But for the first time, I wondered why Linda had spent so many years acting as though being noticed was the worst thing a woman could do.
She carried the coat toward the back room.
And for the first time, I wanted the answer.
***
Outside the shop, Linda kept staring at the repair estimate.
I asked, “Which people?”
Her shoulders squared up.
“The ones who notice everything.”
“Who taught you that being noticed was dangerous, Linda?”
I wanted the answer.
For once, she did not snap back.
“My mother,” she admitted quietly. “If I wore anything bright, she’d tell me people were looking. If I laughed too loudly, people were looking. If I gained weight, people were looking.”
“If I wore anything bright, she’d tell me people were looking.”
I understood then.
Linda had spent her whole life trying to criticize herself before strangers could.
Then she’d started doing it to me.
“You were scared people would judge me,” I said, “so you punished me first.”
Then she’d started doing it to me.
Her eyes dropped to the estimate.
“I thought I was helping.”
“You used scissors, Linda.”
That ended the argument.
She agreed to pay.
Not happily. Not gracefully.
But she agreed.
“You used scissors, Linda.”
***
On the drive home, Jake asked, “Why didn’t you tell me her comments were actually getting to you?”
I looked out the window.
“Because I didn’t want her to know they did.”
Jake was quiet.
“I thought because you could handle her, I didn’t have to,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell me her comments were actually getting to you?”
That hurt almost as much as Linda’s words because it was true.
“I could handle her?” Then I looked at him. “I just shouldn’t have had to keep doing it alone.”
He reached across the console and squeezed my hand.
***
A few days later, Linda came for dinner.
“I just shouldn’t have had to keep doing it alone.”
The doorbell rang.
That alone felt strange.
Jake opened it.
Linda stood outside instead of walking in.
“Can I come in?”
Jake glanced at me.
I nodded.
“Come in.”
I was wearing the repaired red coat.
Linda noticed immediately.
I was wearing the repaired red coat.
Her lips parted.
Jake raised one eyebrow.
Linda stared at the sleeve.
“The repair looks good.”
“Thanks.”
That was all.
After dinner, she collected her purse and automatically reached toward the little hook beside the door.
“The repair looks good.”
The hook where her spare key had always hung.
Her hand stopped in midair.
She gave a short, embarrassed laugh.
Jake opened the door for her.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
“Goodnight.”
Linda looked at my coat one last time.
I waited.
Linda looked at my coat one last time.
She said nothing.
Then she walked outside.
Jake closed the door.
Beside it, the little hook where Linda’s spare key used to hang was still empty.
She said nothing.
