The Last Stitch

Angie dressed in her prettiest nightie, arranged herself on the bed, and waited to die.

Angie Bandowski, a full time member of the hard luck club, had handed in her resignation. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” She’d heard it time and time again, but she wasn’t strong, and she’d had enough. Maybe she hadn’t taken enough pills to do the job. She could not face the humiliation of ending up in the hospital, fingers pointing, whispering, but most of all, the pity. Another thing she couldn’t do right.

Born the only child of a struggling but happy family, Angie had it all until her father was taken from her after fighting cancer for a very long time. Then her mother took up with Syl, and Angie's fairytale life became a nightmare of unwanted affection and abuse, both she and her stepfather kept from her mother. At sixteen she made her getaway and never looked back.

Angie wasn't beautiful but she was pretty, aside from the pock-marks the years of drug abuse had left on her face. Her hair was shoulder-length and only shined for a day after she shampooed it, then it would fade to a drab brown. Drab, like Angie's life.

They say your life passes before your eyes just before you die. All Angie could see was the water stains she counted on the ceiling as she clasped and unclasped her hands impatient for the moment the hurt would stop. Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, hmmm thirty-six stains--one for every year of her horrid life

Closing her eyes, lying ever so still she was pulled from her “death rehearsal” by the ticking of the clock. Ticking? She didn’t have but a cheap battery operated alarm clock permanently set for a seven a.m. wake-up. That is, until she was laid off.

Sales were down, she was told, but still they chose to keep Bernadette, who had started working at Smiths Grocers four months after Angie. I could have picked up the new system if they had given me a little more time to learn, she replayed her final moments at Smiths. But they didn’t and she hadn’t and now she was out of a job.

Turning towards the ticking sound she was startled by the figure of an old woman sitting in the chair by the window. “Who are you? How--? What are you doing in my room? Am I dead?”
The woman looked up and with a toothless smile said, “No you ain’t dead.”

“But I-- you--how did you get in? What do you want?” It was then she noticed the ticking was in fact, clicking, coming from where the old lady sat. Angie pulled herself up, propping weakly on her elbows, straining to further see the figure by the window.

Dressed in a blue flowered, button-up frock with a matronly collar, covered by a threadbare, faded pink sweater, the old lady reached up and smoothed a stray whisp of silver hair that teased her forehead.

The light from the neon sign ouside, cast an eerie crimson glow on the woman.
“I wants nothing,” the old lady replied, as she turned toward the bed. Angie gasped, two red opaque eyes looked in her direction.
“You can’t see! You’re blind!" she blurted.
“Oh, I sees what I needs to see,” chortled the old woman.
“But your eyes--how?” Angie questioned. And then she laughed.
“I’m imagining all this. This is what happens--the pills--oh Angiegirl you almost added insanity to your list!” and then she laughed again. “I can’t even get crazy right.”

“Your doing fine as I sees it,” admonished the woman. Again the clicking caught Angie’s attention.
“Yeah, right--you’re not here and I’m not hearing that.”
“Hearing what?” asked the lady, a confused look on her face.
“That clicking sound--don’t you hear it?” Angie abandoned her conclusion that the spectre and noise were all in her head.
“Oh, this? That’s just my needles clicking and clacking as I catch the unravelling.” The old woman held up the piece she was knitting.
“Nothing makes sense. Knitting, unravelling, clicking, clacking--I must be close,” Angie reasoned.
“Yes, if you means the end, you are.” the old woman sighed. “See? There’s not much left to gather now.”

Angie’s head began to reel. “I don’t understand,” she moaned, feeling heavy and light at the same time. “Are you an angel?”
“Me? Landsakes no! I just gather the unravelling. You’ll see.”
“I’m so tired,” Angie spoke, barely audible.
The old woman glanced over to the bed. ”Almost done,” she sighed again, then cast off the last stitch on her needles and rising slowly from the chair, shuffled slowly over to where Angie lay barely breathing.

Gently lifting Angie’s hand, the old woman placed it on the square she had knitted. “Open your eyes, she commanded. “Look into mine.” Angie blinked and tried to focus on the woman’s eyes.
A little girl wrapped in a lace trimmed blanket. The old woman moved her hand over the square. Pink ribbons holding back shiny brown hair from a cherub’s face.
“Who’s daddy’s princess?” The man laughed as he held a little Angie high in his arms.

Another vision with every movement of her hand across the knit.
The stitches varied,-- soft and even.
“Momma!” Angie smiled weakly. Loosely knitted with dropped stitches--Angie saw her daddy, laid out in his Sunday suit and Momma crying.
“Daddy’s an angel now Angie. He’s in heaven with Grampa John” On and on, tight and twisted--Angie felt the sharp sting of her stepfather’s hand across her face.
“No one will believe you,” he snarled, his hot breath on her cheek. “You’re lucky I took up with your mother. I pay the bills. You’d starve without me!.” Angie cringed.

Fuzzy and loose--Angie saw herself doped up and rock bottom. Neat and organized--released from the rehabilitation program, starting her job at Smiths. When she came upon a large hole in the stitches, tears filled her eyes for the baby she had given up.

As her hand passed over the different stitches, a new vision from Angie’s life reflected in the old woman’s eyes until she came to where she lay, in her prettiest nightie, waiting to die.
The old woman leaned down, kissed Angie’s forehead, then gently folded the knitted square, and faded as Angie breathed her last breath.


“Congratulations!--It’s a girl!” Under a dainty pink blanket, a baby girl lays sleeping in the Nursery Ward, while her proud parents coo lovingly. In another room on another floor an old man, hooked up to monitors visits with his family who have come to say goodbye. No one sees the old woman sitting quietly in the corner. No one hears the click clack, click clack, of her needles, as she gathers the unravelling.