Donutheart Read Online Free PDF Page B

said quietly, and I offered no commentary about the fact that while there is nothing statistically dangerous about the ladies’ section of a department store, I, too, feel uneasy when I’m in one. This may be due to bad memories of trying to keep track of my mother as she power walked through the store. Now that I could see above the racks, however, this was less of an issue.
    As we headed to Misses’ Dresses, I realized the problem. Everywhere you looked, you were reminded of…well, women. Ladies’ pajamas, ladies’ workout wear, ladies’
lingerie.
    I saw a man about my mother’s age looking similarly uncomfortable, pressed into one of those little chairs outside the dressing room. A woman came out in a pair of dress pants, lifted up the tails of her blouse and turned in a circle.
    “How does this look from the back?” she said. “I’m going for professional. It’s an interview.”
    I froze in place. Was she talking to me? This would be a difficult question to answer tactfully.
    He mumbled something and I hurried along.
    My mother was attacking the sale rack, pulling out one dress after the other and frowning. I began to search the next size up and pulled out a perfectly nice shirtdress in neutral brown.
    “What about this?”
    “Oh, please, Franklin. I don’t want to look like the lady at the license bureau. It’s a dance.”
    “I thought it was a fish fry!”
    “It’s a fish fry
and
a dance.”
    “Is it…formal?” I asked, hoping not. If Paul had invited my mother to the prom for forty-somethings, things were even worse than they seemed.
    “No.”
    “Aren’t these the summer dresses?” I asked, fingering the material. “You’ll get goose bumps if you wear these in October, Mother. Goose bumps are not attractive on a woman your age. Maybe something wool…”
    My mother had pulled out a black dress covered with sprays of pollen-producing wildflowers.
    “You can’t wear that. It doesn’t have any sleeves.”
    “Yes it does. They’re called cap sleeves.”
    I eyed her suspiciously.
    “Don’t look like that. We have
InStyle
in the break room at work.”
    “Well…try it on then,” I urged her, against my better judgment. There was something to be said for just getting it over with.
    I took my seat opposite the gentleman assigned to comment on how his wife fit into business attire.
    He looked over at me and shrugged. “Tough duty, eh?”
    I nodded. It was indeed.
    “Tell you what, you take my wife and I’ll take your mom. That way things’ll go easier for us at home.”
    At that very moment, his wife peeked out of the dressing room and proceeded to model another outfit.
    “What in the Sam Hill…?”
    “It’s called a ‘skort.’ It’s a cross between a skirt and shorts.” She walked farther away so that we could get a better look.
    “Give me the damage,” she said, turning around.
    The man across the aisle raised his eyebrows as if asking me to live up to my end of the bargain. I tried to formulate something positive, but the only phrase that came to mind was “elastic limit.” I was saved from further embarrassment by my mother’s appearance in the doorway. She walked past us
barefoot
and turned around.
    The man in the opposite chair whistled softly and said to his wife, “Do they have one of those in your size?”
    The woman eyed my mother critically. She tugged on the dress, went around back, and finished zipping the zipper.
    “Stand up straight and own it, honey,” the woman said.
    “This dress fits you like a glove.”
    My mother laughed and put her hands to her face, embarrassed. She had taken her hair out of its ponytail, and it fell down around her shoulders. Her long, muscled arms were still tan. The dress, tight along her rib cage, flared out and fell in soft folds just above her ankles.
    There was something about the way she laughed, like a middle-school girl, and how she kept rising up on the balls of her feet that made me realize my mother was once young