Kathleene Donahoo ~ Remnants

“My first mem­o­ry is the sound of Mom’s sewing machine,” her daugh­ter says. “I’d wake to hear it clat­ter­ing through the night like a train. Strange, how com­fort­ing that was.” Her grand­daugh­ter mur­murs some­thing that Betty can’t quite catch.

Not strange at all, she wants to tell them—that old Singer was more than a com­fort, it was an anchor, a refuge. She smiles and nods but they don’t notice, just keep talk­ing. She’s for­got­ten their names but that’s okay, she knows exact­ly who they are—her girls.

Besides, she remem­bers more than they’ll ever know. It all comes rush­ing back—the small rent­ed house where she sat at the kitchen table while the baby slept, feed­ing fab­ric through the black Singer. Sometimes work­ing through the night, fueled by cof­fee, cig­a­rettes, and sheer exhil­a­ra­tion. The fren­zied rush to stitch that last hem before it was time to get break­fast going, pack Hal’s lunch, change and feed her daughter—all while cast­ing side­long glances at the new dress, sway­ing from the door­frame on a wire hanger.

The rus­tle of the tis­sue-paper pat­terns, the hiss of the steam iron, the steady rhythm of a long seam. Betty tries to describe all this, but can’t hear her own voice, only her girls’ voic­es, going places where she can’t follow.

Mind your fin­gers, or that nee­dle will go right through them! Now it’s her own moth­er she hears, exas­per­at­ed by Betty’s pleas to use the sewing machine. Four years old, and perched proud on two Sears cat­a­logs to reach it, her moth­er foot­ing the peddle.

The thrill of mak­ing her own jumpers and blous­es and skirts. Eyelet along the neck, rick­rack along the hems. Thumbing through books of pat­terns: McCall’s, Simplicity, Butterick, Vogue. Learning to make darts, those tucks at the sides to accom­mo­date her bud­ding breasts. Learning also that home-sewing was not just a thrill but a necessity—store-bought clothes were far beyond her par­ents’ means.

So Betty thrifti­ly stitched her own wed­ding gown, rev­el­ing in the slip­pery white satin. Then mater­ni­ty smocks, baby pinafores, lit­tle-girl dress­es, out­fits for dolls and stuffed bears.

Her eye on the lat­est teen styles, she made faux-suede vests. Hot pants and bell-bot­toms, miniskirts and maxidress­es. But her daugh­ter pre­ferred store-bought blue jeans and T‑shirts. Still Betty sewed on, for her­self and for friends she made while work­ing at the doctor’s office. Blazers with padded shoul­ders. Throw pil­lows and bed­spreads. Kitchen cur­tains with pom-pom fringe and lined drapes for drafty front windows.

When Hal left them with no mon­ey or for­ward­ing address, her twen­ty hours a week in the doctor’s office weren’t enough. So she added anoth­er thir­ty hours at a con­ve­nience store, and came home too tired for any­thing but sleep. The old Singer gath­ered dust on a shelf.

Should have made him a poly­ester leisure suit before he took off, Betty says. He would have looked good in char­treuse. Her girls don’t hear that, and just as well—the nine­teen-sev­en­ties are ancient his­to­ry now.

During the nineties the doc­tor retired, and a few years lat­er the con­ve­nience store closed. No one want­ed to hire a sev­en­ty-year-old woman with a bad hip. Betty could retire, her accoun­tant son-in-law con­clud­ed, if she stuck to a budget.

Of course she’d always mind­ed her pen­nies. Besides, she was itch­ing to make her own clothes again. Maybe even a lit­tle extra mon­ey doing cus­tom sewing and alterations.

Her daugh­ter was skep­ti­cal, but drove her to a huge store in a strip mall. Betty knew that Fay’s Fine Fabrics was long gone. But this place, with its end­less aisles of beads and fake flow­ers and doll­house kits? She was exhaust­ed by the time they got to the sewing section—a cou­ple dozen bolts of cloth and a file cab­i­net of pat­terns crammed in the back. What a measly selec­tion, and so shoddy—the fab­rics shiny, almost sticky to the touch. Betty held up a bolt to show her daugh­ter how the print­ed design was all crooked. She squint­ed at the price tags in dis­be­lief. And not a sin­gle bar­gain-bin of remnants!

That night at din­ner Betty stared down at her plate. “Sewing doesn’t make sense any­more, it hasn’t for a long time,” her daugh­ter said. “Imported clothes are so much cheap­er. The world has changed.”

“It’s a win-win,” her grand­daugh­ter added. “Foreign fac­to­ry work­ers get jobs, and we get inex­pen­sive clothes. American women have bet­ter things to do with their time.”

What bet­ter things? Betty wants to ask them now. And what’s she doing in this strange bed? She scratch­es her shoul­der, and a whiff of bleach ris­es from the rough fab­ric. Her fin­gers move along the band­ed neck­line to a tie at the back. How dare they, when she has much nicer clothes she made her­self. She hid them when her daugh­ter sug­gest­ed toss­ing out all those old things.

Betty tries to find her waist, but it’s gone, and she lets her fin­gers fall. No need to go further—she remem­bers now that her breasts are shrunk­en and sag­gy, her arms and legs thin as straight pins. Everything has shift­ed to her bel­ly. Those old things won’t fit.

But they can be altered, just a sim­ple mat­ter of re-doing the darts and let­ting out the side seams. Like she did for that mel­on-shaped nurse in the doctor’s office. Careful as always to fin­ish each seam, so the fab­ric won’t fray.

Her girls talk on and on, about peo­ple Betty doesn’t know. Regular gos­sips, these two. They assume that because her eyes are shut, her ears are, too. But she hears every­thing. Like the approach­ing heavy foot­steps and husky throat-clear­ing, male and self-impor­tant. She knows the type, hav­ing dealt with them all her life. Her girls fall silent.

“The results are back,” the man says, “and it’s what we expect­ed. I’m very sor­ry, but there’s not much more we can do.”

Her girls gasp. Their soft fin­gers grasp hers.

Nonsense! Betty pulls her hands free. There is much more to do, and clear­ly she’s the one to do it. Someone, quick—bring her seam rip­per, tailor’s chalk, and invis­i­ble nylon thread. A few min­utes and she’ll have those old clothes good as new.

“Look, she’s upset,” her grand­daugh­ter says.

More foot­steps, and a woman’s voice: “Here’s some­thing to calm her.” The voice comes clos­er. “Just a lit­tle pinch, dearie.”

Dearie? First a pinch, then an icy burn. She has fol­lowed her mother’s advice and mind­ed her fin­gers, but not her arms, and this nee­dle goes deep­er and deep­er, freez­ing her in place.

No, she says. Stop that. Look, I have more to do. Please. Just let me finish.

~

Kathleene Donahoo’s fic­tion has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Carolina Quarterly, Ellery Queen, New Flash Fiction Review, North American Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and oth­er jour­nals and antholo­gies. She has a PhD in Economics from Yale, and is cur­rent­ly work­ing on a nov­el and short sto­ry col­lec­tion. To learn more, see KathleeneDonahoo.com.