Chapter 3 - The Bandaged Fingers
He didn't leave. I heard his shoes shift on the wood behind me, not coming closer, not going back out the white door either. The machine was still warm under my hands.
I sat back down at the kitchen table where we'd set it up for the light. The chair leg scraped once. Mom was quiet in the bedroom, but I could hear her breathing from where I sat, that thin pull in and out that got louder when she tried not to make noise.
The white fabric had slipped while I'd stood up. I reached for it and felt his eyes on my hands, so I folded the edge over quick to cover my right fingers. The bandage on my middle finger had already gone gray at the tip from the machine oil. I tucked it under the cloth like that would hide it.
"You don't have to stop on my account," he said.
I didn't answer. I put my foot back on the pedal, slow, and fed the fabric through with my left hand leading. The needle went up and down. The gold markings on the arm blurred a little when it ran fast, so I kept it slow.
He moved to the side of the refrigerator where he could see the table without standing right over me. He pretended to look at the kitchen, at the cabinets and the window over the sink, but his eyes kept coming back to the machine. I watched it in the corner of my eye. He stared at the dial on top, the little numbers, and then down at the metal rose plate by the needle where the thread kept catching the light.
"It's old," he said.
I nodded once. It was Mom's. The black paint was worn off in one spot where her hand used to rest. The rose was still shiny because I wiped it every night with a dry rag.
My right hand throbbed when I curled it around the fabric. I loosened my grip and used the side of my palm instead. The night before, I'd stayed up past midnight at this same table with the lamp pulled close. I had three lengths to finish and I was behind because school let out late for the bus. My eyes kept closing. On the last hem I pushed too close to the needle trying to keep the line straight, and it went right through the edge of my finger next to the nail. Not deep enough for stitches, but enough blood that I had to hold a paper towel on it and couldn't sew for an hour.
I hadn't cried. I'd just sat there listening to Mom cough in the other room and counted in my head what that hour cost. Two dollars and fifty cents a hem if they were clean. I needed twelve hems for the bottle at the drugstore on Fifth. I'd done the math on a receipt with a pencil.
The memory made my face hot. I didn't want him doing that same math looking at me.
"Does that hurt?" he asked, nodding at my hand before I got it fully covered again.
"No," I said. It was too fast. "I'm fine."
He glanced toward the bedroom doorway. Mom hadn't moved. The light cover rose and fell over her shoulder. Each breath sounded wet at the end, like she had to think about finishing it.
"She's been sick long?" he asked, quieter.
I kept my eyes on the needle. "She needs her rest."
I could feel him deciding whether to push it. He had that suit on, that watch, and he stood there in our kitchen like he didn't know where to put his hands. He put them in his pockets, then took them out again. I saw the small tattoo on his hand when he reached up to loosen his collar. It was just a dark mark, nothing I could make out.
"You do this a lot?" He tipped his chin at the machine.
I guided the fabric around a corner, stopped with the needle down, lifted the foot, turned it. "It's piecework," I said. "I get paid per piece."
That wasn't too much to tell. It was true and it didn't tell him anything he could use. I didn't say how much or for what store or when it was due. I kept the finished stack face-down on the far side of the table where he couldn't see the count.
He nodded like he understood more than he did. "That's a lot of work for—" He stopped himself, looked at my bandages again.
I pulled the white fabric a little more to the left, so the bulk of it covered both my hands from where he stood. Underneath, the unfinished hem I'd pinned that morning was still waiting, and under that, what Mom wanted shown. I pressed my palm down flat on top of it all to keep it still.
"I can finish," I said.
It came out harder than I meant. I didn't look up. The machine hummed and the needle kept going, straight and even, even with my fingers the way they were. I made myself breathe normal so my shoulders wouldn't shake.
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Behind me, Mom shifted on the bed. The springs made a soft sound. Her breathing hitched, then settled. She was watching. I knew without turning that her eyes were open, on us, waiting to see what he'd do next.
He looked at the rose plate one more time, then at my hands, then away out the window like he was embarrassed to have stared. He didn't ask again about the money or the bandages. He just stood there by the refrigerator, lingering, while I sewed and guarded the work under my hands.
