(This short story was a writing exercise in my writing class, The Story Spinners. We could choose a picture, a phrase or a word. I chose a word, “suit.” We had an hour to write and polish.)
One-word Prompt: Suit
Lorraine hadn’t meant to go through the clothes in the plastic box, the one she’d slid in the back of the closet years ago. But she was looking for the bomber jacket she’d worn to the homecoming game her freshman year of high school. Her daughter wanted to wear it to a costume party.
“Mom, JoJo spilled the Rice Krispies all over the floor,” came a young voice from the kitchen. That voice belonged to her daughter, Katie. At five years old, Katie believed she was the boss of the house, a role her older sister, Angela, felt belonged to her.
“Angela, can you sweep that mess up?” Lorraine answered.
“Too late,” her eldest daughter called back. “Satchel licked them all off the floor.”
Lorraine didn’t want to think about all the dog spit now on the kitchen tile. On the positive side, the kids wouldn’t be eating the cereal off the floor, something she’d caught three-year-old JoJo doing more than once.
“Mom, did you find that jacket?” Angela called out.
Angela was 11 years old, about to start the sixth grade. She was the reason Lorraine had hauled the box out of the closet and was going through clothes she hadn’t seen in years.
On top was the maternity top she’d worn the day she went to the hospital to have her last child. JoJo was a big baby, and that jersey maternity top had been stretched to its limit by the time she gave birth.
“I could probably wear that right now,” Lorraine thought. With each pregnancy, she’d gained a few more pounds and now she was packing about 40 more pounds than she had when she’d married Al.
She dug underneath the maternity top. Somewhere in that box, she knew, was the black bomber jacket she’d worn to that homecoming game. The theme was the 80s. Most of the girls wanted to look like Madonna, but not Lorraine. She wanted to look like Kelly McGillis from “Top Gun.” She’d found a fake black leather jacket at a thrift store and went to the game pretending she was a boss Top Gun instructor. When Lorraine spotted Al Boudreaux wearing a black leather jacket and white T-shirt, she knew he was the one for her.
Lorraine heard another crash from the kitchen.
“Nothing broke,” Katie called. “JoJo spilled the Rice Krispies again.”
Lorraine sighed.
“Let the dog have them and then put that box up where your brother can’t get at it,” Lorraine yelled back. That black leather jacket had to be in this box somewhere.
Then she saw it.
The suit.
The gray jacket was neatly folded, and Lorraine took it gently out of the box. There was that light stain on the lapel from when she’d spilled her coffee the morning before she presented her first case to a judge as a public defender. That case had been the first of at least a dozen she’d presented before she left the office, pregnant with Angela. She looked at the suit again. Lorraine remembered how she’d fallen in love with the suit when she spotted it in Maison Blanche. The tailored fit accented Lorraine’s slender hips and waist.
“I probably couldn’t get that jacket over my thigh,” Lorraine thought bitterly. She unbuttoned the jacket, opened it and felt the satin inside. She remembered thinking she didn’t want to sweat in the jacket, not when she’d paid full price for the suit. But there was something about that gray suit, something that made her feel powerful when she wore it.
“Mom, Alle’s coming over and we want to try on costumes for the end-of-the-summer party,” Angela said. She was standing in the doorway, her hand on her hip, an exasperated look on her face, a face that was almost identical to her father’s. Angela looked at what Lorraine was holding.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Lorraine quickly folded the jacket and put it to the side.
“Nothing,” Lorraine said. “I just got sidetracked. I know that bomber jacket is in here. It’s probably at the bottom.”
Angela came and sat next to her mother. She picked up the jacket and felt the material.
“Was this dad’s?” she asked. Angela was too young to remember women had to wear suits back then to appear as powerful as a man. If a woman showed up in a dress to the courtroom, she wouldn’t be taken seriously. Angela didn’t know the obstacles women had to overcome. Probably if she asked her daughter to name five females who paved the way for equality, she’d have a hard time.
“No, it was mine,” Lorraine said, gently taking the jacket back from her daughter.
Angela looked in the box having lost interest in the jacket and started rifling through the clothes. She found the pants that went with the suit.
“Why did you keep this?” she asked, holding up the pants. The waist was so small, it would probably fit Angela, Lorraine thought. Why had she let herself go? Why hadn’t she gone back to the classroom after Angela was old enough to go to daycare? Lorraine could’ve resumed her job in the public defender’s office. She could’ve fit into that suit because the weight hadn’t started creeping up until she’d had her second child and felt like a milk machine and chauffeur for Angela’s ballet and music lessons.
“Here it is,” Angela said, holding up a black leather jacket. While Lorraine had been lost in thought, Angela had continued looking in the box and had come up with the jacket. She stood up and slipped the jacket on.
“Perfect fit,” she said, twirling around. “This jacket is perfect for my look as a biker chick.”
Angela left the room before Lorraine could say anything. Biker chick? Hadn’t she taught her daughter about the importance of being a self-assured, confident woman? Didn’t she know a woman didn’t need a power suit to assert herself in life?
No, she thought bitterly. I taught my daughter it was okay to let herself drown in insecurity and put her dreams aside for everyone and everything else. Lorraine took the suit out of the box and hung it on a hanger on the doorknob to the closet. She heard another crash from the kitchen.
“Mom, JoJo spilled the milk and Satchel is licking that off the floor,” Katie called.
“That’s okay,” Lorraine called back. “I’ll mop the floor later.”
Lorraine looked at the suit one more time. The girl who fought for the rights of the unjustly accused, the one who wore this suit and wore it like a warrior, was still inside her. The suit was simply armor. She straightened the jacket on the hanger and called out to Angela.
“Let’s talk about who you’re going as to the party,” she said. “Did I ever tell you about Amelia Earhart?”