Chapter 14 - I Finished the Last Seam While He Held the Door
The machine was still warm from the morning. I could feel it through my knees where they pressed against the wooden table leg. The white fabric sat folded under the needle, the last edge open like a mouth waiting to close.
I didn't look at him or at Mom. I just lowered the presser foot. My right hand throbbed under the bandages where the needle had caught me before, but I kept my fingers flat the way Mom taught me and eased the cloth forward. The black machine hummed, the gold detailing catching the daylight from the kitchen window, the little metal rose plate cool under my thumb.
That sound filled the whole house. Stitch after stitch, straight and even. I counted them in my head so I wouldn't think about the envelope sitting on the counter or the pharmacy clock ticking down. When I got to the corner, I stopped with the needle down, lifted the foot, turned the fabric, and started again. My breath went shallow. Past the turn, back down the long side, then the final backstitch. I cut the thread with the little side cutter and pulled the garment free.
It was done. A plain white shirt, finished. No loose threads. I held it up and checked the seams against the light.
Mom shifted on the bed. I heard the cover rustle. "Show me," she said, low.
I carried it to the bedroom doorway. He stepped back to let me pass, his suit jacket brushing the white doorframe. Mom reached out a hand from under the light cover and ran her fingers along the hem I had just closed. She nodded once.
"It's good," she whispered. "It's ready."
He cleared his throat. He wasn't looking at the shirt. He was looking at the machine, then at my bandaged hand, then at Mom.
"If that order pays for the medicine," he said, "let me take it in. Tell me where it goes. I'll drive it over, collect the pay, and drive straight to the pharmacy. You won't have to leave her alone."
My chest tightened. A week ago I wouldn't have let him carry groceries across the kitchen. Now he was standing in our hallway offering his car keys like that fixed anything.
Mom looked at me, not at him. "Lily's terms," she said.
I swallowed. The shirt felt heavy in my hands, warm from the machine. I thought of the woman downtown who had given me the piecework, how she said no pay without the finished piece by tonight, cash only. I thought of the empty bottle on the counter. I thought of the proof I had kept separate, folded small and tucked where only Mom and I knew.
"You don't open it. You don't stop anywhere else," I said to him. "You bring back the money and the receipt. And the envelope stays here. You don't take that with you."
He nodded fast, like he was afraid I'd change my mind. "I won't touch the envelope. Just the shirt. Just the pharmacy run."
"Say it plain," Mom said from the bed.
"I'll deliver the work, bring back the pay, and get the medicine," he said. "On her terms."
I folded the shirt carefully in thirds, the way the order lady liked it, smoothing the sleeves flat. I did not pick up the hidden proof. I left that where it was, under the folded cover at the foot of Mom's bed, out of his sight. My hands shook a little as I handed him the shirt.
His hands were big, the small tattoo jumping when he took it. He held it like it might tear, away from his watch so the metal wouldn't snag.
"I'll keep the car running out front," he said quietly. "Take one minute if you need to change the bandage before I go."
I shook my head. "I'm fine. Just go before they close."
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He looked down at me, then past me at Mom lying on her side watching us both. For a second his serious face cracked, and he just looked tired.
"I'll knock before I come back in," he said, and stepped toward the white front door with the finished shirt in his hands.
