Chương 14
A toddler nearby was screaming because somebody had taken away a balloon.
The stadium announcer was asking families to clear the track.
Emily let go first.
Lauren wiped beneath one eye.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“My mascara.”
Emily looked at her.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
They both laughed.
And for the first time since the birthday dinner, the laughter did not belong to one person at the expense of another.
The summer after graduation moved too quickly for any of us to pretend Emily was still simply living at home.
Her New York apprenticeship began in June, which meant our dining room filled with packing lists, fabric swatches, airline confirmations, and arguments about how many pairs of shoes one human being needed for eight weeks.
“Seven is not excessive,” Emily said.
Daniel stared at the open suitcase.
“You have two feet.”
“That is not how fashion works.”
“That is exactly how feet work.”
I folded another shirt and put it beside the shoes.
Emily removed it.
“What?”
“That one wrinkles.”
“You own an iron.”
“I’m going to be working.”
“So are people who iron.”
She gave me the look seventeen years of motherhood had apparently earned me and replaced the shirt with a black one that looked almost identical.
The morning she left, Daniel drove us to the airport even though he had spent the previous week insisting airports were designed by people who hated fathers.
He complained about parking.
He complained about terminal construction.
He complained that coffee should not cost six dollars simply because it was being served near an airplane.
Then we reached security, and he stopped complaining entirely.
Emily adjusted the strap of her backpack.
“I’ll call.”
“You’d better.”
“I said I will.”
“Every day.”
She looked at me.
“Mom.”
Daniel immediately corrected himself.
“Every reasonable number of days.”
“Better.”
He hugged her first.
It lasted longer than either of them intended.
When he let go, he cleared his throat and looked toward a departure screen.
“Text when you land.”
“And when you get to the apartment.”
“Yes.”
“And if the cab driver seems weird.”
“Dad.”
“Fine.”
She hugged me next.
For several seconds, I could feel her heartbeat through her jacket.
Then she whispered, “I’m scared.”
It was the first time she had said it.
I held her tighter.
“Good.”
She pulled back.
“Good?”
“It means you understand it matters.”
“That is suspiciously inspirational.”
“I regret it already.”
She smiled.
Then she walked toward security without looking back until she was almost through.
When she finally turned, Daniel and I were still standing there.
She raised one hand.
We raised ours.
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
New York was not glamorous in the way the Fashion Showcase had suggested it might be.
Emily discovered that almost immediately.
She called the third night from a laundromat because the washing machines in her building had stopped working.
“This city smells weird.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked exhausted on the screen.
“Like hot concrete and ambition.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
The apprenticeship itself was harder.
She spent her first week doing alterations on samples other people had designed.
She spent her second correcting pattern markings.
She spent most of the third ripping out a sleeve she had sewn incorrectly.
Ana, the patternmaker who had warned me about Tuesday mornings, was supervising that summer.
Emily called me after the sleeve incident.
“I ruined four hours of work.”
“What happened?”
“I rushed.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Yes.”
“Then fix it.”
She looked offended.
“That’s your advice?”
“You called the woman who once hemmed one curtain three inches shorter than the other.”
“That’s fair.”
The next day, she fixed it.
Nobody applauded.
By July, she had stopped expecting them to.
That changed her more than the award had.
She became less interested in being impressive and more interested in being precise.
She started asking slower questions.
She stopped defending every first idea.
When Ana told her a design was beautiful but impossible to produce, Emily no longer heard only the word impossible.
She asked why.
Then she revised it.
At home, Daniel and I adjusted to a quieter house badly.
He kept buying Emily’s favorite cereal.
I kept starting sentences with her name.
Her bedroom stayed exactly as she had left it until one Saturday when I finally washed the abandoned mug on her desk.
Daniel watched me carry it downstairs.
“That feels official.”
“She’s coming back.”
“I know.”
Neither of us sounded convinced.
She did come back in August.
She arrived at the airport with one additional suitcase, darker circles under her eyes, and a roll of pattern paper sticking out of her backpack.
Daniel hugged her hard enough to lift her off the floor.
“Dad.”
“I’ve been storing this.”
“I can tell.”
At home, she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
“That’s your first move?” I asked.
“I’ve been paying New York grocery prices.”
She took out cheese.
“I need to reconnect with abundance.”
For two days, she slept.
On the third, she went into the garage.
I found her there measuring fabric.
“What are you making?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That was new.
Before, Emily usually knew what she wanted before the scissors came out.
She stood over a length of deep burgundy wool.
Then she looked at me.
“Try this.”
“What?”
“The muslin.”
“Why?”
“I need a body.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You were nearby.”
Less flattering.
I pulled the half-finished jacket over my blouse.
She pinned the side seam.
Then she stepped back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
I laughed.
“Apparently that’s genetic.”
She adjusted the shoulder.
“It’s pulling.”
“Story of my life.”
She looked up.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make the joke before anybody else can.”
I went still.
Emily seemed surprised by her own words.
Then she returned to the seam.
“I used to do that too.”
I watched her hands.
She had become faster.
More certain.
“I know.”
May you like
She looked at me.
“You knew?”
