“Hattie—”
“Harriet—”
“Baby—”
I think I’m about .7 seconds from going off like an air raid siren when Merrick leaps to his feet.
“Hey—hey—y’all. Hang on a second.” And my future brother-in-law is so quiet, so rarely the one to interrupt or demand attention that, even though each Mercier mouth hangs open, none of us speaks. “I have some thoughts… Margaret? Hattie? Can you sit back down?”
I look back at my double rocker before glaring at Margaret. If someone even tries to touch me right now, I might shoot into orbit.
My sister reads me better than anyone and takes a seat beside her fiancé again, so I sit back in my rocker and proceed to rock so hard, I’m in danger of tipping over.
“I think it’s fair to say that everyone wants Hattie to be safe and be as independent as possible,” Merrick says, his gentle confidence grounding me just a little.
Mom, Dad, and Margaret all murmur their agreement.
As independent as possible.
This doesn’t have a definition, and it needs one. Even I haven’t gone so far as to define it, which, now that I examine the situation, makes me a little disappointed in myself.
Yes, I’ve pictured a distant future. But the kind that goes fuzzy at the edges like a TV daydream.
A home.
A family.
I’ve spent hours on the porch at the beach house wondering what it would be like to have someone on the swing next to me.
And, yes, when I’m sitting in front of my laptop, struggling to write a peer response for Business Law, I almost always picture a time when I’m done with school and I never have to write a paper or take a midterm ever again.
I think I always imagined that once I was done with school, I’d have all the time I wanted. Wake up when I want to. Wear what I want. Never be in a rush. Sew. Make patterns. Shop for fabrics and notions.
No one else needs to know this, but I don’t think these fantasies count as actual career aspirations.
“You said there were options, and I think there’s room for compromise,” Merrick continues. Then he holds up his hands. “I hope I’m not crossing boundaries here, but if Hattie doesn’t want to live in a group home, why can’t she try living on her own?”
Judging by the way my parents startle, the couch cushions beneath them must have just delivered another charge. And maybe I’ve rocked in this chair so hard I’ve built up a store of kinetic energy because I suddenly feel AWAKE!
Live on my own? Like in an apartment?
My fingertips and face tingle.
Dad’s forehead crimps. “By herself?”
“Of course you’re not crossing a boundary, Merrick,” Mom starts diplomatically. “You are a member of this family in every sense. But?—”
“Because I think there are ways to compromise,” Merrick interrupts my mom, and it’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed him interrupt anyone. “To support her and keep her safe.”
“Have you seen her room?” Mom whispers.
“Mom—”
“Hey! I’m right here!”
Okay. I’ll admit. By whatever definition one chooses, my room is messy. Clothes. Fabrics. Pattern pieces. But I challenge anyone to open a paper pattern, take out the kraft paper and the instructions, cut out the pieces, and get it all to fit back into the original envelope. It’s fucking impossible.
My room is messy, but I try not to let it get dirty. I hate—and I do mean hate—dusting. But I also really hate dust. Dust is killer for a sewing machine. So I do dust.
