A few days after the funeral, after Web had returned to work and the cabin was maddeningly quiet, Mary gathered every ounce of strength she had and carried her sewing machine to the lake. When she finally reached the shoreline, drenched in sweat, Mary edged into the water, up to her waist. Her clothes were heavy and wet. Step by step, Mary walked into the lake, still holding her Singer.
Suddenly, a swallow dove over her, flitting back and forth as if to draw her attention. Mary noticed the light on its wings. In the near distance, a loon moaned, as if commiserating with her. Mary stopped walking. She could feel the sun on her back. She swore she could hear Web’s laugh echo off the water, as it did when he hooked a fish. Children were swimming, laughing, in the distance.
Slowly, Mary turned and walked out of the lake.
As she did, her bracelet jangled in the breeze even as her arms struggled to hold the sewing machine, which made her charms dance even louder. She looked at the sewing machine and then the charms of the sewing machine and the four-leaf clover, their images reflected back to her from the lake.
This simple charm has much meaning, my child, Mary remembered Rima telling her when she first gave her the charm. This is to a life bound by family … no matter how far away they may be. As long as you wear this, they will always be near.
Suddenly, Mary screamed, a scream so loud the swans took flight and the loons quieted. And slowly, one step at a time, Mary trudged back to the cabin, carrying her sewing machine. She returned it to the window facing the lake, and never told her husband of her intentions.
A year later, Mary gave birth to a daughter. She would have four more children before she died at the age of eighty-seven.
“Bound by family” were the last words Mary uttered.
Nine
“One of her children, of course, was my mother,” said Lolly.
“None of us would be here without that charm,” Lauren said, her own bracelet jangling with excitement.
“That’s quite a story, Mom,” Arden said slightly less enthusiastically than her daughter.
“I’m glad you wear yours,” Lolly whispered to Lauren, touching her granddaughter’s wrist. “You’ll never know how much that means to me. I wish your mother would wear her bracelet.”
Lauren reached out and grabbed her grandmother’s hand, their bracelets resting against one another.
“Can you teach me to sew again, Grandma?” Lauren asked. “I remember trying to learn when I was younger, but I’ve forgotten everything.”
“I’d love to, my dear,” Lolly said, dragging her feet to slow the glider. “I still make all of my own aprons I wear to work … and I used to make all of your mother’s school clothes.”
Arden winced.
“I finally get it,” Lauren said. “That’s why you don’t like color, Mom. That’s why you dress the way you do. You were scarred by Grandma’s wild designs.”
“That’s not true,” Arden said, sitting up suddenly, a group of finches on a nearby bird feeder taking flight at the sudden commotion.
“Oh, it is, too,” Lolly said. “I liked a lot of color.”
“You dressed me like a hooker, Mother,” Arden said. “Little girls aren’t supposed to wear fire engine red dresses and purple bloomers.”
“You were adorable,” Lolly said. “I can’t help that no one appreciated my fashion sense back then.”
Arden shot her mother a look, so Lolly took her granddaughter’s hands in hers and asked, “You want to help me get ready for work in a few minutes?”
“Really?” Lauren said. “Yeah. Let me clean up some of these dishes, and go take a shower first, okay?”
“Okay,” Lolly said, patting her granddaughter’s knees.
Arden watched her daughter pad away barefoot. When she was out of earshot, Arden said, “How do you know all of that, Mom? About Mary?”