The swirly patterns printed on the secondhand flat sheet were almost hypnotic. I stood in the middle of aisle five staring at them in a trance, oblivious to anything happening in the physical space around me. The thrift shop’s lively atmosphere flattened into a cardboard backdrop.
I’d seen those colorful curlicue wisps somewhere before. Maybe as far back as my childhood. Wallpaper? A notebook cover? An upholstered bus seat? I was drawing a blank, but still, the design felt so familiar. As if, long after my death, gravediggers would find it imprinted on my very bones.
“Excuse me, is this a woman’s hat?” A lilting voice breached my thoughts.
I tore my eyes from the neatly folded rectangle of mesmerizing cloth and swiveled to find a fellow customer standing several feet away. The person held a pale hat by the brim in both hands, like a steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I actually don’t work here, but maybe ask up front?” Looking down, I remembered that I’d left the house in a canvas apron I’d just finished sewing last weekend. I could understand the confusion. My incorrigible habit of wearing my newest sartorial creation out in public, whether or not the piece was appropriate for a particular occasion, often prompted curious glances and questioning remarks from strangers.
“You don’t have to work here,” the person insisted. “I just want to know if it’s a woman’s hat.”
I walked closer to get a better look. The hat was eggshell white, fashioned out of felt or a similar fabric, like fleece or faux suede. A bright red flower, cut from the same material, displayed prominently on the side of the crown. Hideous—to my eyes, at least. I wasn’t sure what the stranger was really asking, or what answer was expected of me. “I think it’s a person’s hat,” I finally said. “It’s pretty. You should get it!”
The person smiled and thanked me before walking off, ugly hat still clutched in both hands.
The original purpose of my visit today was finding one-of-a-kind vintage fabric to make my dream dress. I turned my attention back to the thrift shop’s textile collection, overwhelmed by materials, prints, and color palettes. So much inspiration to choose from.
A sign outside the shop claimed that all merchandise within was under a mysterious but powerful spell. The text didn’t elaborate, and I hadn’t asked for clarification. But when those flat sheets caught my eye again, its spiral motifs burrowing into my very being, a baffling strain of déjà vu swept over me, and I wondered if this particular spell had been cast to conjure up nostalgia.
***
I received my first sewing machine at age eight. A cheap plastic model meant for children. More toy than tool. My aunt had hoped the gift would spark an interest in fashion. In those days, I wore the same oversized black T-shirt everywhere, tossed over a regular rotation of solid-colored sweatpants. “Such a waste,” she lamented whenever she visited. “You’re such a beautiful girl. Why hide under these plain clothes? Boys’ clothes!”
Predictable comments notwithstanding, I loved gadgets. Puzzling out how all the individual parts worked together was half the fun. But the instructions in the included manual were frustratingly opaque.
YOU CAN MAKE ANYTHING!, the text on the cover proclaimed, arcing across the page like a rainbow. Even so, the pamphlet offered no concrete directions or diagrams to follow. Through experimentation, I eventually learned how to switch the machine on, how to thread the needle, and how to change the stitch length. I was so proud of myself. What I hadn’t realized when I began was that the machine only offered one type of stitch. A simple straight stitch, ideal only for woven fabrics with no stretch.
Already envisioning the perfect transformation that no doubt awaited me, I fed my beloved T-shirt under the needle, depressing the foot pedal as my hands guided the jersey along curves I’d marked with sidewalk chalk. Eager to show my aunt how clever I was, I took the shirt in at the waist so it would fit more like a classic dress. Afterwards, I cut away the excess fabric. I couldn’t wait to try on my upcycled outfit.
The threads snapped as soon as the knit fabric stretched to fit over my shoulders. Seams I had so carefully sewn broke apart. My dress was ruined. So was my T-shirt. I discarded the remaining mess on the floor of my closet along with the instrument that had destroyed it. I never touched either one again.
***
At the thrift shop, the flat sheet’s beguiling design still whispered my name. Next to the cash register, its metallic threads caught sun rays that pierced the windows from outdoors.
Even so, the owner barely glanced at my purchase as I forked over exact change. “Find everything you came in for today?”
“Yes, this is perfect,” I said, my eyes roaming around the shop’s eclectic inventory. “Magic, huh?”
“Every last item.” No hint of a joking smile. “Guaranteed.”
The sheet’s inexplicable power over me nearly made me believe. Back at home, I deposited the purchase next to my sewing machine. I had a much nicer model now. Not industrial quality, but the heavy-duty metal frame was made to last. Fifty unique stitches, including multiple automatic buttonholes. Most importantly, a triple stretch stitch, a lightning bolt stitch, a zigzag stitch, and a 3-point zigzag stitch, all useful for sewing strong seams that would stretch with knit fabrics.
The first cut of a new project always made me anxious, my frayed nerves threatening to unravel as the sharp blades of my fabric shears inevitably trembled in mid-air. This time, however, any lingering trepidation faded once I unfolded the sheet and draped it across the tabletop, my hands drifting across the landscape of its textured surface.
Those enigmatic, meandering lines suddenly reminded me of dead-end streets that populated the roadmaps we’d all been given at birth. Simple directions for navigating the best route to a happy, fulfilling life. For reasons I could never articulate, I’d never followed them, wandering instead off the marked path. But in that moment, at last, I was able to see the big picture. I was able to see why I’d always gravitated toward open, unsettled spaces. I could sense the treasure buried beneath the trail of my footprints. Memories erupted there like long-dormant volcanoes. Forgotten emotions flowed like hot lava.
Without hesitation, I arranged the pattern pieces I’d previously drafted and pinned them to the fabric. I didn’t have enough material to painstakingly match prints across each and every panel, but I realized then that it didn’t matter. The roadmap had proved faulty. From the outset, it had never been tailored to fit every individual. Golden light from a casement window crawled across the wall while I basted, stitched, trimmed, and pressed, until the sun slowly sank below the hills. Night hours stretched like braided elastic as I worked alongside the comforting whir of my machine, barely pausing to assess and reassess my progress. I was practicing the type of recklessness that usually came back to haunt me, but I hadn’t felt this confident in my abilities since I was a child.
Somehow, I was unsurprised at what I found when I finally zipped the finished dress—a sleeveless number shaped by princess seams that ran down the length of the front and back—over my body and looked into a mirror for the first time that day: The segments of fabric had all joined together perfectly as if they’d been destined to meet that way. Broken lines had found other broken lines, reconnecting with each other to form fresh, shimmering passageways. Without even planning to, I had charted a new map for myself.
The next time I met my aunt for lunch, I wore my dream dress to the outdoor café, proud to showcase everything it represented.
“You look gorgeous!” she exclaimed. Her eyes swept over the fabric. The way each element of the pattern led to the next created an illusion of movement across my body. “Is this one of yours?”
I nodded. “And look, deep pockets!”
A faraway look crossed her face. “Reminds me of a dress I saw once. Maybe on a mannequin in a store window…? Well, anyway. Your creations are transcendent. This one is sure to turn heads.” She winked at me, and I knew she still believed my designs were meant to attract a man. I knew she was patting herself on the back for buying me my first sewing machine, even when that regrettable experience had turned me off the craft for decades.
When I was still in school, all she’d wanted to do was gossip about boys in my class: “You must have a crush on one of them.” When I shook my head, she acted like I was only being coy. “So secretive!” She told me boys were intimidated by me, but one day the right one would appreciate everything I had to offer the world. That turned out to be true, but I eventually had to tell him that I’d never love him the way he wanted me to.
“It already turned my head,” I said. “At the shop, before the dress even existed.”
Under the table, I fingered the blind hem, my skin brushing against charmed threads designed to stir emotions deep within every maker. But before I’d even laid eyes on it, this fabric had known its true form.
