By Jonathon B Ferrini
Every day at three o’clock, as the afternoon sun fought through the dusty windows and escaped the obstruction caused by the high school down the street, a teenage girl would slip quietly into a boutique. She never spoke, never bought anything, just wandered to the same rack and lingered over a particular black dress. Minerva watched her, recognising the weight of grief in the girl’s eyes she knew too well.
The girl would lift the simple black satin dress off the rack and wrap it around her as if embracing somebody very special.
After a few moments with the dress, the girl returned it to the rack and quickly left the store without a word spoken with tears streaming down her face.
*
Minerva used her late husband’s life insurance money to buy a little boutique she’d admired for years. The shop sold consignment women’s clothing and served as a sanctuary for Minerva to pour her sorrow into something tangible, to help women and girls find joy in clothing and accessories. The shop was a fragile haven built from a life including love, loss, and longing. Every shelf, every dress, every faded photograph tucked behind the register was a thread in the tapestry of her survival, but a lump found during a breast self-examination ignited anxiety which weighed heavily upon her.
Each morning, Minerva opened the shop, she was certain the lump was a “call” to “fold her hand” as the world felt like it was determined to break her.
*
One afternoon, as the bell tinkled above the door announcing a customer, Minerva looked up from her ledger. The girl was there again; her gaze fixed on the black dress. This time, she hesitated, then approached the counter, clutching the black dress including a second, almost identical dress but in a different size.
“Could I try these on?”
“Of course, dear.
“The fitting rooms behind me.”
A few minutes later, the girl emerged, the black satin dress draping heavy over her small frame. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, then turned to Minerva, uncertainty clouding her face.
“How does it look?”
Minerva stepped closer.
“May I ask, why this one?
“It doesn’t seem to fit you properly.
“I believe the black cotton dress will fit you perfectly.”
The girl hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of the satin dress.
“My friend and I… we wanted to dress up and go to the prom together. She was killed in a hit-and-run accident. I can’t stop thinking about her. This black satin dress… it’s the only thing she tried on here. It’s all I have left of her.”
Minerva’s heart clenched. She spoke as if embracing the girl, her voice soft.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Loss is a heavy thing to carry.”
The girl’s eyes shimmered with tears.
“I just… I wanted to feel close to her again. I thought maybe, if I wore the black satin dress, I could remember what it felt like to laugh with her.”
Minerva nodded, her own memories surfacing including her daughter’s laughter, a husband’s steady presence, and the ache of their absence.
“I can only imagine the emotional trauma you’re suffering, but please, allow me to share my sorrow with you, and together, we might lessen our heartache and move forward, stronger. I lost both my daughter and husband. Once, my world included a loving husband, Paul. He was a hard as nails career Marine whose stern exterior hid a heart that beat for his family. Marrying Paul provided me an opportunity to escape the role of only daughter to dysfunctional parents rooted inside a small town offering no prospects for self-fulfillment or escape.
“Marriage to Paul included a patchwork of military bases and hurried goodbyes, of late-night phone calls and the constant ache of uncertainty whether he’d be called to war. I learned to be strong; to pack up our life at a moment’s notice, but I also learned to find beauty even inside environments built for war. I found work inside clothing stores wherever we landed because I was drawn to the way fabric could transform a person, and how a simple dress could make a woman feel alive, special, or different even for one occasion.
“I apologise for tearing, but you remind me of our daughter, Emily, the light of my life. Emily’s spirit was wild and restless, her laughter echoing through the cramped military apartments and purring inside my heart. Emily drifted away to somewhere unknown inside her mind as if being pulled by currents I couldn’t fight including Paul’s ’tough love’ and frequent physical admonishments also inflicted upon me.
“The phone call came on a cold November morning: Emily was gone, lost to a Fentanyl overdose on a bed inside a stranger’s home. The grief rolled over me like a tidal wave, relentless and suffocating. Paul tried to be strong, but the loss hollowed him out like no weapons he’d ever known.
“Less than a year later, his heart stopped forever, leaving me with nothing but memories and the silence of an empty house we purchased after Paul retired. Some days, the memories are all that keep me going.”
The girl looked up, surprised.
“Does it ever get easier?”
“Not easier, but you learn to live with the pain of loss. I’ve learned kindness helps stitch the pieces back together.”
The girl glanced at the price tag, her face disappointed.
“I can’t afford both dresses.”
“You don’t have to. These are my gift for you.”
“But… why?”
“Because I know what it’s like to need something to hold onto. Giving is the only way I can heal.”
Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,”
Minerva carefully folded the dresses and placed them inside a gift box including a pink ribbon adorned with small hearts around the box.
“Promise me you’ll remember the good times and let yourself laugh again, when you’re ready.”
The girl nodded, clutching the box to her chest.
“I will.
Thank you.”
Minerva watched the girl slowly leave the shop and turn towards her before exiting. She mouthed the words,
“I love you.”
The girl left and the slight spring in her step signaled to Minerva signs of hope flickering in the ashes of her sorrow, and although Minerva didn’t get her name, she instinctively knew it was a brief encounter with her beloved Emily which gave her the final contact she desperately needed.
*
The doctor diagnosed Minerva with metastatic breast cancer. Minerva remembered staring at the ceiling in the doctor’s office, feeling as if her body was telling her the fight against grief was soon to be completed and she could join Emily and Paul in the afterlife.
The hardest blow came when the doctor informed her,
“The treatments will include a double mastectomy surgery, chemo, and radiation. If you want a chance of beating the cancer, it will require your complete devotion to rest and recovery. You won’t be able to keep up with the demands of operating the business.”
*
The words echoed in her mind as she stared at the racks of dresses, the sunlight struggling to pour through the fabrics mirroring the tears behind the black veil Minerva wore at two funerals and today, a struggle for her own life. Closing the shop felt like losing another piece of herself.
She lingered by the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. She thought of her daughter, husband, all the moments lost, and the memories that remained. In giving the girl those two black dresses, Minerva was reminded that even in the depths of loss, kindness could stitch together the torn fabric of a broken heart. She had hoped to hear the familiar chime above the door open one final time and reveal the lovely girl. Minerva knew she was off chasing her own life which would reveal twists and turns. Minerva prayed the girl would be guided by kindness and knowing loss and misery is universal.
Recalling the happiness in the girl’s face carrying both dresses helped Minerva find the resolve to survive. She turned the sign on the door to “Closed,” knowing she would never open it again. But as Minerva locked up, she felt, for the first time in a long while, that she was not alone and would confront her illness head on with a newfound resolve to live.
Jonathan B. Ferrini is the published author of over seventy fiction stories and poems. A partial collection of his short stories may be found in Within Hearts Without Sleeves. Twenty-Three Stories at Amazon. Jonathan also writes and produces a weekly podcast about film, television, and movies named, “The Razor’s Ink Podcast with Jonathan Ferrini.” Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA. He resides in San Diego.
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