(Continued from Part III)
We clambered down in the dark, and I ripped the dress off (as carefully as one could in a super-hurry). We now had maybe 10 minutes. I’d instructed the guys to start the second set with an instrumental if I wasn’t back by the start time; that would give us an additional four minutes if needed. The swing dancer crowd had arrived, so they’d be super-cool with that.
Note: Audio links in this post provide a multi-media experience.
Cidne and I realized once we were in the bathroom and I’d got the dress off that we had nothing with which to cut the duct tape, and as luck would have it, the tape was reinforced with a super-strong webbing.
Luckily Cidne was in panic-induced adrenalin rush and along with it had acquired superhuman powers. I laid the dress down inside out on the dank cement floor. She measured out the proper length of tape and ripped it from the roll with an angry growl that sounded like a mama bear at her cave entrance. We quickly taped it over the seam, trying to seal it against the fabric.
Now I’m a big Red Green fan, and he says duct tape fixes anything. But I’m pretty sure he never tried to duct tape a silk dress together. Duct tape sticks to a lot of things, but not really well to silk for whatever reason.
I heard the guys starting Take the A Train outside and I knew we only had a few minutes left. And I still hadn’t had my requisite set break pee and makeup refresh.
“Go!” Cidne said, and I fumbled my way in the dark to a stall door. There was no toilet paper, so she threw me in a paper towel from the stack on the sink counter.
“Two minutes,” she said, completely unnecessarily as the clock was chiming loudly in my head with every second. My heart was beating a lot faster than a beat a second when I flew out to the mirror, only to realize I hadn’t brought my kit with me, and couldn’t see much in the dark anyway.
“This is as good as I can get it to stick,” Cidne said, sighing. She had added another piece. “Just be super careful stepping back into it.” She didn’t have to tell me that twice.
I felt a crackling of tape behind me as she zipped me up. We ran up the stairs and I took deep breaths, walking as calmly as I could up to side stage,
Scene of the crime: The beautiful venue at Garden Architecture & Design. (www.gardenarchitecture.ca)
where I signalled to David, the keyboard player, that I was ready. They did another round of the chorus of A Train and wrapped it up.
As they started the next tune, I realized it wasn’t the one originally scheduled in the set list. David had changed it to one of the ballads, Shades of Blue, presumably so I could get my breath back and not have to jump around a lot. It was a great choice.
During the set I maneuvered myself around so that I wasn’t turned around at any point (something I had to consciously think about), and the rest of the set went fine.
At home, the dress didn’t go to the dry-cleaner this time, and I realized that all the dry cleanings had probably contributed to the demise of the already aged seam thread. I thought about stitching it up, but then decided to leave the black tape on it—like war wounds from a great battle. [pullquote] I thought about stitching it up, but then decided to leave the black tape on it—like war wounds from a great battle.[/pullquote]
***
“So,” I concluded to Marsha, who was wiping tears of laughter from her face, “that was the dress’ last dance. I’m afraid you’ll have to sew up the back if you want to wear it next week…or I’m happy to do it.”
“No way!” she said. “It’s part of the dress now! If the tape holds, fine; if it doesn’t…well, I’ll just have to make sure I wear underwear.” She cackled loudly in self-satisfaction, a gesture so “Marsha” that I hugged her spontaneously.
She left with the dress in the box, and said, “You know, I have missed this dress. Even though I couldn’t wear it. But I will now. And I’ll wear it with the memory of your story, and all our made-up stories, wrapped around me like a cozy blanket.”
Re-gifting re-defined
I just heard last week that Marsha died of melanoma. It was a shock; I didn’t even know she was sick again. But it was like Marsha not to fuss about her own health. I hope she did wear the dress, and that she danced up a storm in it.
Thinking back on our friendship, and what a special person she was, I am so very glad an inner voice guided me to give her the dress back, and tell her the dress’ story. Because she gave me back the gift of her delight and her radiant company for the very last time, which I wouldn’t have otherwise had.
And that’s how returning a gift turned out to be a gift to its giver. Peace and love, Marsha…
Remembering the beautiful, bright, spunky, talented, effervescent Marsha Delouchery-Day…
