After feeding the fuzzy little insomniac, I fill my tummy with raisin bran and start the task I have put off too long. Starting in my closet, I sort my inventory for the upcoming bazaar. I plan to make silk woven earrings, bracelets, as well as a shit ton of embroidery hoops. Some customers like to display my art more than they like wearing it. So far, I have a few solid pieces that I have upcycled from my years of thrifting.
I lay out five vintage band shirts, cropped and trimmed with lace. Three necktie skirts, adorned with metal studded waistlines and four bedazzled jackets.
Of course, I held onto my stud setter from childhood. Ordinary pieces can easily be jazzed up with a row of rhinestones. My favorite piece to date is the one that brings all the warm and fuzzies back for me. The notorious world of Lisa Frank had my mom pulling out her hair over the number of stickers I littered my bedroom furniture with. How could she be mad when she played a part in creating this monster? I was given all the trapper keepers, folders, and pencils available on the market. My childhood was colorful, and I was clearly spoiled, but it brought me joy.
Now I chase that high, making wearable art in an attempt to return to a simpler time. Dolphins leap from the water in the shape of a heart, on the back of a consigned jean jacket. It took nearly an entire day to paint the back, plus some bedazzling to tie it all together. I planned to display this magnificent piece in my booth at the event. After sorting and pricing the items that are ready to go, I lay out the unfinished projects on my bed.
Definitely a lot more work than I remember. Andrea is handling the new banner for my booth, designing and printing it at one of the companies she freelances with. She drew the logo herself, insisted it’s a gift and my money is no good to her.
I push the majority of the projects aside; I’m in the mood to embroider today. Customers seem to like those catchy phrases to hang up in their houses. Sayings such as;Shoes Off BitchesorCome Back With a Warrant.They’re easy enough to make, and even grandmas find the idea absolutely hilarious.
I begin setting out different colored threads, various needle types, wooden hoops, and yards of fabric onto the coffee table in the living room. Thelma nestles back inside her little skull cave, only leaving her little legs poking out. I sail through chain stitches, which I normally struggle with, and finish by adding French knots around the wordBITCHESfor emphasis. The satin stitch takes the longest, but it looks so clean and vibrant when you add bold faced words in your embroidery. Eight hoops with hilarious catchphrases take me all the way to nightfall.
My body feels stiff from remaining in the same spot most of the day. Andrea sometimes makes it home for dinner, so I decide to be a good housewife and make food. Leaving the projects right where they lie, I scrounge the kitchen for ingredients. Once I find what I need, I set to work on broccoli and cheese soup. My brother taught me how to make it when we were young. With him being five years older, our parents put him in charge when they were working or traveling.
My parents worked in real estate and dabbled in investments. Their long list of clients meant late nights at the office and little time for family bonding. As we grew older, they were gone even more, only retiring shortly after Theo died. Now, with no ties to Boston or any responsibilities, they get to enjoy the finer things life has to offer. How nice for them.
I grab milk, butter, cheese, carrots, and broccoli from the fridge. As well as an onion and garlic bulb from the macrame basket, hanging beside the kitchen sink. The remaining ingredients sit atop a slightly unlevel shelf we have yet to get around to fixing, even though we’ve lived here for a number of years. I set to work, chopping veggies, grating cheese, and melting butter on the stove.
“Pleeeaaase… I promise I’ll be careful!” I begged my brother to let me chop the veggies, while he worked the stove. “I’m the Susan chef and you're the head cook!” I instructed my big brother. Placing a chef’s hat on the counter for him to wear.
I loved making things. Whether it was out of paper or food, I desired to create something new. He looks back at me, and I see the corner of his lip pull up into a small smile.
“I think you mean sous-chef.” My brother signs, ‘second chef’ before beckoning me over to the cutting board beside him.
I place my paper hat upon my head, causing my bangs to push down slightly into my vision. At least I could still see well enough if I tilted my chin slightly toward my chest. Standing on a stool, my brother hovered over me, holding my hand on the knife, while the other was positioned atop a carrot, curling my fingertips inward so they were out of harm's way. He guided me through three cuts before letting go, allowing me to experience the force behind the slice. I had to lean all my weight forward to make it through the root.
“Good. Keep going. Careful not to cut yourself.” He instructs, while he seared the meat and transferred the drippings to a Dutch oven, I wanted to make something special too.
I used the tip of the sharp knife to make the carrot slices into star shapes, by carving out little triangles around the edge. I had six stars finished before I glanced up to tell him about it. Not looking at my next cut, the circular veggie got away fromme and my finger wasn’t clear of the knife. Blood welled from the edge of my ring finger. Ahead of my cry, Theo was by my side, kitchen towel in hand.
“Shhhh.” He cradled my hand, examining the finger to make sure it’s not too bad. “Look, it’s still there. Just a small cut.”
I was more upset with myself for making a mistake than I was about the pain. I used my free hand to pull the paper chef hat off my head, causing it to tumble to the floor.
Theo looked at me, not tenderly but with something different in his eyes. “Do you see this?”
My blurry vision attempted to focus on the orange shape in his hand.
“This couldn’t have happened without this.” He held up my sheltered hand, next to the carrot. The red complimented the orange, tragic, yet somehow beautiful. “You can’t grow without some pain, Cindel.” He looked mad, but I knew he wasn’t. “Don’t stop pursuing what you love because you’re scared of getting hurt. Use it as a lesson and keep going.”
I know now the look he gave me was one of determination. Someone who knew life could be ugly and cause discomfort but also knew not to take it for granted. He always understood life was precious.
The pad of my thumb rubs idly over the tiny, raised scar on my ring finger. I couldn’t discern if it was the onions in the pan or the recollection of my brother behind my fresh wave of tears. Regardless, I continue through the cooking steps, occasionally patting the corner of my eyes with my sleeve. Before long, I had a pot full of cheesy goodness. Turning the dial to low, I decide to hop in the shower since Andrea still isn’t home. My stomach growls in protest, after I emerge dressed. Still no, Andrea. I shouldn’t be surprised; she told me she had some big projects coming up. I pulled out my phone to text my missing roommate.
Cindel: Hey, I made your fav! Broccoli and Cheese Soup. Are you on your way home?
I watch little dots appear. Disappear. Appear. Then a text comes through.
Andrea: Hey, sorry! I’m going to be a little longer. Go ahead and dig in. I’ll have a bowl when I get home. Thanks!
I text back a thumbs up emoji, before dishing myself a heaping serving, and cuddling up on the couch to enjoy my favorite show,The Sopranos. Andrea doesn’t understand my appeal to the show; she says it’s unrealistic. As if her preferred happy-ending genres are any better. My eyes race along the words on the screen, absorbing every dramatic gangster scenario Tony finds himself in. Somehow, I find the show cathartic, even though logically, I know it’s morally wrong. I’m not about to become some sort of criminal. The family stuck to a code which made it predictable when someone went astray.
I finish my bowl of soup and set it down beside my collection of stitched hoops. Just as the next episode begins, I feel my eyes growing heavy. I tell myself if I just rest my eyes, I can make it through one more episode. I can’t fight it… losing track of time between scenes of ‘not being able to refuse a request on his daughter’s wedding day’ and Johnny being dragged out of the wedding reception.
I startle when I feel someone touching me. Opening my eyes, I find Andrea sitting just in front of me, rubbing my upper arm gently.
“Hey.” She smiles down at me.
