Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE SEWING MACHINE
"She's alive."
Noah whispered those two words again and again as we stared at the photograph.
I wanted to believe them.
But sixteen years had taught me not to confuse hope with certainty.
"Eight months," I said to Victoria. "This picture is eight months old. How do we know she's still there?"
"We don't."
"Then we're going to find out."
Daniel immediately offered to send his security team.
I refused.
"The last people Mom saw before she disappeared were men working for your family. I won't arrive at her workplace surrounded by men in black suits."
Daniel considered that.
"You're right."
He arranged for us to use an ordinary car and asked Mr. Salazar to preserve the historical records.
More importantly, he ordered the hotel's security department to stop providing Raymond with information about Noah and me.
Then he did something unexpected.
He handed me the original photograph, the brass key, and the blue pouch.
"These belong to your family, Emma."
I looked at him.
"What about the investigation?"
"We can make copies with your permission. But nobody has the right to take your mother's belongings from you."
It was a small gesture.
Yet it was the first time that night I felt somebody powerful understood the difference between helping me and controlling me.
We left Chicago the following morning.
Noah drove.
Daniel remained behind to investigate the company's records.
Victoria traveled with us because she knew the address, though I had insisted she sit in the back seat.
For most of the drive, nobody spoke.
Then Noah asked, "What if Mom doesn't remember us?"
My heart twisted.
"Of course she'll remember."
"I was four, Em. I barely remember her voice."
I reached across the console and squeezed his arm.
"She'll remember you."
He looked straight ahead.
"What if she doesn't want to come back?"
I had no answer.
Racine looked ordinary when we arrived.
People walked dogs along quiet streets. A delivery truck unloaded groceries. A little girl rode a bicycle beside her father.
I resented how normal everything looked.
How could the world have continued so peacefully when mine had been broken for sixteen years?
Mercy Stitch Cooperative occupied a brick building near a small church.
There were handmade quilts displayed in the windows.
A sign advertised sewing classes and clothing repairs.
I stood outside for several seconds before opening the door.
Inside, an older woman was sorting fabric behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
I showed her the photograph.
"I'm looking for this woman."
The woman studied it.
"That's Ellen."
"Ellen?"
"Ellen Reed. She taught our repair classes."
My throat tightened.
"Is she here?"
"Not today."
My heart sank.
"Do you know where she is?"
The woman looked uncertain.
"May I ask who's looking?"
I swallowed.
"My name is Emma Bennett. I think Ellen Reed is my mother."
The woman's expression changed.
She pulled out a chair.
"Sit down, sweetheart."
I couldn't.
"Please. Just tell me if she's okay."
The woman introduced herself as Margaret Walsh, the cooperative's director.
"Ellen worked here for almost nine years. She was one of the kindest people I ever met."
"Why did she leave?"
"She didn't exactly leave. We had to close our main teaching program when a private grant was withdrawn. Ellen began helping at a church community center across town."
Victoria stiffened.
"What private grant?"
Margaret opened a folder.
"Carter Community Holdings."
I looked at Victoria.
Raymond's department.
Even here, he had managed to reach into my mother's life.
Margaret noticed my expression.
"Is something wrong?"
I shook my head.
"Did she ever talk about her children?"
Margaret's eyes softened.
"Not often. But she kept a little photograph in her sewing box."
My breath caught.
"What photograph?"
"Two children standing beside a birthday cake. A girl with braided hair and a boy wearing a blue hat."
Noah looked at me.
That photograph had been taken at his fourth birthday party.
"She kept it?" he whispered.
Margaret nodded.
"She kept it everywhere."
Tears finally spilled down my cheeks.
Mom hadn't forgotten us.
She'd carried us with her.
Margaret reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small square of fabric.
"She also used to make these."
Seven short yellow stitches.
One long one.
"She said it was a reminder that a broken thing could still be repaired."
I pressed the fabric against my chest.
"That's what she used to tell me."
Margaret handed me the address of the community center.
Then she added something that made my heart race.
"Ellen is teaching there this afternoon."
We drove across town.
The center stood beside a modest white church.
Through the window, I saw several women sitting around a long table.
A sewing machine hummed near the back.
And beside it stood a woman with gray-streaked hair.
She wore a simple blue cardigan.
Her head was bent over a piece of black fabric.
I recognized the movement of her hands.
The careful way she guided the needle.
The slight tilt of her head when she concentrated.
I hadn't seen those hands in sixteen years.
But they were my mother's hands.
"Emma?" Noah whispered.
I opened the door.
The woman looked up.
For one breath, she simply stared.
Then the needle slipped from her fingers.
"Emma?"
Her voice was older.
Rougher.
But it was hers.
I couldn't speak.
She took one step toward me.
Then she saw Victoria standing behind my brother.
The color drained from her face.
"Why did you bring them here?"
"Claire," Victoria whispered.
My mother looked back at me.
Tears filled her eyes.
"Oh, sweetheart."
I moved toward her.
But she raised one trembling hand.
"Don't."
I stopped.
My heart broke all over again.
"Mom?"
She glanced toward the window, then toward Noah.
May you like
When she spoke, her voice was shaking.
"Emma, listen carefully. Whatever Daniel Carter has told you, do not let him take your brother back to Chicago."
