It takes forever to track down. After the ribbon cutting ceremony for the factory, I call in several favors and enlist everyone I can think of to help. To be fair, my options for aid are limited, as the vast majority of people cannot know I'm getting married. The rest, when I approach them, are horrified at my request.
"Katniss," Hazelle chastises in disbelief. "Surely you don't mean to get married in something so…" she trails off, not able to think of an appropriate adjective. "Wouldn't something more-"
"No," I insist, cutting in before she can finish her train of thought. I know it well, and it's something I don't want to think about. Cinna designed a wedding dress for me. Snow paraded me on display, a way to shove his power in my helpless face. I will not wear a fancy white garment made of silk and lace. I will find a red plaid dress, just like the one I wore on the first day of school. Peeta claims that's when he fell in love with me. I'd like for him to remember that feeling, just in case he changes his mind.
The day drags by slowly, a mirage of chores and organized chaos. For something so simple, it takes forever to put together. Caving, I enlist my mother for help. As she marches with pride and purpose into town, I wish I'd done it sooner. She coddles the bolt in the crook of her arm sooner than I can locate it in the piles of unsorted fabrics. As she pays, she shoos me over toward the corner of the shop to get my measurements taken. I protest over my shoulder that I have more than enough money to pay for the fabric myself, but she silences me in a way only a mother can. "Nonsense," she states, as if it is an obvious fact. "Paying for your dress," she omits the word 'wedding' in this public setting, "is the least I can do."
Guilt plagues me as she digs deep into her pockets to pull out the right coins. I wonder how long she worked to earn it. I wonder if she knows I subsidize her food in District Four. The people in charge of distribution assured me they would keep my donation a secret, but surely she must know that she pays a fraction of the cost for her living expenses and food as her fellow citizens in the district. I hope it's enough to help her get by. So she doesn't worry. So she doesn't fade away.
For the next hour, the seamstress, one of the newest additions to the district, pokes and prods me mercilessly with her sharp, pointed nails and her thin but pointed pins. The entire show is a flurry of excitement, though the official reason for a new dress is a special evening planned for Peeta and myself. Which I guess is not entirely a lie. Mother works a magic I never knew she possessed. The seamstress allows her to use the machine in the back. In no time, my mother has also purchased thread and borrowed a pair of scissors. My dress comes together before my eyes, a miracle from a story my mother would have told me and Prim as children.
I choke back tears as I think of my sister. She should be here today. She should be here always, but today the loss strikes twice as deep. An emptiness grows in my heart as the sun passes across the sky. An emptiness that I know Peeta will never fill, no matter how hard he tries. Prim is the only other person I have truly ever loved unconditionally. I cannot even say the same for my mother, working so hard to give me the dress I desire without once commenting it should be white. I wonder if our thoughts align. I wonder if her heart breaks as well.
"There," she proclaims some time later. Letting out a deep sigh, she places her cold hands on my shoulders and slowly turns me to face the mirror. I promised not to peak until she finished, and I've lived up to my promise. "What do you think?" she asks softly, studying my portrait alongside me, her hands resting on my shoulders.
"Mom." I don't breathe. I cannot remember the last time I called her that. I cannot remember the last time I looked so beautiful. For once, I don't look like a broken remainder of a girl. I don't look like a piece of governmental propaganda, dressed sharp to look strong or dressed down to seem vulnerable. I look young and beautiful. I look together, whole. I look like a girl who is going to marry the boy she loves. "It's perfect."
"Right," she says with a curt nod of her head in agreement. I can't help but smile. We wear our emotions, but we don't voice them. "Which leaves your hair. We must do something about it." With an air of authority, she snaps her fingers, calling attention from the closest shop hand. With brisk words, my mother acquires a brush.
"I was rather hoping you would braid it," I confess.
"It would be my honor."
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I add, "Perhaps in two braids. One on either side, like when I was younger." I don't add like Prim's hair, when I volunteered as tribute to take her place. Like Prim, until she grew so fast I couldn't keep up, so fast she slipped through my fingers when I wasn't paying attention.
"Of course." She pulls the brush through my hair, over and over. Careful not to pull on the knots, she takes her time to untangle before she parts it down the middle and begins to braid. I watch her reflection toil in silence. When she's done, she squeezes my shoulders again. "Peeta will love it," she promises.
"Thank you," I tell her, hoping she catches the multi-layers of my thanks.