Page 56 of Ten Christmases Without You
“I can’t find anything to wear to Cadeau that would fit the demographic,” she groaned as she walked down the busy sidewalk. The air smelled of roasted nuts from street vendors and a light snow fell on her shoulders. “I’ve been to three places already and everything’s too expensive. Where should I look?”
“What kind of outfit are you looking for?”
“I imagined wearing something like the drawing I’d done. It’s a drop-waist with cream cuffs. If I could score something like that, with a tall pair of boots and a long winter coat, I’d fit in perfectly. The problem is, I won’t find it in the stores that I can afford.”
“How much would the supplies be to make it?”
“I don’t have time to build a pattern and find someone to sew it.”
“No, silly,youcould make it. You know how to sew; that’s why you were the one who got Mom’s sewing machine.”
“I played around as a kid, but I’ve never made an actual dress.” She shifted her bag to the other shoulder to maneuver around a crowd waiting for the bus.
“There’s a first time for everything. If you design it yourself, you could make whatever you want to wear. And you’re artistic enough to be able to figure it out.”
“What if I spend all the money I have on supplies and I mess up?”
Her sister laughed down the line. “Then don’t mess up!”
Either Madison was completely delusional, or she saw something in Emmy that Emmy couldn’t see in herself. She had watched her mom make a few dresses for them as girls. What she wanted was a simple dress, and she didn’t have to be fancy with the stitching. Any errors could be amended on the inside of the garment, and if she was the only one seeing the inside, if the exterior was presentable, she might get away with it.
“You could be right,” she said.
Madison laughed again. “I’m always right.”
Emmy had a day off from the restaurant, so she might be able to work through the night and make it happen.
With a renewed sense of purpose, and inspired by the spontaneity, Emmy got off the phone with her sister and typed in “fabric shops near me.” She found one a cab ride away, so she hailed a taxi.
She had one day to design and sew her first ever dress. Could she do it?
An hour and a half later, onto the table she lumped bags of fabric, thread, a pair of scissors, a French curve—a drafting tool she’d bought to create smooth, curved lines—grid paper for drawing the pattern, and a measuring tape, and pulled out her mother’s sewing machine.
Carefully, she dusted the top of the case and then unlatched it. Memories played like a slideshow in her mind: Emmy twirlingin her bare feet to the hum of the machine as her mom ran a piece of fabric under the presser foot; her little fingers on her mother’s while she sat on her lap one rainy day; the puddle of fabric at her feet as she built with blocks on the floor. She lifted the cover, her heart pattering. Underneath was the Bernina 930 Recordsewing machine, her mother’s pride and joy.
She cleared the salt and pepper shakers off the table and lifted the heavy machine onto it. Then, she pushed it to the side and pulled out the fabric, smoothing it out. A shot of worry whizzed through her, but she ignored it. Even if she wasn’t successful and wasted all her spare cash on this, the truth was that she couldn’t have bought anything suitable anyway. With a deep breath, she took the measuring tape from the bag, along with the rest of the supplies, setting them in straight lines the way her dentist prepared tools on his paper-lined silver tray.
She brought her sketchbook over to the workspace and examined her drawing carefully, noting the details: the silhouette, the location of each seam, and where she had made small embellishments. Then, she scrutinized the neckline, sleeve style, hem length, and the fit she wanted. Once she knew what she needed, she stripped off her jeans and sweater and wrapped the measuring tape around her waist, then jotted down the measurement. She continued, measuring the tops of her arms, their length, the distance from her waist to her interior inseam, and all the spots she’d need precise measurements for.
Her sketch now labeled in numbers, she pulled out her grid paper and drew a pattern with her measurements and calculations. Using her ruler for the straight lines and theFrench curve, she shaped the armholes and neckline with a pencil. It took her a few tries, erasing and starting over, before she had the measurements drawn out in visual form.
As the sun went down behind the gray overcast sky, Emmy barely noticed. Her entire focus was on the garment.
Once she had the fabric cut—the measurements checked for the fifteenth time—and pinned, she stared at her creation, suddenly frozen.
She’d enjoyed sewing with her mom on occasion, but did she have what it took to dothis? She closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breath to keep her hands from trembling. Her chest rose slowly and then fell, again, and then again.
Mom, show me how to do this.
She opened her eyes to her empty apartment. Sharpening her hearing, she strained, yearning to distinguish her mother’s soft voice from the hiss of traffic outside her window. But there was nothing.
She couldn’t stop now. Her eyes stinging with tears that had waited since she was fifteen, she connected the foot pedal and power cord. Tipping her head up, she looked around the room, trying to feel her mother somehow. Why wasn’t she coming down here to help? Emmy turned on the machine using the power switch on the right side, then twisted the handwheel to raise the needle to its highest position.
What had she been thinking, letting Madison talk her into this? She wasn’t good enough to sew a dress for a meeting with a billionaire designer. How could she ever have thought this was a good idea?
Emmy inserted a needlefrom her mother’s case, then placed an empty bobbin on the bobbin winder spindle. She threaded the machine through, wrapped the thread around the bobbin a few times, and pushed the winder to the right. She blinked away fear, missing her mother’s gentle embrace. Her eyesight blurred as she bit back tears. This was her mother’s machine, not hers. She was overstepping by thinking she should use it at all. How was she supposed to wind the line? She felt around the sides, trying to remember, becoming more anxious and frantic withevery second that she couldn’t figure it out. She’d always been her mother’s wingman. She’d never managed it solo.
With a jagged breath, her lips wobbling, she folded her arms on the table and dropped her head on them, sobbing.
