kind. “If we still had Nella with us… I am sure she would know how to do it properly. Do you remember her knack for modifying dresses?”
“Thank you for trusting me! But unfortunately our eldest sister is no more with us. I prayed for her last night. The way she died, far from home, and on a Christmas Eve… but it was so many years ago. Let’s not think of the sadness in life: I prayed to her to help me with your dress, too. And even if I am not your favorite sister and a skilled seamstress, I am sure I will succeed.”
Redenta stood very erect, biting her lips because she felt the dress was not a success in her sister’s mind.
“And are you sure you want to wear white?”
“Why not? I still have my figure, and I kept this dress in my wardrobe for a long time… I can still wear it, I think.”
“Done! You managed to stay still for a couple of minutes! Now go and look at yourself in the mirror!”
Redenta didn’t want to look. She approached the cheval glass in her bedroom closing her eyes and shouting in the direction of the kitchen: “Perfect, perfect!”.
“You kept your figure and your sprightliness, but I didn’t. Now help me to stand up,” said Marina. Still kneeling down, when she saw Redenta approaching she raised a hand to her sister for help. She was heavy and out of shape, thought Redenta, but she had a lovely round face and her cheeks were pink from the effort. She struggled to put Marina back on her feet.
“You looked exactly the same when we were teenagers,” she said. But Marina was not listening.
“Are you sure about the white dress? I think it would be better if we just pop into the fancy boutique near the Museum to buy the pale grey suit we saw a few days ago. It would be more proper for a lady your age.”
“This is the only dress I want. It is my day.”
“But you are over seventy now! You are not…”
“I am not WHAT?”, said Redenta. She was almost spitting fire from her nose. Her red hair was aflame, and her sister looked at her with eyes wide open, in the same way she used to look at Mama when she had one of her tantrums.
“You are not a maiden anymore, Redenta.”
“I am not. But this is the first time I will marry, and the last one too, for that matter.”
Redenta approached the kitchen table and moved a chair, as if she wanted to sit down for a moment.
“Don’t’ do it! You have pins everywhere!”
She leaned on the table pinioning her weight on her elbows, turning her face away, and she spoke, slowly and in a soft voice, looking down. She knew her sister was getting deafer every day, and she used to say everything she wanted knowing Marina was not able to hear if they were not facing each other. Sometimes she thought Marina was faking her deafness, and she came to realize that sometimes Marina heard what she wanted to hear, too.
“Dario promised me a bouquet of yarrow, for our everlasting love, a heliotrope for devotion, ferns for our secret bond and orange blossoms. I will wear a sprig of orange blossom in my hair too.”
And then, turning to look her sister in the eye and speaking clearly: “Will you fix my hair for me, on Saturday? I would like to look my best, on my wedding day! And will you and Ondina be my bridesmaids?”
