She longs to have a do-over. She would go back to that day. She would stand beside her son, reach for his shoulder the way other mothers do. She would have said something smart like, “I know, dearie. I know.”
* * *
Darcy opens the door of Crowley Cleaners. The stereo is not on, and the room seems odd without the usual sound of “Mainly News,” an NPR segment she looks forward to. She hears the hammering sound of the sewing machine in the back.
Tabitha, the thin college girl who works the register two mornings a week, gives a shy wave. “Hey, Mrs. C,” she says.
“Good afternoon, Tabby,” Darcy says. “I brought mini pumpkin muffins for anyone who’s interested.”
“Definitely me,” Tabitha says. She gently plucks a napkin from the pile Darcy places on the counter. Her fingers hover over the tiny brown muffins and she picks the smallest one.
The sewing machine whirrs behind them, and Darcy can see the seamstress Frederica in her cubicle, hunched over the green paisley bridesmaid dresses for that wedding. They look like a tapestry, not like wedding attire. She wonders what kind of wedding Luke would have had if he had married Ginger, that sweet girl who called the house all the time. The one who went on to become a veterinarian in Georgia.
Behind Frederica are spools of thread and a bright spotlight angled on the sewing machine. Darcy wonders if Frederica will be able to see the redness in her eyes, the tiredness of her face under the makeup, but when Frederica looks up, there is something parallel in her expression. Something so defeated or frightened that it almost makes Darcy gasp.
Darcy holds her hand to her heart, and the two women stare at each other—so equivalent, it seems. Frederica’s eyes are devastated. What has happened? What has broken? She knows Frederica has a husband and daughter—a perfect family. Did he leave her? Is someone sick? Maybe one of her parents?
If Tabitha weren’t here she would go to this woman, her seamstress, a few years older than Mary Jane and Luke, pretty and fragile with her blond wisps of hair in her face. She would hug her the way she should have hugged Luke those years ago. “Whatever has happened, dear?” she would say. She hears the words exactly as she would say them: Tell me. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.
She thinks she would send her home, to go fix what’s broken. She surprises herself by feeling she would do anything to help mend this. Darcy wants to hold Frederica against her like she’s her third child. She knows, she knows, what it’s like to feel that type of pain.
“I can’t believe it’s fall,” Tabitha says as she bites a muffin.
Frederica holds Darcy’s gaze for a moment longer, and then there is the chime of the door and a burst of talking: the Peruvian woman with her two small children who sometimes bring Darcy drawings to hang below the cash register.
Darcy shrugs and watches Frederica as she shakes her head as if clearing her mind. Frederica angles one of the dresses a different way, and the machine makes its reliable pounding sound.
Oh life. Oh broken glass.
4. Hurts
Luke Crowley lies in bed, arm folded behind his head, and watches his new girlfriend, or whatever she is.
Hannah stands in the kitchen with his T-shirt over her body and pours herself a poor man’s mimosa: Korbel champagne and Turkey Hill orange drink. “Cheers,” she says, and holds it up to him.
He gives her a half smile. Her hair is mostly blond, but the ends are dipped in pink, and he likes the lines of her body: smooth long legs and the way the shirt stops just below her ass. She has two tattoos, but he likes that only he can see them and that they’re covered when they go out. He likes the earrings she wears, large hoops or the silver ones that dangle like feathers.
His mother would size Hannah up and roll her eyes. “Next in line,” she’d say, clicking her tongue. The pink hair would set her over the edge （So we’re into punk rock?）。 Hannah says gonna and wanna and chews too loudly. His mother would probably disappear into the kitchen and whisper a prayer, and when she’d talk to Hannah, she’d use that awkward voice, the way someone talks to a foreigner or an old person.
Oh well.
He looks at Hannah and lifts the covers. “Want to come back?” he asks. His morning voice is hoarse from too many Camels, from shouting over the music last night at Rocco’s and telling her the band sucked and he could have played better.
She winks at him. She sips her fluorescent mimosa and places it on his kitchen table—among the binder pages with his artwork, the scattered bills, the measly tips （mostly singles） from his shift Thursday night, the invitation to his niece Lizzie’s party （so colorful and promising against his sad stuff）。 She tiptoes in his direction over the scuffed hardwood floor and lifts the shirt over her head. “You rang?” she says.