Page 24 of Marked By Shadows

I actually did get lost in the fabric for a while. When I checked out, I realized I’d been shopping almost an hour and a half and we needed lunch. Where was Alex? I didn’t see any of our group in the store anymore. A few from the bus, yes, but not from the cosplay group. I thanked the woman at the counter, accepted the two giant bags and headed toward the machine area. Would Alex still be there?

He was.

Alex sat at a mid-arm machine. A large square in front of him at the machine, a quilt sandwich, we in the trade called it, fabric layered on batting layered on fabric. The free-motion sewing foot was on the machine, a round sort of hole of metal that made up the ‘foot’ pressing against the fabric. And Alex moved the square around, the machine buzzing as his foot rode the pedal.

At first I thought he was simply playing with it. Since there were two employees nearby, I wasn’t worried. But as I got closer, I realized he wasn’t playing at all. He used the machine at regular speed, instead of slowing the pace or even hesitantly pressing the foot pedal. His hands moved in a gentle direction, turning and shifting the fabric with little effort. Echoing… and restarting a new line of perfect quilting.

The two employees looked on in what seemed to be shock. Not that he was breaking anything, but that he had no hesitation in using a machine I knew he had never touched before.

“Alex?” I asked.

For a moment he continued, like he hadn’t heard me. Perhaps he was in the zone, as they called it, super focused. I got that way often enough.

“Alex?” I called again.

This time he paused, foot easing off the pedal and his hands stilling the guide of the fabric through machine. He looked back at me, blinking, almost like he was waking from a dream. I switched the bags to one hand, hefting their weight aside, to touch his face.

“You okay?” I prodded when he didn’t speak.

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied. We both looked down at his little quilt square, probably a little over a half meter square, and found elaborate designs swirled over the space. From a section of detailed paisley feathers, rolling spades, andfleur-de-listype symbols to elaborate pebble-like circles of varied size and shape, stacked upon themselves. His square was almost full. Maybe one of the other quilters had left it behind?

Alex pulled his hands away from the square, staring at it for a minute, then glanced around the room, before pushing away from the table to stand beside me.

“Thank you, ladies,” he told the employees. “That was fun.”

“I’ve never seen someone free motion that quickly and without rulers. I mean the long arm does it when programmed in, but your stitches are perfect,” the older woman said.

“Like Judy’s,” the younger of the two confirmed. She put her hand over her heart. “I miss that sweet lady. She could feed a quilt through like that, transitioning from one stitch to the next seamlessly. Read the fabric and craft a stitch perfect for each section without hesitation. Real artistry. Won dozens of Guild prizes over the years for her work. Never seen anyone else do it in person. You must have years of practice.”

“Thank you for letting me play with the machine,” Alex said, tension tightening his shoulders. He reached for my bags. “We should get back to the bus, right?”

“We need food first,” I told him, letting him take them as he rushed us toward the door of the shop.

“Don’t forget your sample,” the younger woman said. She took the square off the machine. “You did all the work. You should keep it. It’s beautiful.” She tried to give Alex the square, but when he wouldn’t take it. I accepted it instead.

“Thank you,” I told the women as we left. Once out on the sidewalk I grabbed Alex’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “Alex?”

He was breathing hard, an edge of panic in his eyes. He gnawed on his lip, and I worried it would bleed soon. I took a step forward and kissed him gently, sucking his battered lip into my mouth and massaging it with my tongue before letting him go.

“Talk to me?” I asked. “I thought you’ve never touched a sewing machine before?” Certainly not a mid-arm. I didn’t own one, though I had thought about getting one. Most people didn’t know what they were. And to free motion quilt like that? Flawless, almost effortless. Like someone who had never painted before, picking up a brush and in a few minutes producing a Michelangelo.

I had a thousand questions, but didn’t know if Alex actually had any answers. No one magically began that skilled. It wasn’t possible. Even an artist would have to learn the machine, practice how it moved, and get familiar with the motion of the needle.

“Alex?”

He set the bags at my feet, stalked a few feet away, running his hands through his hair, and pacing. I watched him, waiting for him to clarify his thoughts enough to share them. After several treks back and forth, I thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything.

“I knew she was a ghost this time,” he said suddenly. He waved his hand. “Or whatever. A spirit, or something. Not a living person.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “There was a lady with the two other ladies I saw?”

“No. Not exactly.” He crouched down, closing in on himself for a minute, head over his knees, hands in his hair, which was a total mess now. He stared at the sidewalk for a moment, arms wrapped around his knees. “I let her use me.”

“What?”

He stood up again and resumed his pacing. “She said it was sudden. She hadn’t gotten to share her skill. Hadn’t found anyone who could handle it, not even her kids. Said she would show me. Could tell that I was the right one.”

“Wait… so the ghost lady was sewing through you?” I tested my understanding. I held up the square. “She helped you create this?”