I've been stuck on this for a few days, so I thought I'd try to write it out of my brain.
I have been Cory's stylist, just as she has been mine, for many years now. The first few years of her life, it was more about just keeping her clothed and warm, as money was an issue. I was a single parent until Cory was six. My mom was and will always be the master clearance shopper, and would help me pick up end of season sales in the next size up. Cory always looked adorable; she needed nothing but those huge eyes and beautiful smile. Fashion was not an issue. Still, I longed for the day when I could outfit her like the princess she was.
Once Tim and I got married, and things stabilized financially, I could indulge in all things pretty and pink. I may have went slightly overboard (I'm sure no one who knows me could imagine this), but justified my actions to my slightly bewildered new husband by explaining that girls simply need lots of shoes. She was in kindergarten- she needed shoes for gym, she needed shoes to wear with dresses, she needed black, and she needed brown. She needed church shoes. She needed sporty tennis shoes for the weekends. You can see how this played out. That child had more outfits than she knew what to do with, and always looked like a tiny fashion plate.
She may have been in third or fourth grade, when we came up with our first fully head to toe twinkie outfit. I will never forget it: dark rinse trouser jeans, black zip-up velour hoodie, and over it a tan button up corduroy blazer. Were we cute? Oh my goodness.
As she got older, she retained the girliness I had long since instilled. She also developed her own style by trying on a little of everything out there. I supported her through the all black clothing phase. I fully participated in the Hot Topic craze, down to the humungous baggy purple pants with chains and zippers. She had to try it all on to find out what she liked, and who she was. While the emo pants didn't last, the slight edge to her style did.
By the time she was fifteen, I could walk into any store, and spot instantly the items she would love- or hate. She loved black, and gray. There were periods of purple, and even pink. She loved zippers, and studs. At the same time, she could be completely undone by a flouncy ruffled dress, polka dots, or a vintage looking peplum skirt, a la Blaire Waldorf of Gossip Girl. She had quite obviously held onto her Mommy girly-girl roots through it all.
We asked each other's opinions on outfits, and shared clothes often. During a brief grappling for power her fourteenth year, the rules had been set in stone: One does not borrow without asking. One returns said item intact and to the location it was borrrowed from. Other than that, everything was pretty much fair game.
There were eighteen glorious months or so when we were the same size in everything. I don't know if Cory wore a single item of her own during that time, she wanted all of mine.
Then she surpassed me in the pants department, and it was down to only tops and shoes...a sad day.
Later on, when Cory was recovering from her illness, she planned outfits like someone going to war...there was plan A, B, and C. She was never unprepared. At the time, it didn't dawn on me that I had showed her how to do this her entire life- I always pick out my outfit the night before. She had just taken it to the next level. I mistakingly thought Cory's anxieties were leading her to such exagerrated planning. Now that I look back, I can plainly see she was reducing her anxiety by controlling something she could control. She couldn't predict which days would be bad or which would be good...if she would hear voices or not. But dang it, she could have the daily question of what to wear out of the way and off her mind. Any predictability for her was a blessing.
Sometimes she wanted a little help..."Mom, what would look right with this? What shoes should I wear?" I would step in, usually grabbing something out of my dresser or closet, and within minutes have her looking runway ready. Often she would drift into my bedroom and stand in front of my necklace racks, intent on finding the perfect accessory for her outfit. "Cory", I would say, "what do you think this is? A boutique?"
She would smile. "Yep, and everything's free."she'd respond with a laugh. I would smile and loan her pretty much whatever she wanted, even my strand of wedding pearls on one occasion.
For the school dances she went to, I had the best time dressing her up like my very own Barbie. I did her hair and makeup. We always went shopping for a new dress, but somehow she always ended up wearing my silver heels with the bows on the toes. I think she simply liked wearing something of mine. It made her feel like a big girl, and she knew I was always with her.
So when the accident happened, and the funeral director was pressing us for a complete outfit for her to wear, I went to work on autopilot. I had dressed her many, many times. I could do this. My mom and sisters asked me first if I wanted to buy her something new or choose something from her closet. I wanted her to be wearing something that I knew for certain she had felt beautiful in. Her self-image had been such a struggle for her during her illness. Everyone for miles around could tell her what a gorgeous girl she was, but she seldom believed them. With the constant chorus of voices berating her in her head, I guess it was no wonder.
The dress I chose for her that last time was one I had picked out for her for Easter. I saw it on the mannequin at the mall, and thought to myself, Cory would look beautiful in that. When I brought her to the mall to try it on, she agreed, and seeing her face light up for once when she looked in the mirror was worth ten times the price of that fabric. She felt good about herself. If only it would last. If only I could make her realize- make her know- that she was beautiful...inside and out.
The funeral director instructed us to provide something that covered her arms, at least to the elbow; they like to give the illusion of warmth. At home, out of my mind, shaking all over, I could not think of what to pair with this spring frock that was sleeveless and not in the least bit considered warm. I couldn't go in her room, had needed my sister retrieve the dress from her closet. My mind was going in all different directiions, my heart beating like it would burst out of my chest...how did I get to this place? Was I really picking out an outfit for my baby girl to be buried in?
Suddenly, it hit me. There was a certain sweater -not expensive by any means- that I hadn't been too keen on Cory borrowing. It was a lovely little black cardigan with the front covered in faux pearls. I knew at once it would be perfect over the white, black, and royal blue fit and flare dress I had chosen. I wanted her to have something of mine, just like always. And forever.
The funeral director told us we didn't need to bother with shoes. Was he kidding me? She must have shoes. I would not send her anywhere barefoot. Not my baby.
It was important to me that Cory have something of mine and that I have something of hers. We had shared a lifetime of laughter, meals, stories, books, movies, outfits, and conversations. Why should now be different? I wanted something special of mine to be with her always, and needed something special of hers to hold onto. I had recently gotten a dragonfly pendant that Cory absolutely loved. I fully intended to surprise her with one soon so we could be twins. I decided we would trade. I would keep Cory's pearl necklace and she would wear my dragonfly pendant...after the service... when it was time to say goodbye.
When the time came, the funeral home staff were respectful and kind as they traded the necklaces out. What stuck in my mind like a hook of sharp metal was watching them put my dragonfly pendant round her neck. They didn't hook it. They pretended. This led me down a horribly dark path with all sorts of awful questions that have never really left my mind. Why didn't they latch the necklace? Was this standard practice with all their clientelle or just my baby girl? Was it because the accident broke her neck? Was she barely stitched together, just enough to get through the service? If they tried to manipulate her head, would it fall horribly to one side? Having seen her laid out on the road, I had ample footage to feed this obsessive and horrendous train of thought.
Like a trail of gasoline lit aflame by one puny match, my mind formed more and more unspeakable questions. I started to wonder things a parent should never have to wonder about. I started rethinking the urgency with which the kind funeral director had asked for a complete outfit, including underwear. He didn't so much ask, as insist, and didn't so much remind, as desperately plead. As soon as you possibly can. A full outfit, including underwear. Just as soon as you can. This led me to wonder if she had been delivered naked. Was she lying there at the funeral home with nothing to cover her vulnerable lifeless body but a sheet? I had seen them cut her shirt all the way off on the scene. Were the rest of her clothes ruined as well? I started torturing myself- how could they not be? You saw her. You remember. And from there, it was only a short skip and a jump to the overpowering sense of guilt and the litany that would fill my own head day in and day out...it's all your fault. You shouldn't have let her go.
Dress her...that I can do.
Forgive myself for not keeping her safe...not so much.
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