Stitches

Stitches

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At eleven years of age, Leah Gregory was nothing special; a smallish girl with dark brown hair, light blue eyes and high cheekbones. Not rail thin nor heavy, she didn’t fit into the social cabinet in which most kids her age were filed. She lived in a tiny Michigan map dot called Ortonville; a town so isolated, you had to drive twenty minutes to reach the nearest McDonald's. Her father Henry worked an assembly line job and her mother Naomi, a closeted alcoholic, stayed home and kept a spotless house as well as a tight protective reign over her children.

Leah was a studious girl obsessed with reading, pop music and daydreaming about the myriad of cut-out teeny-bopper magazine boys that adorned her bedroom wall. She had a sheltered view of the world. To her, it was a wondrous place ruled by a grey haired man named God who answered any wish you gave him. She often wondered when some of these wishes would be granted, but never questioned His existence, nor the mythology attached to it.

Her older brother Allen had an entirely different view toward life. To him, the world was a thing to conquer, nothing short of a grounded universe to prove his manufactured worth. He started abusing drugs at an early age, and had his first sexual experience before reaching full adolescence. Even though Allen was only three years older, their parents often left him in charge of Leah. Twice a week they would make the two hour drive to the nearest hospital for Naomi’s radiation treatment. Free from his mother’s watchful eye Allen turned to Leah for things no brother should ever want from his sister.

In spite of the dysfunctional family situation, Leah was a girl bent on being different, determined to stay away from everything her brother represented, as well as her peer group that did things unimaginably sinful in her eyes.

The summer before she turned twelve, Leah became a woman biologically. Turning this milestone steered her young mind in a lot of different ways, namely toward Raymond Lawrence. Raymond lived just a couple blocks from her one-story slab foundation home.

Raymond’s hair was straight, shaggy and chocolate brown. His eyes were a greenish grey that seemed to change color with his moods. He was extremely thin, as most boys were in the mid-seventies, and gangly in height. His skin was pale, and a spray of light orange freckles adorned his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Raymond had moved to Ortonville at the beginning of summer, and the two became instant friends. They took long walks in the woods by her house picking berries and wild hazelnuts. They spent hours digging up turtle eggs and turning over logs to find fat night crawlers and sleek, black salamanders. At night they would hop on their bikes and ride around the block, talking about music, the upcoming school year, and what kinds of things they wanted to do tomorrow. One day, for no apparent reason, they decided to dig a hole. About half a mile from Leah’s house, there was a section of woods where a rickety log fort had been constructed. Around the fort rose pine trees of gargantuan proportions, and the ground was spongy and fragrant with their fallen needles.

Raymond began by sinking his borrowed spade deep into the cushiony loam, pushing down the blade with the soles of his hand-me-down sneakers. Turning over the clump of dirt near the side of the hole, he broke apart the clod with the spade point, and fished out the large earthworms with his hands.

Leah was never squeamish about these things and took the worms from Raymond, putting them in a small covered bucket so she could later release them in her mother’s garden. She grabbed a hand trowel, which was the only thing she could sneak out without her mother’s notice, and helped him excavate. For about an hour they worked on the hole, and the white tank top Raymond wore became streaked with dirt and sweat. Without a word, he worked the tank top over his head and tossed it aside. It landed on the roof of the log fort. Leah stopped her digging and looked up at him, and some small chemical change pushed her thoughts an increment beyond friendship. His skin was pale and smooth where it hadn’t been exposed to the sun, and she couldn’t suppress a small intake of breath when she noticed the way his wiry muscles reacted to the pushing of the shovel. He was standing knee deep in the soft piney ground, and perspiration had plastered his shaggy hair to his forehead.

Raymond stopped mid-shovel and stared at her.

“What are you looking at, Shorty?" He smiled at her. She suddenly realized how much she liked his smile; broad, a little lopsided and genuine to a fault. His canine teeth had just started their journey downward, and he had small gaps where they would eventually settle. Leah was slightly embarrassed that he’d caught her staring, and looked down at her Cinderella watch.

“Shoot, Ray, it’s almost seven, my mom’s going to be so mad!”

“Let’s go then, we can finish the hole tomorrow!”

They had to walk to the starting point of the trail, since the soft earth made biking unrealistic. Leah let Raymond take the lead, and she almost reminded him of his missing shirt, but didn’t. She was enjoying the view too much.

At the end of their walk they straddled their bikes and rode beside each other in awkward silence. And way too soon, they arrived at Leah’s house.

Raymond looked at the ground, avoiding eye contact. He had also felt a change in chemistry between them, and his pre-adolescent body had reacted in an interesting way; a fact he was trying to hide at the moment.

“Well, then, good night,” he mumbled, turning his head away.

“’G’night Ray,” she echoed, her heart rate increasing.

Leah’s mother was sitting in her worn rocking chair, her glass of Wild Irish Rose condensed with moisture brooding on the end table. A cigarette was in her left hand, and judging from the length of the ash, she had become too drunk to flick it into the ashtray. Her bright red lipstick was smeared and circled the end of the cigarette.

“Where have you been?” she slurred, taking a deep drag off the smoking stick. She blew the smoke upward, where it hovered in a noxious cloud above her head.

“Um… Me and Ray were digging a hole out in the woods.”

Her mother’s deep Kentucky accent became more pronounced as she yelled, “I know you were doing more, just look at the dirt stains on your knees, you’re so loose, you HAVE no morals!”

Leah sobbed. “Mommy, honestly, me and Ray were JUST digging, that’s all we were doing!”

“I saw he had no shirt. Where was his shirt? Did you take off your shirt too? Oh God, what will this do to your reputation?”

Leah backed up just in time to avoid her mother’s hand, as it lashed out to slap her face. The inebriated woman lost her balance and crumpled to the floor, looking more like an emaciated pile of sticks than a human.

“Mommy, are you okay? Mom?”

But Leah could tell the woman that gave her life had passed out. It happened every night. She removed the long-ashed cigarette from her mother’s hand and snubbed it out in the olive green ash tray.

She picked up the tiny twig of a woman and carried her like a baby to the double bed shared by her Mom and Dad. The bedroom smelled of stale wine and urine, a product of years of nightly emesis from alcohol abuse. Gagging a little, she closed the bedroom door, knowing her mother wouldn’t remember their conversation, nor that she had been out too late. For once, she was glad her mother was a heavy drinker.


The next day, Leah wolfed down a frosted cherry Pop Tart and ran out the door before anyone in the house awakened. She rode with blinding speed to Raymond’s house, stopping and staring in disbelief at what she saw. There was a U-Haul truck in front of his house, and Ray’s dad and two other men were hauling the last bits of furniture out of the two-story bungalow.

“Hey Mr. Lawrence, is Ray home?” she asked, as a fist of pain formed in her heart. She already knew the answer.

“No, honey, he left with his Mother and Sherri a couple hours ago. Didn’t he tell you we were moving to Georgia? We had to do it a couple weeks early, because they‘re saying bad weather is coming our way, and I wanted to get us moved before it happened.”

Uncontrolled tears coursed down her face. “No he didn’t tell me anything. We were digging a hole yesterday, and…” she couldn’t continue, she started sobbing and rode away fast, before she embarrassed herself in front of Raymond‘s Dad. Leah pedaled swiftly as her eleven year legs could move, and threw her bike aside, sprinting into the woods. She took the sandy path to the stand of gigantic pines and saw the gnarled wood fort jutting from the pine needle ground cover. Seeing a flash of white on the roof, she dragged a fallen log to the side of the small structure and stood on top. Her fingertips barely reached the edge of the tee shirt and she pulled it down, inhaling deep, choking breaths of his scent. She sat down in the hole they dug together, and soaked the white cotton with her tears.

The next five years were uneventful, filled with the mundane chores of school, homework and avoiding trouble. Naomi’s radiation treatments were over, and she was pronounced cancer-free. This meant her mother was home more often, and Leah could breathe a little easier regarding her brother and his perverse ways. At nineteen, Allen was arrested and jailed for grand larceny and possession of controlled substances. The incarceration broke the cycle of dysfunction, and every person in the Gregory household, Henry included, was inwardly happy the young man was out of their lives.

Leah, who was bright and vocally gifted, was offered an early scholarship to the University of Michigan Choral Department. Mere moments after Leah left for college, her mom began redecorating her room, and the first thing to go to the curb was Leah’s bed pillow, made from Raymond’s old tank top.

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The garbage men were making their rounds and stopped in front of the Gregory residence.

“Hey Bob, come look at this!” exclaimed the grungy, balding driver.

Bob loped over to see what had excited his friend.

“Wow, have you ever seen such intricate stitching?” Bob whispered in awe.

His work buddy looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You want it, it’s yours!”

“Gee, thanks, John!” Bob grinned, and snatched the skillfully embroidered pillow from the heap of furniture and old teen magazines.

At the end of the work day Bob said good bye to John and picked up his bag of findings. Today, he’d managed to recycle a really cool Elvis lamp (gaudy would have been a better description,) a semi-usable colander and the beautifully embroidered pillow. When he got home, his wife Roz kissed his dirty cheek. She wrinkled her nose and patted his back.

“Honey, your bath is ready!”

Good old Roz, she always had his bath waiting when he got home, and had supper on the table as soon as he got out of the tub. Bob had no clue what he had done to deserve a woman of such caliber. Sure she was a bit uneducated, but hey, who needs an understanding long division when you have an infinite amount of love to give someone? Bob shook his head, amazed that a big word such as infinite had entered his brain.

He smacked Roz on her ample bottom, leaving a smudgy handprint. “You’re gonna have to wash that, you know!” she teased him.

“Yeah, yeah, keep on talkin’ woman, I’m taking my bath!”

Roz smiled as Bob walked down the short hallway and closed the bathroom door. She checked on the pot roast, and slid a pan of brownies on the bottom oven rack. Wiping her hands on her apron, she spied the paper bag her husband tossed on the couch.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Roz mumbled to herself as she pulled out the horrendous Elvis lamp and sat it on top of the television console. “Hmmm, I could use this,” was her reaction to the semi-intact colander. “Wow,” was her thought on the pillow. Delicate blue trumpets of embroidered morning glories entwined their way up the sides of a weathered playhouse. The playhouse was stitched in varying shades of brown with flecks of black and moss green. The surrounding grounds were created with meticulous two millimeter needling, layered in alternating brick-like patterns. She turned over the pillow and found some tiny words sewn with thin, light pink thread almost hidden in the folds by the ruffled fringe. She pulled out her magnifying glass and plugged in the Elvis lamp, which sputtered to life casting a pall of yellow light.

My love for you will last, like stitches in my heart…

Roz wiped away a tear. “How beautiful.”

She straightened the crocheted afghan draped over the brown Naugahide sofa and placed the pillow in the corner, next to the arm of the couch. It looked pretty there, but Roz thought it would have a much happier home as a decorative bauble for their antique quilted bedspread.

The words sewn into the pillow’s edge put her in a romantic mood. She checked her reflection in the bedroom mirror, and smoothed down her chin-length graying hair. At fifty-six she had the figure of a woman much younger, and the only indication of her true age was the grey in her hair and a few crow's feet around her light turquoise eyes.

From the closed door she heard Bob’s rich bass crooning one of her favorite songs, Love Me Tender.

Roz spritzed herself with Windsong, and touched up her lipstick. With a sly smile, she slowly opened the bathroom door.

That night, the pot roast was very tender, but the brownies were a bit burnt.

Two years after his retirement from the Sanitation Department, Bob Witherspoon caught a cold. Two years after that, he lost a valiant battle with lung cancer. Roz was unable to live in a house rife with so many memories, so she started making preparations to move to Tennessee to be with their son Derrick and his extended family.

While packing the linens, Roz lay the embroidered pillow aside and carefully folded the heirloom quilt, placing it in the bottom of the box. Next were the red flannel sheets, then the pillowcases and shams. When the box was almost full, she placed the garbage-picked pillow on top of the pile. Looking down at the lovingly stitched creation, she started crying, snatched it from the cardboard cube and tucked it away in her overnight bag.

Life in Tennessee was livable for Roz, she enjoyed seeing her grandkids and her son. But Bob’s passing affected her deeply and soon she started forgetting things. At first, it was her car keys, then it was the names of pets, friends and family.

When she started forgetting the basics, how to swallow her food and take care of her personal needs, her son and his wife hired an in-home nurse to watch over his mother while they were at work. It was heartbreaking and difficult; but in the end, as Roz passed away quietly in her own bed surrounded by friends and family, it was worth it.

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The church bells at Sacred Heart Parish in Dearborn, Michigan were heralding the baptism of Genevieve Theresa Kennedy. Caren Kennedy sat in the front row pew holding her infant daughter.

She kissed the top of her baby girl’s head nuzzling into the shock of velvety black hair. Genevieve looked up at her mother with almond eyes so dark, you’d have to use a penlight to see the pupils.

For any onlooker, it was obvious Genevieve wasn’t part of the Kennedy gene pool, but she could not be any more theirs if she had grown inside Caren’s womb. Espen Kennedy sat next to his wife and held out his hands for his daughter, beaming with pride.

Genevieve’s christening gown wasn’t a traditional white lacy garment. The dress was more of an extended Victorian masterpiece, rich in reds, gold and turquoise blue, traditional Chinese colors. The center panel of the long skirt came from an old pillow Caren found at a garage sale, back when she was newly married and living in southern Tennessee. The needlework was so exquisite, she decided if she ever had a child, part of the design would be incorporated into a quilt, garment or wall hanging for her baby.

When Caren arrived home, she took a seam ripper and carefully dismantled the ruffle. When the long gathered piece fell free to the floor, she stuck her hand through a small opening to pull out the batting. Caren paused mid-handful, and a puzzled look crossed her freckled visage. Her probing digits encountered a large clump of fabric. She pulled out her hand and cut the stitches around the perimeter of the pillow. She shook out the fabric and the last few remnants of stuffing fluttered onto the carpet. To her surprise, the pillow was actually a white cotton tank top. The bottom and top had been folded under, becoming part of the stuffing. She flipped over the shirt and laid it flat on her sewing table. She noticed the almost imperceptible pink words on the back:

My love for you will last, like stitches in my heart…

The delicate rose lettering was carefully cut out and patched onto Genevieve’s baptismal sash.

Caren took the satiny sash in her hands and traced the words with her fingertips. How perfect, she thought. Genevieve smiled at her from Espen’s arms, and as Caren gazed at her sweet caramel face she could feel those stitches working their way into her heart.

Caren’s father sat beside them, looking nervous. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he was proud of his granddaughter, and would do anything for her, even drive over seven hundred miles to see her get baptized. Planes were never an option for him, no. In his mind, you had a chance of surviving a car wreck, but if the plane went down, well, that was another story for another time. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and adjusted his ill-fitting tie. He didn’t like getting dressed up.

This was an especially eventful day for Caren’s father. Unable to have children of their own, he and his wife decided to become foster parents. They guided the lives of many young people, suffering numerous heartaches as well as triumphs. Although Caren was the only ward they eventually adopted, each little soul that crossed their path remained in his thoughts.

Caren looked over at her dad and held his hand. “Daddy, I wish mom could be here to see this”

The man dabbed at the corner of his eyes and stuffed the wrinkled handkerchief in his jacket pocket.

“Me too, sweetie, me too.”

A petite girl with waist-length red hair stepped up to the podium.

Caren smiled. Elizabeth was only fifteen, but she had the voice of an angel. They heard her singing at a local talent show a few weeks back and hired her to do the christening song. The other couple getting their son christened had hired her as well, and Elizabeth looked both nervous and proud to be up there.

Elizabeth began her first song, “Eagle’s Wings,” her dulcet soprano was flawless, and it soared to the rafters of the ancient church, filling the room with its sweetness.

You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord,
Who abide in His shadow for life,
Say to the Lord, "My Refuge,
My Rock in Whom I trust."

Her song wove its way around the congregation while the first baby was brought to the front.

The newborn boy was freed of his vestments and the baptismal ritual performed, culminating n the small red-faced infant flailing his bony arms and arcing a stream of urine into the priests face. The candles were lit, the Godparents recognized and the baby was officially named. Oliver Wendell Wiznesky was a member of the Catholic faith now, and would be raised in a proper manner.

Caren’s father suppressed a laugh with an unneeded cough. Poor kid, he thought, he is going to be teased mercilessly.

The congregation hushed as Oliver Wendell was brought back to the pews, still squalling and flailing his arms.

Elizabeth smiled at the tiny boy and waited patiently for the wailing to stop. The priest readied the font, and nodded to Elizabeth when all was quiet and still.

Espen and Caren rose with Genevieve who was busy chewing on a bright plastic toy and drooling, soaking her elaborate dress. Caren’s father joined them at the altar, as well as Espen’s brother Lou and his wife Gretchen, who were selected as godparents.

The organist began the first arpeggios of Schubert’s Ave Maria. Elizabeth took a deep breath, and sang in perfectly executed Latin.

Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
Et benedictus
Et benedictus fructus ventris
Ventris tuae, Jesus
Ave Maria

Espen removed his daughter’s elaborate gown, draping it over the railing near the first row of pews.

Elizabeth’s mother waited in the far right section of the church, fighting tears. No matter how many times her daughter sang that song, it always made her cry. She attended every concert, every talent show, and every stage performance, sometimes living paycheck to paycheck to finance her daughter’s gift. Life after the divorce wasn’t easy for any of them, but she somehow made it work.

The song ended, a delicate diminuendo trailing into silence. Several members of the congregation were crying.

Genevieve was brought back to the pews by her family members, wrapped in a large white cotton towel. Caren realized that she’d forgotten Genevieve’s dress draped over the communion railing.

Caren’s father was nearest to the aisle so he volunteered, “You guys stay here and dry her off, I’ll go fetch the gown!”

He snuck around the edge of the second row of pews and tried to discreetly snatch the gown from the altar, when he heard a gasp.

He turned toward the sound and saw a middle-aged woman sitting at the far right of the church, near the fire exit. Elizabeth was beside her, riffling through a portfolio of sheet music.

The woman’s hair was streaked with grey, and pulled back into a French twist. Her dress was aqua, and he could see a strong resemblance to the girl sitting next to her, especially in the cheekbones and the shape of their mouths.

The service ended, and the parishioners rose to leave.

Elizabeth’s mother approached the graying man. “Where did you get that dress?” she whispered, running her hands over the intricately embroidered front panel.

“My daughter found the skirt design at a garage…” His voice trailed off. The woman’s eyes were light blue, and she was staring into his. A glimmer of recognition passed over his face.

There was no mistaking the color of his eyes, nor the crooked smile that soon engulfed his freckled countenance.

“Raymond?” she asked incredulously. He nodded, his heart skipping to double time.

“What are you looking at, Shorty?” He teased, as he reached for her hand.

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