San Francisco 1978-81 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Irene Fick

her eyes were scrunched like they hurt. “When will you stop?” I asked again.

“Until, ” she said.

“Until when?”

“Until I feel safe. ” When she unscrunched her eyes, tears ran down her face. I tried to wipe them, but she gently pushed my hands away. “I shouldn ’t sew at night, ” she said. “Ruk, go to bed. ”

I fell asleep, and when I woke in the morning, my mother was still sewing.

The outside of a piece is important, but equally as important is the inside. The underside of a garment should always have finished seams. Finished seams look polished and neat, and they prevent unraveling or shredding, which can show through to the front.

One night Bopal found me surfing lollipop sites like some women surf for shoes. I would add them to my cart and then close the window down to avoid the temptation of buying any. I tried to click away, but he had seen. After that Bopal used to randomly leave lollipops underneath my pillow, calling himself the

“fairy popmother. ” (“I know, the pun isn ’t exactly right, ” he ’d tease.)

The first time he left me a lollipop that was olive green with a bit of red in the middle. “Like your mother ’ s sewing machine, ” he said. When we first started dating, he had asked for pictures of my mother, but my mother didn ’t allow anyone to take pictures of her. I had showed him a photo of the machine instead.

The second time he left an even larger lollipop shaped like mouse ears. In the middle it said, “You ’ re sweet. ” He nibbled on my ear while I unwrapped it and took a lick.

“You can eat it all, ” he said when I put it away for later. It was hard to be angry. But when they kept coming, one every day, I told him to stop.

“Please, Bopal, I don ’t want any more. If I wanted them, I would buy them myself. ”

“You wouldn ’t. ”

“Yes, I would. ”

“Ruk, you ’ re being neanic. ”

“What does that mean?”

“You ’ re being childish. ”

“I’ m not. ”

“Tell me really why you want me to stop. Speak your mind. ”

“I’ m afraid. ”

“Of?”

“Too much happiness. ”

Bopal laughed. “There ’ s no such thing. Happiness is not like energy; it can be created. It’ s limitless. ”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ ve never had an unhappy day in my life. ”

“But the day I met you. ”

“I wasn ’t unhappy, Ruk. It was an epiphany. ”

I didn ’t agree with him. I also didn ’t tell him what I really believed—that happiness was like water. There was only a certain amount of it to go around, and if you used too much there wouldn ’t be any left for later, even for your own children. And that disappointment, hurt, and betrayal were all distractions to happiness, which weren ’t always bad because that meant you didn ’t use too much happiness too early on.

After our discussion, Bopal stopped putting the lollipops under my pillow every day. He did so randomly, sometimes once a week, sometimes more than that. But he always remembered, and though I threw them in the trash without him knowing, I appreciated them.

After five years of Chris ’ s infidelity, Sarah determined our arrangement wasn ’t working and that we should split.

“You don ’t love each other anymore. Divorce. That’ s what Jane ’ s parents did. ” Jane was her best friend and classmate in first grade. Sarah had the keen insight that many children had, yet she had something a little extra—the emotional

San Francisco 1978-81

By Irene Fick

Adrift in my twenties, I dropped anchor at a jelly bean house perched high on a slope, stroked by fog, straddling salty bay bridges. Stripped to my senses, I strolled into North Beach cafés to hear Puccini crooned by paunchy old men in spaghetti-stained aprons, sipped Pinot on bare-bodied beaches, spent soulful afternoons caressing Irish coffee at the BuenaVista, flushed nights at fern bars downing drinks under fuzzy lights. I plunged on two wheels through the Presidio, sucked in the sea mist, gazed into open-air bars jammed with wiry, wired men’s men. I clung to the margins of cable cars, leaned into the sultry curves of fabled streets. The City was on edge, caught between the disco beat, and the hushed unease of a deadly new virus. Yet, I lingered, hoping to land on solid ground.

Irene Fick’ s nonfiction has been published in newspapers and magazines in Chicago, San Francisco, Tampa, and Philadelphia. Her poetry has been published in The Broadkill Review; Third Wednesday; No Place Like Here: An Anthology of Southern Delaware Poetry & Prose; and Adanna, a Journal for Women, About Women (forthcoming). She lives in Lewes, Delaware.

capability to deal with the ramifications of this insight. She could handle it.

“Dad said that he doesn ’t love you anymore. ” She was a transparent little girl, unable to keep secrets, and I was thankful that her life was still simple.

“He did? When?”

“I asked him if he loved you still. He said no. ”

“Oh. ”

Various sewing patterns were arranged on the dining room table for Sarah. She ’d asked me to make her a special dress for Jane ’ s birthday party on Saturday. I had selected about ten for her to choose from, and now I pulled one of a girl in a red sleeveless chiffon dress with a thin sash and a gauze top and showed it to her.

“No, ” she said. “Jane ’ s wearing red, so she told me that I can ’t. ”

“I can make it in any color you want. ”

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Don ’t you care that Dad doesn ’t love you anymore?”

The pain was dull and old, the way an achy bone feels when it’ s been overused slightly. We lived like respectful roommates who didn ’t know each other very well, sharing in the domestic duties and each spending as much time as we could with Sarah. When we had occasion to speak, it was most always about Sarah.

“No, ” I said.

“I don ’t believe you, ” Sarah said.

“Pick an outfit, ” I told her.

“Be right back, ” she said. She ran down the hall and into my bedroom. When she came back she was holding up the dress I had made before she was born: the black with white piping. It would fit her perfectly now.

“I like this one. Do you?”

I held her on my lap and nodded. “Perfect. ”

After I read her a book and she had fallen asleep, I went online and surfed for lollipops. I added a few chocolate ones for me, and ones that had frosting for Sarah. I had a total of ten lollipops in my cart when I made a move to close the window. I paused. My heart raced as I dug into my purse for my credit card. I purchased the pops. They would be here in a few days.

I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes. I could feel Bopal’ s arms around me.

Sewing is always about the end product— the finished result. It teaches one to think about how minor details will affect the grand outcome, and how subtle changes in pattern shapes and sewing lines can produce varying results. Sewing requires foresight, not hindsight.

When Sarah was thirteen, Chris decided that he was going to teach her how to drive.

“She ’ s too young, ” I said, but I didn ’t do anything.

For the entire hour they were gone, I gathered all of the little scraps of fabric that had no place and began piecing them together on my sewing machine. I didn ’t bother changing the thread or adjusting needle thickness; I sewed and sewed and only stopped when the needle broke while I was trying to attach two squares of denim. The needle was thin—the same type that I had used to sew Sarah’ s party dress. The machine jammed, flashing an error message. I tried to unscrew the needle to replace it, but the screw would not turn. Frustrated, I threw my bag of sewer ’ s tools against the wall and began to cry.

I cried so hard that I almost missed hearing the telephone. It wasn ’t until the answering machine picked up that I ran to the phone, breathless.

“Hello?” I screamed into the phone.

“Ouch, Mom. Why are you yelling?”

“What’ s the matter? Where are you? Has something happened?”

“Chill, Mom. Dad and I are at the Dairy Queen. I wanted to know if you wanted something. Dad actually wanted to know. ”

“No, I don ’t want anything. ”

“Are you sure, Mom? I mean, Dad’ s asking. ”

“Yes, I’ m sure. ”

Bopal once told me a story about a very particular, very orderly resident who was divorcing his wife over a fork. I didn ’t believe him until he explained that what she ’d done was a form of deray, disorder.

“She ’d mix up the utensils, Ruk. So sometimes there ’d be a lone spoon in the forks tray. Other times a lone knife in the spoons tray. It was the lone dinner fork in the salad forks tray that did it. ”

Bopal said that most people were like that. We all held a world order in our mind, and if something was off in that world order, it could cause us major upset. He said we often didn ’t know what would disrupt it: sometimes something as simple as a fork, other times something as monumental as a death. And sometimes something as commonplace as a husband thinking of his wife at a Dairy

Queen.

By the time they got home—safely and in one piece—I had replaced the needle and was well on my way to a king-sized quilt. I hung it up to show Sarah, who wrinkled her nose in disfavor.

“Love you, Mom, ” she said, kissing me on both cheeks and heading to her room.

After Sarah had gone to sleep, I went into my room and shut the door. I took out a scrapbook of convincing opinion columns I’d cut from the local paper. I read them every night before bed; I admired these people ’ s beliefs, how they could believe in something so strongly. They were the types of letters Bopal might have written if given the chance.

When I finished the last letter— from a woman upset that the city council had voted against building a park for disabled children—I closed my eyes and drifted off. In my dreams I was in the car with Bopal; sometimes I was the only one in the car.

“Wake up, you ’ re dreaming. Wake up. ”

I opened my eyes and shrieked.

“It’ s me, it’ s Chris. ”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at him in the dark. He ’d never come into my room before unless he needed to ask me something, and even then, mostly he ’d stand outside in the hallway and ask across the threshold.

I turned the light on so I could see him well where he sat near the window. It had been a long time since I had really looked at him. His blue eyes were the color of breast milk, his build fatty. His hands that had at one point seemed menacing were still menacing but now etched in wrinkles and blue veins.

“I can ’t do this anymore. ” He grabbed me by the wrists and kissed me.

I should have pushed him away. I should have stopped it. Deray, deray, deray, deray, a voice droned, but I covered my ears. I gave in to what he wanted, in the way I had done before.

The next morning, he hardly said a word other than to ask me to pick up Sarah after basketball because he was going to have a late night. His eyes avoided mine.

For the next six months I sewed nonstop. Within weeks I had sewn an entire new wardrobe for Sarah, which made her popular at school. I dug out the pattern for the maternity dress my mother had started and sewed it, even though I knew that I would have no use for it again. And when I felt a pain so deep that it was like something was plunging my heart of its blood, I talked to my machine, asking it questions that I would have asked Bopal.

How many stars are in the sky? Why do newborns need to be held? What is the purpose of a convict? That there were so many ambiguous questions like these—limitless, unlike happiness—provided me comfort. And then, as quickly as this brume set in, it vanished.

Chris tried to come into my room one other time, but I kept the door locked. Though he knocked, I held onto my scrapbook, lying naked underneath the spread of the maternity dress, and did not answer.

The Judgement of Mr. Carson by Rachel Dougherty © 2013 A weak machine is better than a weak operator.

“We are all doctors manqué, failing to prolong the inevitable, ” Bopal had said to a friend of his who ’d killed a patient in surgery. I remembered thinking it cold, detached, wondering how Bopal could get away with saying things like that and still have so many friends by his side. Hundreds of people had come to his funeral. But thinking about it now I found it reassuring—a comfort that, in whatever we did, we would never be good enough, but that was okay as long as we were self-aware. Bopal knew this truth, and he was not afraid to live an imperfect life.

Earlier Chris had taken Sarah out for another driving lesson. I had seen Sarah drive; she was learning well. They continued to go for ice cream afterward, though Chris never asked me if I wanted any. I was close to finishing the quilt, which I worked on in between lingerie for the business. It was large—bigger than the size of my room—and so colorful. It had come to symbolize different projects that had been important in my life and was composed of scraps from that time. I remembered the trips to the fabric store: in college, after Bopal died, when I got married, after my mother passed. I remembered everything.

I was digging for more scraps in the closet when the phone rang. I smiled thinking how, though her father had stopped, Sarah never failed to call and ask me if I wanted any ice cream. The answer was always no. I answered, still smiling.

“Sarah, no ice cream for me, love, I— ”

“It’ s Chris. ”

“Oh. ”

All I heard was “hospital. ” I dropped the phone, couldn ’t find my car keys, and ran the entire two miles uphill to the hospital.

Chris and Sarah had been driving together; he said he was driving. He wanted to take her to a little café tucked in the mountains. It was winter, and though it hadn ’t snowed recently, the roads were icy and slick. Around a bend one big deer and two little deer had been standing on the metal grates along the pavement. Chris swerved, the car spun, and they hit a thick cottonwood tree head on. The passenger-side airbag went off. It broke several of Sarah’ s ribs, her nose, and gave her a head injury that had her out. The doctors still couldn ’t tell if she ’d suffered any trauma to the brain. The driver-side airbag had also released, but Chris ’ s face had hit something hard. His front teeth were shattered. He held an ice pack to his lips, which were swollen, and when he talked, I couldn ’t bear to look at him.

It’ s Bopal. Bopal Reddy.

It’ll be all right, Miss.

“Stop talking, ” I said to Chris, but he kept going on, about how sorry he was, about how they should have stayed on the freeway, but she ’d wanted to be a little adventurous, and he couldn ’t say no.

“Stop talking!” I screamed.

I had never yelled at Chris or anyone before. He went quiet and sat down. He held the ice pack to his head, and I saw where the blood from his mouth had caked. He was crying.

“Father manqué, mother manqué, ” I consoled myself. “Family manqué. ” The vocabulary soothed.

When Sarah finally opened her eyes, the doctors said she would be fine. She had suffered no injuries to her brain. Her broken bones would heal over time, but her nose would have a lasting bend to the right.

“Nothing major, you will always be a very pretty girl, ” the doctor said. Even with the bandages on her nose and her forehead bruised, she was stunning. A perfect mix of everything and nothing.

“I’ ve decided, ” she said, holding my hand with her right and Chris ’ s with her left, divorced. ” I laughed.

“I’ m serious. ”

“If you want me to, I will, ” I said.

“Mom, stop being so morigerous. ”

She held up a book someone had left on the end table. A dictionary. I felt a little flutter inside the way a catheter feels after it has just been inserted.

It was Sarah who finally decided for both of us that it was time. After her release from the hospital, we filed for divorce. Chris moved out of the house and, with the money I had saved, I paid off the mortgage in full and Chris signed the deed over to me. I had more time for my business, and I worked to replenish the money I had used to pay off the

house.

An expert seamstress understands that there are always lessons to learn, new projects to tackle. If willing, the job is infinite.

I finally finished the patchwork quilt; it was over twenty feet long. It had to be folded and weighed too much to carry. At night I wrapped myself in it several times and felt my mother near me. It was as though her fingerprints were everywhere. If I fell asleep in the quilt, I didn ’t have the terrible nightmares. Instead my dreams were filled with light and music. Sometimes Bopal was there, loving me so hard it hurt—like someone was cutting open my body and then placing a warming salve under all of my joints, squeezing until that warmth radiated throughout.

When my daughter fell in love for the first time, she called me from her dorm room at college and asked what it felt like.

“Like a blood massage, ” I told her. She laughed.

“That sounds about right, Mom. ” She giggled and told me that he was an aerospace engineer, a soft-spoken man from Kansas who packed her lunch and left little notes inside and sometimes index cards with one or two nonsensical words like jiggledy-jamz or potter-putter or whamdom. “He likes to make up words. ”

“Love him, Sarah. Love him more than you think you are capable of. ”

“I want you to meet him. ”

“I want to meet him too, ” I said.

After we hung up, I thought about Bopal. The only remnants I had of him now were photos, memories, and a dictionary filled with rare words—words that he ’d used in his regular, colloquial life. Inside was a random note he had posted on the refrigerator after a rough night at the hospital. He had come home silent.

There will always be the inevitable. And there will always be words.

I was lucky to have loved him so much. I was lucky that he had loved me as much as he did.

After talking with my daughter, I sat on the porch looking at the moon. I wanted to give away my sewing machine. It was time. The business had grown enough that I was ready to hand it over to someone else; I had no need for money any longer.

My eyes tried to find shapes in the moon ’ s textured surface, but there was nothing. Just a buttery-colored circle emanating the light that I imagined my daughter was feeling in another person ’ s arms. I covered myself in the quilt until I couldn ’t move any longer. I felt safe.

Annam Manthiram is the author of the novel After the Tsunami (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2011), which was a Finalist in the 2010 SFA Fiction Contest and in the 2012 New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards, and a short story collection (Dysfunction: Stories, Aqueous Books, 2012), which was a Finalist in the 2010 Elixir Press Fiction Contest and in Leapfrog Press ’ 2010 Fiction Contest.