Chapter 7 - What I Kept Folded Under the White Cloth
I didn't lift it because he asked. I lifted it because Mom made that small sound from the bed, not quite a word, and her eyes stayed on me until I understood.
The man was still in the doorway. He hadn't stepped into the bedroom all the way. His shoes were on the wood just past the white doorframe, and his shadow cut across the floor toward the sewing machine. I could hear him breathing. Slow. Like he was trying not to take up too much air.
I turned back to the machine. The top layer of white fabric was still under the needle where I'd stopped. My right hand ached under the bandage. I used my left to smooth the edge flat.
"Don't touch it," I said.
He held up both hands a little. "I won't."
That was the thing. He listened. Most grown-ups who came to the door didn't.
Mom shifted on the bed behind him. The cover rustled. I didn't look at her yet. I kept my eyes on the fabric because if I looked at her I would get scared again about how thin her face looked in daylight.
The kitchen was quiet except for the refrigerator humming and the tick of the machine cooling. Light came in from the window over the sink and laid a warm line across the wood floor and up the side of the black machine. The gold detailing caught it. The little rose plate winked.
I pinched the corner of the top white layer between my thumb and forefinger of my left hand. My bandaged fingers on my right hand couldn't grip right, so I tucked them under to hold the bottom steady.
Slow, I told myself. Show just enough.
I folded the top layer back.
Underneath wasn't white. Not anymore. The underside was a patchwork of old mending, tiny stitches so close they looked like print. Gray thread on white. White thread on gray. Someone — me — had gone over the same seam maybe twenty times to keep it from giving out. In one spot I'd put a small square of fabric behind a tear and stitched around it in a tight box. You could barely see it from the top if you didn't know to look. From underneath, you could see all the work.
The man leaned forward without stepping closer. His suit pulled at his shoulders.
I heard his breath catch.
"That's handwork," he said quietly.
I didn't answer. I let him look. The stitches were uneven in one row where my finger had started bleeding that morning. I'd kept going anyway because Mrs. Calloway at the church needed the altar cloth back by Sunday and she paid in cash and cash meant medicine.
Mom made that sound again. I glanced back.
She was on her side, watching. Her dark hair was stuck to her cheek with sweat. She gave the smallest nod. Just her chin moving down and up. It meant there is more. Don't stop there.
My stomach tightened. I knew what she meant. Under the mended layer there was another fold, thicker. The thing we didn't talk about. The thing I'd sewn a pocket for so it would stay flat and quiet under the machine where nobody looked.
I wasn't ready to show that part.
I looked at the man. He was staring at the underside, at the careful repair. His face wasn't serious like at the door anymore. It was something else. His eyes moved along the stitches like he was counting them.
"You did this?" he asked.
I nodded.
"How old—" He stopped himself. "No. Sorry."
He glanced toward Mom, then back to me. The wristwatch on his wrist slipped a little when he lowered his hands. The little tattoo on his hand moved when he flexed his fingers. He wanted to reach out. I could tell by the way his hand lifted half an inch and then stopped.
"Can I—" he started.
"No touching," I said fast.
He nodded right away. "Okay. No touching."
I held the fold open three more seconds so Mom could see I obeyed her halfway. Then I laid the top white layer back down, smoothing it with my left palm. I tucked the edges neat under the presser foot again, covering everything. The machine looked plain again. Just white fabric waiting to be sewn.
The man exhaled. He looked at Mom.
She blinked slow. That was her way of saying good. Not yet.
"There's more underneath, isn't there?" he said. Not loud. Not to me, exactly. Just out in the room.
Neither of us answered. The refrigerator hummed. A car went past outside, tires on dry pavement.
I put both hands in my lap so he couldn't see them shaking. "You can see the rest later," I said. "If Mom says."
May you like
He looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded, once, and stepped back half a step so his shadow wasn't on the machine anymore.
"Okay, Lily," he said. "Later."
