My cousin Frida has always been a little obsessed with beauty.
When we were little, we would go out to the field behind the schoolyard where the other kids would play futbol, sit in the shade, and pick wildflowers together. One day, our friend Analisa taught us how to make a flower crown.
Frida took it a step further and made flower bracelets and anklets and rings.
Once, in the summer I turned ten, we went out on a Sunday afternoon and got ice cream. We were chasing each other back home when my ice cream fell out of my cone and onto the sidewalk. I was trying so hard not to cry, but then Frida smiled and dumped her own ice cream onto the sidewalk. She knelt down and began swirling the colors together with her fingers, pink and brown, melting and marbling together in the summer heat.
Frida always stays up to watch the sunset, and always gets up way too early to watch the sunrise. Our shared bedroom is covered in her drawings of the sky, of flowers, of people she sees walking on the street below our window. Frida got her first makeup palette last Christmas, and every day since then, her eyelids and lips and nails are a new blend of colors.
When Frida was about to turn fifteen, it was time to throw her a Quinceañera.
For the most part, the planning was easy. Mass would be held at the same church as cousin Imelda’s Quinceañera. It was no trouble finding a sizable court – there were more than enough cousins and neighbor kids, although some of the boys would have to be bribed. Frida didn’t care much for the time and place, and she had always been a social butterfly, so she was fine with however many people her parents wanted to invite. Soon they had a venue booked, a date and time set well in advance, and all of us cousins who were close to Frida spent our evenings making invitations, planning the decor and music playlist, and, of course, deciding on what to wear.
And for Frida, that was the only problem: she couldn’t pick a dress.
We accompanied her to just about every dress shop, tailor, and seamstress in town trying to find her perfect dress. And it had to be perfect, she insisted. As our mothers had always said, “you only turn fifteen once”.
Shopping with her was fun at first, but as the weeks passed and the day of the celebration grew ever nearer, Frida smiled less and less. The corners of her mouth would twitch every time she glanced at her closet. Her dark brow furrowed, even in her sleep, a strange sight on her round-cheeked face. Her undereyes grew dark and heavy as she complained to me, over lemonade and arepas in the backyard, that there had to be something. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew it must be out there somewhere. She had to find that perfect dress.
She just really needed to find it before it was too late.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear you, miss,” came a low, shy voice from behind us. “Did you say you were looking for a dress?”
We turned to see an elderly woman, out for a stroll with a basket of cosmos in one hand and a simple wooden cane in the other. Her white hair was thin and wispy, her skin spotted and tanned by the sun, and an intricate veil of wrinkles across her face lifted as she smiled at us, waiting for a response.
“I am,” said Frida slowly. “My Quinceañera is only a week from now and I still haven’t found the dress I wish to wear.”
“I see. Then might I humbly offer my services, dear?” Asked the old woman. “I am a retired seamstress. I haven’t made anything in, oh, a good ten or so years. But I used to make some of the finest Quinceañera dresses in my hometown.”
“Truly?” Frida leaned over the fence, her bright brown eyes sparkling with hope.
“Truly,” said the seamstress. “I don’t usually take commissions anymore, not since my daughters took over the business, but I can tell that this is an urgent matter for you. If you like, I will make you a perfect Quinceañera dress.”
And so the old woman led Frida and I back to her house. I insisted on going with them, just to keep an eye on things. A chance encounter with a stranger who could make her the perfect dress in the nick of time? It seemed too good to be true.
As Frida stood in the old woman’s kitchen, the biggest room in her house, getting her measurements taken, I looked around the place. It was tidy, not a spoon out of place, but dust and cobwebs covered every surface. The old woman’s sewing equipment seemed to consist only of her measuring tape, a couple of safety pins, and a long roll of thin white gauze. The only remarkable thing about her house was the garden, in which the biggest, most vibrant flowers I have ever seen were growing, tall and proud and staring the sun in the face. Dahlias, roses, marigolds, lilies…
The old woman caught me staring at her flowers and smiled. “My pride and joy,” she said. “My flowers find their way into every dress I make.”
I almost laughed. What, was this old woman going to make the perfect Quinceañera dress out of flowers and gauze? But when I glanced at Frida, she was staring open-mouthed at the flowers as though she had never seen anything more beautiful. And I realized I could not blame her.
A strange tickling sensation made itself known on my calf. I absently rubbed my itchy leg, then felt something drop down, brushing past my ankle. I jumped away and shrieked as a leggy spider, no larger than a silver dollar, ran out from under my skirt.
“Oh, dear,” the old woman muttered. She bent down and allowed the spider to run into her hand, cradling it delicately as she carried it to an open window. It crawled out of her hand and into a windowbox filled with marvelous marigolds. She turned back to me and smiled apologetically. “Such mischievous creatures, aren’t they? I’ve always had a soft spot for the little ones.”
Almost every day for the next week, Frida went back to the seamstress. I went with her once or twice, but my own business – my chores, as well as some of Frida’s, and putting the final touches on my own outfit – kept me too busy to go every time. I would worry about Frida when she went to that old woman’s house. Sometimes she was gone for hours at a time, and I couldn’t help but wonder, what on earth does she need to be there for? When she came back, though, Frida would gush about the old woman as though they were best friends. Apparently, they would talk for hours about dresses, Frida’s art, the old woman’s daughters, and, of course, her flowers.
“Aren’t they just the prettiest things you’ve ever seen?” Frida sighed to me one night. And though I was tired, and a little annoyed, I couldn’t help but reply honestly: “they are.”
Finally, the afternoon before Frida’s Quinceañera, the dress was done. Frida insisted I come along to see it, and I went quite willingly. Though I still felt uneasy about the old woman, for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I was also deeply curious about her. And I really wanted to see the dress that had finally won Frida over.
It was… truly magnificent. It was not the most elegant or pretty dress I had ever seen. It was not the sparkliest, the laciest, or the frilliest. It was, in fact, a dress made out of gauze, dyed a myriad of colors and decorated with real flowers. I glanced out the kitchen window into the old woman’s garden, and to my surprise, all of her flowers were gone. They had been sewn into the dress, and still they shone, as rich and bright as if they were still alive.
When Frida put it on, she looked like a statue overgrown with nature. She looked like a goddess of summer. It was the perfect dress for her.
“How much do we owe you?” Was all I could manage to say to the old woman.
She tutted and shook her head. “Frida is a joy to talk to, and her dress was a joy to make. I won’t ask for money.”
But Frida insisted, and I insisted – weird or not, the old woman had gone out of her way for us, and it really was a beautiful dress – and so finally she relented. She did not ask for money, though. Only for a cup of wine from the party.
She glanced at Frida when she named her price, inclining her head a little, almost hesitant. I watched Frida’s dark eyes widen. Then she laughed and said alright. I looked to her, confused, but Frida only gave me a wink and a shrug in return. I supposed that, if this meant that we didn’t have to shell out what a normal Quinceañera dress cost, I was alright with it too.
Morning came, and Frida donned her divine dress and led us all into the church for Mass. The flowers – still somehow ageless – were captivating amid rays of stained-glass light as she sat before the priest, delivering consecration and a bouquet of cosmos to the Madonna. As she turned to face us, the blessed tiara atop her head, she looked every bit like an angel come to life.
The priest told us to welcome her as a young woman. He had Frida vow to stay true to God and to protect her virginity. We hid it well, but she, I, and all the damas in Frida’s court were trying not to laugh.
And then the party was on.
Cousins Penelope and Conchita had really gone all out with the floral arrangements, which was perfect, because that was exactly what Frida would want. The music was a mix of traditional and modern, courtesy of cousin Theadora. Everyone was dressed to the nueves, and I soon forgot all my worries and ate, drank, and danced the night away.
About half an hour before midnight, Frida excused herself to the powder room. Everyone continued partying, but as the minutes ticked by, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I could not explain it, but I felt that I had to go and find her.
I went to the powder room and knocked on the door. I called Frida’s name, but it was pointless – even if she had screamed for me to come in, I wouldn’t be able to hear over the heavy thrum of bass and the cheerful cacophony of the dance floor. So, I simply opened the door and prayed she was not on the toilet.
She was, but thankfully, the lid was down. She sat there with a shawl over her beautiful dress, a deep bluish green under the neon lights from above the sink. She smiled at me when I came in, but I could tell there was a strain to it. Her forehead glistened with sweat.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
Frida nodded. “I’m fine. I just needed a break, that’s all. How is the party?”
“Loud. Everyone’s drunk. It’s awesome.” I leaned against the wall, half-falling over as I did so. “Are you going to come back out soon?”
“I am,” she said, though she sounded hesitant. “I’m feeling a bit woozy. Too much alcohol, I think. I might end the party soon just so I can get to bed.”
Before I could protest that this was her Quinceañera, she should enjoy it, she’d only turn fifteen once, Frida added: “oh, that reminds me. My favorite cousin, would you do me a favor?”
I knew what those words meant. Frida only ever called me her favorite cousin when she was about to ask me to do something she knew I wouldn’t want to. I steeled myself for whatever it might be, only to be caught off guard when she reached for a cup of wine sitting on the counter. Only then did I remember the old woman’s request.
“I was going to take it to her myself, but I’m not feeling well enough. Would you take it to her?” She gazed up at me with her big brown eyes, pleading with me.
I pretended to be annoyed with her as I took the cup. It wasn’t a big deal, of course I could take the cup to the weird old woman. I just couldn’t understand why Frida wouldn’t go herself, until I brushed her fingers while taking the cup. They were trembling.
I asked again and again if she was alright, and again and again she insisted that she was. And in fairness, the longer I stayed with her, the better she seemed. The slight shaking in her hands, which I could not pretend I hadn’t seen, went away after a few minutes. The shawl, at first drawn tightly around her, fell to her elbows as she sat up straighter. I almost asked if she wanted to take the cup of wine to the old woman after all, but I didn’t. It was her Quinceañera, after all. Even if she was well enough to deliver the wine herself and party for several more hours, she had asked me to go for her.
I left her in the powder room, reapplying her lipstick and brushing herself off, and set off down the road to the old woman’s house. She lived no more than ten minutes away, and I had walked along this road several times, even before I knew that she lived nearby. Still, there was a strange feeling in the air as I walked, the silence hanging heavy above my head. At first I thought it was simply that most people in town were either asleep or partying it up back where I had come from, but the longer I walked, I noticed that even the alley cats and dogs and the crickets that sang at night were quiet. Perhaps they were scared off by all the noise?
I found myself breathing slow and quiet, practically tip-toeing the last block. When I got to the door, I hesitated to knock. I didn’t want to be the only sound in that silence. But it was then that I realized, inside the old woman’s house, it wasn’t silent. There was a faint whirring, almost a brushing noise, like fabric rubbing back and forth over itself. There was a steady tick-tick-ticking, and every now and then, the sharp and satisfying snip of scissors.
I couldn’t believe it. Was she making another dress?
And then the door opened.
The old woman smiled down at me. Whatever it was she was doing, she was doing quite a bit. Two hands pinned down the fabric at an old-fashioned sewing machine, while two more held down another square on her kitchen table, and a fifth hand cut them into little shapes with the scissors. Her sixth and seventh hands were mending an old shirt made of white gauze. I searched for her eighth hand for a few moments before I realized it was right in front of me, held out expectantly.
My own hands shook as I raised the cup of wine and placed it in that hand. Bony, wrinkled, but still soft, like the spine of a well-loved book.
Her hands never stopped working as she raised the glass to her mouth and drank. Once it was all gone, she blinked hazily, adjusting to the flow of it into her system. All eight of her eyes, misty at the edges with age, smiled into crescents as she handed the cup back to me.
“Enjoy the party,” she said. “And tell Frida I said thank you.” And the door closed.
The next morning, I awoke the only one in our room, and discovered a horrible sight: Frida’s dress, once filled with as many colors as that old woman’s garden, had withered. The gauze was dull brown and black, splotchy and moth-eaten. The flowers, those wonderful flowers, had finally succumbed to death. They drooped and stank faintly of rot, and several had already fallen to the floor.
I ran out of our room to find Frida. She was going to be so miserable, I thought. What would I tell her? Was this the old woman’s doing? How did those fresh-looking flowers that bloomed so perfectly last night turn so lifeless this morning?
I found Frida sitting in the breakfast nook, with a glass of juice and a bowl of arroz con leche, reading a magazine. She waved at me as I entered, out of breath and wide-eyed. “What is it?”
“Your dress,” I panted. “It’s- it’s all gone.”
Frida nodded. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I saw it this morning,” she explained, her smile a little sad around the edges.
“I thought you’d be devastated,” I told her. “I didn’t know how to break it to you.”
“Who says I’m not devastated?”
I sat down next to her and watched her fill out a few squares of Sudoku in her magazine. As I stared at her face, I realized that she looked different. There were wrinkles in the corners of her eyes – small, hardly noticeable, but there. The furrow in her brow was gone, but a mark had stayed there, a reminder that stress now had a home on her face. Even the veins on her hands seemed more pronounced than I remembered. Though, as always, her nails were perfectly manicured and polished – yellow, her favorite color.
Yesterday, they had declared my cousin a woman. That’s what the Quinceañera is for, a rite of passage into adulthood. I knew it wouldn’t be long until my own Quinceañera. What would I do the morning after? All this planning and leading up to the big event, and then once it’s over… then what?
“Are you hungry? You’ve been staring at my breakfast. There’s more in the fridge, you know.”
I went and got myself a bowl of arroz con leche, and a glass of milk. I sat back down with Frida, who put away her magazine and grinned tiredly at me.
“What are you going to do about your dress?”
She shrugged. “Compost it, I guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
She reached over and took my hand. “Me too,” she sighed. “But, my, wasn’t it beautiful last night?”
She swung my hand around, playing with it. I watched her eyes crinkle as she smiled, and caught sight of the bandage on one of her wrists.
“Was it worth it?” I asked.
She blinked at me, confused for a moment before she followed my gaze. Then she grabbed her juice and held it up in the air. “Worth it.”
I clinked my milk against her juice. “Welcome to womanhood.”