confusion or anger, I couldn’t tell.
“I tore my dress,” I said into my chest. “I have to wear pants this morning.”
Dad loomed over me, his shadow blocking the glow from the ceiling light. “What do you mean you tore your dress?”
I offered up a handful of buttons, and Dad used the opportunity to pull me to my feet. He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing at all. “Some of the buttons popped off,” I said. “The dress is too small.”
“Nonsense.” Dad put his finger under my chin and tipped my face so I was looking at him. If he noticed the tears in my eyes, he didn’t say anything. “This dress fits you just fine. We just need to sew the buttons back on.”
“No, Dad. Please. Just let me wear pants.”
“On Easter? I don’t think so, Rachel. Your mother iseven coming to church this morning. I want us all there together in our Sunday best. Maybe we’ll even take a family picture.”
I groaned. “Please, Dad. Just let me—”
“No.” His tone left no room for discussion. “I want you to wear the dress.”
I meekly slid off the ruined dress and accepted the bathrobe he offered me. Then Dad dragged me along as he went to hunt down an emergency sewing kit. We both knew that Bev would have no idea how to use it, so when we finally located the small, folded bundle at the back of the medicine cabinet Dad threaded the needle and handed it to me.
“I don’t know how to sew a button on,” I said, holding the slip of steel between my fingers gingerly.
He looked stunned for a moment. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“It can’t be that hard.” Dad glanced at his watch and gave me a pointed look. “We need to leave in less than ten minutes. Your mother is just finishing up her makeup.”
Bev could spend the better part of an hour finishing up her makeup, but Dad was tapping his foot as if to remind me that the clock was ticking down. So, since I didn’t know what else to do, I took hold of the fabric and stabbed the needle through the spot where the first button had left behind a frayed tail of white thread. It wasn’t easy,but I looped the needle through the hole in the back of the tiny button and sunk it into the fabric again. I made four passes before the sharp point missed the intended target and pricked the tip of my index finger.
It didn’t hurt that much, but I burst into tears all the same. “Please, Dad,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Just let me wear pants!”
He took the dress from me and reached for my injured hand, but I had already stuck my finger in my mouth and I refused to let him look at it. “The blue matches your eyes,” he said almost absently, fingering the cloth. And then he plucked the needle where it dangled from the end of a long thread and began to sew the button on himself.
I stood there, crying silently, and watched him sew every one of those six severed buttons back onto a dress that was two sizes too small. His fingers were thick and clumsy, and he swore under his breath once or twice, but he eventually finished the job. When he presented me with that horrible blue dress, it was wrinkled from the sweat of his calloused hands and discolored in spots. It looked like a used rag to me. Worst of all, what had once been a neat row of pretty buttons was now limp and uneven. The buttons sagged in some places and were stitched too tight to the cheap cloth in others.
Dad didn’t seem to get it. He didn’t even realize that his handiwork fell horribly short. “I’ll go find your mother,”he said. “If you get dressed quickly, we can make it before anyone notices we’re late.”
I put on the dress, but as I carefully slipped each crooked button through its hole, I decided that my father didn’t understand me. It felt like he didn’t even try. And that stung more than the wicked whispers of the girls who made fun of my dress.
CHAPTER 3
M ITCH
December 24, 8:00 A.M.
T he dining room of The Heritage Home is brightly lit and filled with people.
“I tore my dress,” I said into my chest. “I have to wear pants this morning.”
Dad loomed over me, his shadow blocking the glow from the ceiling light. “What do you mean you tore your dress?”
I offered up a handful of buttons, and Dad used the opportunity to pull me to my feet. He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing at all. “Some of the buttons popped off,” I said. “The dress is too small.”
“Nonsense.” Dad put his finger under my chin and tipped my face so I was looking at him. If he noticed the tears in my eyes, he didn’t say anything. “This dress fits you just fine. We just need to sew the buttons back on.”
“No, Dad. Please. Just let me wear pants.”
“On Easter? I don’t think so, Rachel. Your mother iseven coming to church this morning. I want us all there together in our Sunday best. Maybe we’ll even take a family picture.”
I groaned. “Please, Dad. Just let me—”
“No.” His tone left no room for discussion. “I want you to wear the dress.”
I meekly slid off the ruined dress and accepted the bathrobe he offered me. Then Dad dragged me along as he went to hunt down an emergency sewing kit. We both knew that Bev would have no idea how to use it, so when we finally located the small, folded bundle at the back of the medicine cabinet Dad threaded the needle and handed it to me.
“I don’t know how to sew a button on,” I said, holding the slip of steel between my fingers gingerly.
He looked stunned for a moment. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“It can’t be that hard.” Dad glanced at his watch and gave me a pointed look. “We need to leave in less than ten minutes. Your mother is just finishing up her makeup.”
Bev could spend the better part of an hour finishing up her makeup, but Dad was tapping his foot as if to remind me that the clock was ticking down. So, since I didn’t know what else to do, I took hold of the fabric and stabbed the needle through the spot where the first button had left behind a frayed tail of white thread. It wasn’t easy,but I looped the needle through the hole in the back of the tiny button and sunk it into the fabric again. I made four passes before the sharp point missed the intended target and pricked the tip of my index finger.
It didn’t hurt that much, but I burst into tears all the same. “Please, Dad,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Just let me wear pants!”
He took the dress from me and reached for my injured hand, but I had already stuck my finger in my mouth and I refused to let him look at it. “The blue matches your eyes,” he said almost absently, fingering the cloth. And then he plucked the needle where it dangled from the end of a long thread and began to sew the button on himself.
I stood there, crying silently, and watched him sew every one of those six severed buttons back onto a dress that was two sizes too small. His fingers were thick and clumsy, and he swore under his breath once or twice, but he eventually finished the job. When he presented me with that horrible blue dress, it was wrinkled from the sweat of his calloused hands and discolored in spots. It looked like a used rag to me. Worst of all, what had once been a neat row of pretty buttons was now limp and uneven. The buttons sagged in some places and were stitched too tight to the cheap cloth in others.
Dad didn’t seem to get it. He didn’t even realize that his handiwork fell horribly short. “I’ll go find your mother,”he said. “If you get dressed quickly, we can make it before anyone notices we’re late.”
I put on the dress, but as I carefully slipped each crooked button through its hole, I decided that my father didn’t understand me. It felt like he didn’t even try. And that stung more than the wicked whispers of the girls who made fun of my dress.
CHAPTER 3
M ITCH
December 24, 8:00 A.M.
T he dining room of The Heritage Home is brightly lit and filled with people.
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