Bone and cotton and warm skin. For most of my life, Grandma had been solid. She carried laundry baskets. MOVED FURNITURE. Picked me up when I was far too old to be picked up. Now I was afraid my hug might hurt her. She patted my back. « You’re making a scene. » « You wrote the letter. » « YEARS AGO. » « That’s worse. » She laughed softly. Then Lily reached for the box. Naturally.
Her first target was a blue glass button. « NO, » THREE GENERATIONS OF WOMEN SAID AT ONCE. Everybody laughed again. We did cake 20 minutes later. Grandma refused a full slice. Then ate half of mine. She stayed for less than two hours. THAT WAS ALL HER BODY COULD MANAGE. By the time my uncle wheeled her toward the gate, her face had gone pale again. I walked beside her.
« Was this worth it? » She looked at me like I’d asked the stupidest question of my life. « Obviously. » « THE DRIVE NEARLY KILLED YOU. » « Everything nearly kills you at 101. » « Grandma. » She reached for my hand. « I wasn’t going to sit at home because it was difficult. » I swallowed. « YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN SICK. » « I could get sick in my own chair. » I didn’t have an answer for that.
At the car, she looked back toward the garden. Lily was sitting in the grass, smashing birthday cake between both hands. Grandma smiled. « THERE. » « What? » « That’s what I wanted. » « What? » She pointed weakly. « One of yours. » I LOOKED AT MY DAUGHTER. Then I remembered the photograph. Me at four. Grandma’s front step. The dress she’d made.
« I thought you wanted a picture of her on your step. » « I DO. » « You just said that’s what you wanted. » « I can want two things. » At her age, apparently, she was still negotiating. We got her into the car. It took my uncle and Mark together. BEFORE THE DOOR CLOSED, SHE CALLED MY NAME. I leaned down. « Finish the sleeve. » I looked back at the box. « I’ll try. » « No. » HER HAND TIGHTENED AROUND MINE.
« Don’t try. Finish it. » That was Grandma. She left. I stood in the road crying until her car disappeared. Three days later, Mom and I went to Grandma’s house. SHE WAS EXHAUSTED FROM THE PARTY. Not ill. She slept most of that week. The sewing box came with me. So did the unfinished dress. I bought a beginner sewing kit. IT WAS HUMILIATING. I watched videos. I called Mom.
Mom was somehow worse than I was. « I thought Grandma taught you. » « She tried. » « WHAT HAPPENED? » « I hated it. » « So did I. » Apparently, we came from a long line of women who benefited from one woman’s skill while refusing to learn it. Eventually, my uncle found Grandma’s old sewing machine in a closet. Grandma couldn’t use it anymore, but she could still criticize. I BROUGHT THE DRESS TO HER.
She inspected my first attempt at the sleeve. « This seam is terrible. » « I know. » « Take it out. » « It took me two hours. » « THEN YOU’LL BE FASTER THE SECOND TIME. » I glared at her. She smiled. For six weeks, I worked on that dress. Not every day. Usually after Lily went to sleep. SOMETIMES FOR 20 MINUTES. Sometimes until midnight. I redid the sleeve twice. The collar three times.
One night I got so frustrated that I nearly put the whole thing back into the box and decided « unfinished » was sentimental. Then I heard Grandma in my head. FINISH IT. So I did. When Lily was 13 months old, we took her to Grandma’s house. I dressed her in the cream dress. It fit almost perfectly. The hem was a little long. MY SLEEVE WAS NOT AS NEAT AS GRANDMA’S. Not even close.
But it was attached. We carried Lily out to the front step. The same step from the photograph beside Grandma’s chair. Grandma was already waiting inside the doorway in her wheelchair. MOM STOOD BESIDE HER HOLDING THE OLD PICTURE OF ME. I sat Lily down. She immediately tried to crawl away. « Of course, » I said. Mom laughed. « Put something in front of her. » GRANDMA SAID, « GIVE HER A BUTTON. » « No. » « A big one. » « No. » « You’re no fun. » Eventually Mark stood behind the camera making ridiculous noises.
