Hanging by a Thread by Karen Templeton Page A

were days when thoughts of losing her crowded my brain to the point where trying to find something positive about my life seemed as insurmountable as my being able to come up with a cure in time to save her.
    â€œSo start small,” she’d whisper in the North Carolina accent nearly twenty years in Queens hadn’t been able to budge, her smile strained against skin so fragile-looking I was half afraid it would tear.
    â€œI got an A on my math test,” I’d say. Or, “Nancy DiMunzio wasn’t at school today.” Or, “My zit’s all gone.” Or, depending on whether or not this was one of her good days, “Jennifer and I actually got through breakfast without biting each other’s heads off.”
    If she had the energy, she’d chuckle, then add something of her own to the list. That she’d had me was always part of it, a thought that tightens my throat even fifteen years later. In any case, we’d go back and forth, and before I knew it I’d filled a whole loose-leaf page.
    So tonight, I shut my eyes, shutting out the whispers of discontent, and start small. I’ve got a seat on the train, I think.
    The man next to me doesn’t smell like a distillery.
    My daughter makes me laugh.
    I’m not having my period.
    I open my eyes and fish a tiny sketchbook out of my purse, flipping through a few ideas I had for altering some of my grandmother’s dresses. I jot down what I’ve already listed, then add to it. By the time I get home, I’ve got more than fifty items. Crazy.
    Leo’s in the kitchen, basting a chicken. The house smells like Heaven. I mentally add this to my list.
    â€œWhere’s Starr?”
    â€œGomezes’. You got a phone call.”
    My stomach jumps, which doesn’t stop me from trying to pinch off a piece of chicken skin. “Who from?”
    â€œHeather Abruzzo, I wrote it down. Didn’t you used to hang out with some girl named Abruzzo?”
    â€œHeather’s older sister. Joanne.”
    â€œJoanne, now I remember. Cut that out!” He smacks at my hand, but the prize is already mine. “It’s not done yet.”
    â€œWhat’d she want?” I say around the sizzling hot, succulent piece of garlic-and-pepper seasoned chicken skin.
    â€œSomething about her wedding dress. I think maybe she wants you to make it?”
    Uh-boy.

chapter 6
    A week later, my living room is wall-to-wall big hair and Queensspeak. It seems that not only does Heather want me to do her dress, she wants me to come up with something that will work for twelve—at last count—bridesmaids, ranging in size from a 4 Petite to a Woman’s 24.
    I tried to talk her out of it, I really did. Not that (now that I’m used to the idea) I’d mind making Heather’s dress—with her curvy figure and those deep blue eyes and all that dark hair, she’s going to be a knockout in white. But a dozen bridesmaids? I think not. Besides, I pointed out, by the time she buys the fabric and pays me for my time—her sister and I weren’t that close, for pity’s sake—she’d do just as well, if not better, buying from Kleinfeld’s.
    â€œRight. Like I’m gonna find dresses that’ll work for everybody at Kleinfeld’s,” she said over the phone when I called back. “And everybody still talks about that dress you made forTina, and that was five years ago. God, that was one fucking gorgeous wedding gown.”
    Hard to resist a compliment of that magnitude. Of course, she would bring up Tina, who remains amazingly elusive for somebody I used to talk to no less than three times a day.
    Anyway, not wanting to appear rude—and needing time for the head-swelling to subside from her praise—I told Heather we’d talk about it. The plan was, since I’ve yet to meet a newly engaged woman who doesn’t go “just looking” for bridal gowns within a week of