Violetta Craft's Arc

Chapter 2 of 65

The morning after her party, Violetta went straight to the sewing room off the hallway. The half-cut bodice still waited on the dress form. The showcase was six weeks away. She had counted the days on her phone before she got out of bed. She sat down at the table, uncapped a pencil, and opened her sketchbook to a fresh page. She got three lines in before her stomach turned. She made it to the bathroom and threw up bile. She rinsed her mouth and came back. She sat down again. Ten minutes later she was back over the toilet. By noon she had three ruined pages and nothing to show for them. The dress form stared at her from the corner. She wanted to kick it over. Her mother knocked at one. Lymber came in with dry toast on a plate and a can of ginger ale. She set them on the table without saying anything about the crumpled pages on the floor. "You can't fight it sitting down," Lymber said. "I threw up on a bus for two months with you. Standing helped. Cold air helped. Salt helped." Violetta said she couldn't sketch standing up. Lymber said, "Then don't sketch. Cut." Violetta thought about it. She pinned her sketchbook open to the last clean page and carried it to the kitchen counter. She stood. She ate a corner of toast. She sipped the ginger ale flat. She drew the neckline standing up, one line at a time, breathing through her nose. When her stomach turned she walked to the sliding door and pressed her forehead to the cold glass until it passed. Then she came back to the counter. Paul came through with the twins after lunch and did not ask what she was doing. He moved the twins into the living room and shut the door behind him. By four she had a full front view, a back view, and a seam plan. By six she had cut the muslin for a test bodice. She didn't throw up again. That night she opened her phone and saw the message she had been waiting for since the rain. Jordie had sent one line. "Can we talk." No question mark. She read it twice. She thought about the toast, the ginger ale, the six weeks. She turned the phone face down on the nightstand and went to bed. The dress was moving again. He could wait until she decided what talking was worth.