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“You can’t see?”
“I can see far away. It’s the close-up stuff that’s kind of blurry.”
“I’m sure your aunt would lend you money to go to an eye doctor.”
“She’s already done too much for me. She’s not even charging me rent. I can’t ask her for money. Besides, it’s not that bad. It’s only the past few months that I’ve noticed I don’t see as well as I used to.”
“I can loan you the money.”
“No. Jake, really, I don’t need to go right now. It can wait.” She holds up the needle. “Now what?”
“Now you tie a knot on the other end. I’ll hold the needle.” I take it from her and watch as she ties the knot. “Now you just sew up the tear.”
“I don’t know how.”
I pick up her shirt, turning it inside out. I take the needle from her and make the first stitch. “It’s easy. You just go back and forth until you’re at the end. Try it.”
She takes the needle and pokes it through the fabric, going really slow like she’s afraid to mess up. “Like this?”
“Yeah, but keep the stitches close together. Otherwise, it might tear again.”
“Maybe you should do it. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Turn around.”
“Why?” she asks, looking confused.
“We’re going to do this together.”
I wait for her to turn so her back’s to me. Then I wrap my arms around hers and take the needle, showing her where to put it next. “See how close it is to the last one?”
“It’s hard to see when the shirt’s green and the thread is green.”
“Yeah, you might need glasses.”
She laughs. “I’m not blind. I’m just saying, it’s hard to see.” She puts the needle through the fabric and makes another stitch. “How was that?”
“Perfect. Do another one, but keep it really close to the last one.”
“What happens if I mess up?”
“You pull the thread out and try again.”
She continues with the next stitch. “Who taught you how to do this?”
“Dean. He learned from our grandma. She was always mending clothes.”
“But not yours?”
“She did when we were really young, but then Dean started doing it himself. He doesn’t like relying on people to do stuff for him. He doesn’t trust that people will stick around. Or he used to be that way.”
“And your mom didn’t help you?”
“Hell, no.” I laugh. “She only cared about herself. Dean and I were on our own, even when she lived with us.”
Tara looks at me. “When did she leave?”
“The day Dean turned eighteen. He was still in high school. He should’ve been having fun with his friends, but he couldn’t, because of me.”
