My Cousin Walked Up To Me At The Family BBQ And Asked
The White Dress and the Crisis
My cousin walked up to me at the family BBQ and asked: “Why are you wearing white after Labor Day?”
I laughed: “Since when do you care about fashion rules?”
My cousin Paul didn’t laugh back. His face went pale and he kept glancing around like he was looking for backup.
Before I could ask what his problem was, Aunt Paige practically sprinted across the yard and wrapped me in the tightest hug I’d ever received.
“Not this. Not today,” she whispered into my hair, her voice trembling.
Over her shoulder I could see Uncle Ted pulling out his phone with trembling hands. My grandmother had stopped mid-conversation with the neighbors and sank into a lawn chair, wiping her tears away.
“Aunt Paige, you’re scaring me.”
I tried to pull away but she held on tighter, like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go. That’s when I noticed everyone staring.
My cousin Sienna, who never missed a chance to make snide comments about my appearance, had tears streaming down her face. Her brother Jake was approaching with a full plate of food, his hands visibly shaking.
“You should eat something,” Jake said softly.
I just ate 20 minutes ago. My voice came out smaller than I intended.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
My mother materialized at my side, her eyes giving away her panic.
“Let’s go inside and find you something else to wear, honey.”
“Mom, it’s a barbecue. I’m not changing clothes. Please.”
Her voice cracked.
“We need to talk.”
My cousin Amy positioned herself between me and the pool, trying to look casual but clearly blocking my path.
“Are you feeling okay? Like really okay? You’re not sad or anything?”
The entire family seemed to be slowly surrounding me, creating a human barrier between me and any water. Even the coolers full of ice had been mysteriously moved to the far side of the yard.
It all made my head spin. I reached for the picnic table to steady myself and instantly had six relatives at my side.
Someone said: “She’s not well.”
And another voice added: “I knew this would happen.”
Dr. Mayaboo, my mother’s friend who’d been invited to the BBQ, appeared with her medical bag.
“Let me check your vitals, sweetheart.”
She was already wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm while everyone watched anxiously.
“I’m fine. I just got dizzy because everyone’s acting insane.”
“I think we should go to the hospital,” Dr. May announced after checking my pupils, “just to be safe.”
“The hospital for wearing white?”
But no one responded. Instead, they practically shoved me towards her car. Dr. Mayaboo spoke quietly to the triage nurse who took one look at our group and immediately let us back.
They ran blood tests, monitored my heart, asked dozens of questions about my mental state. A psychiatrist I’d never met entered with a gentle smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m Dr. Black. I understand you’ve been under some stress. Have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself?”
“What number? Why would you even ask that?”
“Sometimes trauma anniversaries can trigger unexpected reactions,” a nurse added while adjusting an IV I didn’t even need.
“Any recent anxiety around water, swimming pools, beaches, boats?”
That’s when my mother burst through the door. Her face was already streaked with tears and she looked at me with an expression of pure terror.
“Take it off,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Please, baby, just take off the white dress.”
“Mom, you’re scaring me. What is this about?”
She collapsed into the chair beside my bed and took my hands in hers. They were ice cold and shaking.
“40 years ago my sister Greta drowned at our family Labor Day picnic. She was 6 years old, wearing her favorite white dress, the one she’d gotten for her birthday.”
I’d never heard of an Aunt Greta.
“I was eight. I was supposed to be watching her but I got distracted playing with my cousins. She wanted to show everyone her pretty white dress. Those were her last words before she ran toward the dock.”
The room had gone completely silent except for the hum of medical equipment.
“Then Uncle James, 5 years later, wore a white suit to a September wedding. His boat capsized that weekend.”
“Then she couldn’t continue.”
“Then what?”
But somehow I already knew.
“Then there was your brother Igor. He was 8 years old, the same age I was when Greta died. He wore white swim trunks to a pool party in September.”
I gasped. We never talked about how Igor died, just that it was a drowning accident when I was two.
“Mom, that’s—those are coincidences. Tragic. Horrible coincidences.”
“You knew how this would affect me!”
She was sobbing now.
“You knew I can’t handle seeing white after Labor Day.”
“Greta drowned because you failed her! Not because of a dress!”
This time she didn’t get to reply. No one did because I stormed out.
