make sure you
didn’t need help if you were pulled over alongside the road.
It was only a matter of time
before there was a knock on my window. I needed a moment to pull myself
together, so I drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. I released the
breath and repeated the whole process again, but total relaxation was
impossible against all the thoughts scurrying through my mind. I couldn’t stop
thinking about what everyone was going to say, what they were all thinking as
they drove by and saw me sitting on the roadside like that. If it kept up, I’d
wind up at the doctor, and the last thing I needed was to visit a doctor while
still in Sonesville. My entire medical record would be a matter of public
chatter before I ever got a diagnosis.
I could just make out the
shape of another car coming down the street and I got the feeling that this was
the one curious do-gooder who would pull over to check on me. It was a
dangerous move and under the circumstances I probably shouldn’t have driven,
but I put my signal on and willed myself to stay conscious at least until I got
home. The turn signal was enough to deter the couple in the Subaru Outback from
stopping, and though against my better judgment, I pulled out behind them and
tried to ignore the eerie numbness that crawled along my face.
It took all of my
concentration to stay on the road, and I hadn’t even noticed that the more time
I spent driving, the better I started to feel. By the time I turned onto Maple
Drive, there was nothing left but a subtle tingling sensation in my face. My
family’s house loomed in the distance, and I crawled toward my parking space at
the edge of the curb. I steadied myself, and then got out of the car. Fresh air
filled my lungs, and as I started walking toward the front porch, the dizziness
ebbed completely. I paused to grab the mail from the box, and with one hand
turned the key in front door to let myself inside.
“Dad, are you home?” He was
probably in the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich, as he often did after work,
only there was no trace of him at all as I ducked in to check. I scanned the
room for his lunchbox, but before I noticed whether it was there or not a heavy
thud sounded upstairs above where I stood.
I darted toward the
staircase and called out, “Dad? Are you all right?”
Panic spread through me as I
took the stairs two at a time. I began checking each room, starting at my
bedroom first, moving on to the bathroom, then my parents’ bedroom and finally
pausing outside the door to my mother’s sewing room. I didn’t know if my dad
cleaned up the glass from Saturday night, so I opened slowly and scanned the
floor for shards. The floor was spotless save for the piles of totes she kept
her materials and crafts in. In fact, I stepped into the room, and quickly
discovered that was what toppled over. A stack of totes were uneasily balanced
and the top one, filled with swatches of fabric, tumbled down and spilled out
onto the floor.
As I walked in to start
picking up the pieces of fabric, I noticed an eerie, electrical hum, and
scanned the room for its source. Her sewing machine was covered in its case,
but as I neared the sewing table I knew the sound was coming from within.
Unlatching the cover, I lifted it slowly, a gasp catching in the back of my
throat when the lights on the dial revealed themselves. The needle arm moved
slowly downward, only a fraction of movement, but both the humming and the
movement stopped when I pulled the chair out from the table. My only thought,
as I turned off the power and unplugged the pedal, was that Dad must have moved
the chair onto the floor pedal when he was cleaning up the glass, but how could
he have not heard the motor start to hum?
“Mother, if you’re trying to
tell me something,” I muttered under my breath, “you’re going about it the
wrong way.”
As if in answer, another
tote tumbled from the top of the stack, spilling out pre-cut quilt squares in a
fan of
didn’t need help if you were pulled over alongside the road.
It was only a matter of time
before there was a knock on my window. I needed a moment to pull myself
together, so I drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. I released the
breath and repeated the whole process again, but total relaxation was
impossible against all the thoughts scurrying through my mind. I couldn’t stop
thinking about what everyone was going to say, what they were all thinking as
they drove by and saw me sitting on the roadside like that. If it kept up, I’d
wind up at the doctor, and the last thing I needed was to visit a doctor while
still in Sonesville. My entire medical record would be a matter of public
chatter before I ever got a diagnosis.
I could just make out the
shape of another car coming down the street and I got the feeling that this was
the one curious do-gooder who would pull over to check on me. It was a
dangerous move and under the circumstances I probably shouldn’t have driven,
but I put my signal on and willed myself to stay conscious at least until I got
home. The turn signal was enough to deter the couple in the Subaru Outback from
stopping, and though against my better judgment, I pulled out behind them and
tried to ignore the eerie numbness that crawled along my face.
It took all of my
concentration to stay on the road, and I hadn’t even noticed that the more time
I spent driving, the better I started to feel. By the time I turned onto Maple
Drive, there was nothing left but a subtle tingling sensation in my face. My
family’s house loomed in the distance, and I crawled toward my parking space at
the edge of the curb. I steadied myself, and then got out of the car. Fresh air
filled my lungs, and as I started walking toward the front porch, the dizziness
ebbed completely. I paused to grab the mail from the box, and with one hand
turned the key in front door to let myself inside.
“Dad, are you home?” He was
probably in the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich, as he often did after work,
only there was no trace of him at all as I ducked in to check. I scanned the
room for his lunchbox, but before I noticed whether it was there or not a heavy
thud sounded upstairs above where I stood.
I darted toward the
staircase and called out, “Dad? Are you all right?”
Panic spread through me as I
took the stairs two at a time. I began checking each room, starting at my
bedroom first, moving on to the bathroom, then my parents’ bedroom and finally
pausing outside the door to my mother’s sewing room. I didn’t know if my dad
cleaned up the glass from Saturday night, so I opened slowly and scanned the
floor for shards. The floor was spotless save for the piles of totes she kept
her materials and crafts in. In fact, I stepped into the room, and quickly
discovered that was what toppled over. A stack of totes were uneasily balanced
and the top one, filled with swatches of fabric, tumbled down and spilled out
onto the floor.
As I walked in to start
picking up the pieces of fabric, I noticed an eerie, electrical hum, and
scanned the room for its source. Her sewing machine was covered in its case,
but as I neared the sewing table I knew the sound was coming from within.
Unlatching the cover, I lifted it slowly, a gasp catching in the back of my
throat when the lights on the dial revealed themselves. The needle arm moved
slowly downward, only a fraction of movement, but both the humming and the
movement stopped when I pulled the chair out from the table. My only thought,
as I turned off the power and unplugged the pedal, was that Dad must have moved
the chair onto the floor pedal when he was cleaning up the glass, but how could
he have not heard the motor start to hum?
“Mother, if you’re trying to
tell me something,” I muttered under my breath, “you’re going about it the
wrong way.”
As if in answer, another
tote tumbled from the top of the stack, spilling out pre-cut quilt squares in a
fan of
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