“Momma, why don’t you wear a costume to work?” asks Natalie, who is putting different coloured pieces of fabric on my mannequin. My measuring tape is around her neck, and a pencil is tucked in one ear. She circles the model, examining her creation, pursing her lips and squinting her eyes.
Sitting in front of my mom’s old green Singer, I sew the last couple of patches on Natalie’s Halloween dress. This year, she asked to be a witch, and she was particular about the details of her costume: all black with multiple patches of colour all over.
Cutting the last thread attaching the fabric to the sewing needle, I lift the garment and examine my creation. I cannot help but smile. I do not impress much in the kitchen, but I can hold my own as a seamstress. The black satin fabric glistens under my sewing room’s white, neon light. The patches of colour and the purple tutu sticking out from underneath give the skirt a 60’s flair.
Every year, I sit at this machine, and I make my daughter a Halloween costume. The first year, it was a bumblebee, then a pumpkin, followed by a princess and now a witch. Of course, it would be easier to just buy a costume, but I grew up to the sights and sounds of my mom sowing. On nights where the Sandman could not find me, I would fall asleep to the buzzing of this machine and to the brushing of fabric on her wooden table. It was soothing, and it still is.
“Mommy is not wearing a costume because Mommy is not going to work today. She needs to take Toby to see the vet, and then she has some errands to run,” I answer.
She stops turning around the mannequin and faces me.
“Is Toby sick, Momma?” she asks.
I get up from my chair and walk towards her and help her into her costume.
“No, baby, Toby is just going for his annual check-up and vaccines. Toby is just fine,” I tell her.
I kneel and pull out the purple tutu from underneath the black fabric. I complete the look with Natalie’s black witch’s hat on her head, but it slides down over her eyes.
“It’s too big, Momma!” she says, laughing and pushing the hat back up.
“I know! And we bought this last year. You see what happens when you don’t eat your vegetables?” I ask her, stifling a chuckle.
She throws a side glance at me, and she furrows her brow.
“What?” she asks in return.
“Your head shrinks!” I answer, suppressing a laugh, but she sees right through me.
“No!” she retorts, laughing.
I secure the hat on both sides with bobby pins and rearrange her black curls on each side of her head.
“There! Well, you, young lady, are the prettiest witch I’ve ever seen!” I tell her.
She giggles and runs to admire herself in front of the big, full-length mirror hanging on the wall. She twirls, beaming at her reflection, then stops. She wrinkles her face and talks to the little witch staring back at her in the mirror in a scratchy voice.
“I will put a curse on you!” she says.
I laugh, and I pick up my purse and her backpack glancing at my watch.
“Well, wicked witch, we better hurry up if we don’t want to be late for school,” I announce.
Every morning, I drop Natalie off at daycare on my way to work. But today, I have the day off, so I bring her straight to her class. Miss Tiffany Brooks, her teacher, is at the doorway greeting the children as is her custom. She, too, is dressed like a witch, much to Natalie’s delight, who runs towards her upon seeing her. Wearing a black dress that falls to her ankles, she braided her long, brown hair to one side and added blue glitter to her nose and cheeks, which brings out her caramel eyes. If it were not for the black hat she is wearing, I would guess she was dressed like a fairy.
“You’re a witch too, Tiffany!” my daughter says, jumping up and down.
Natalie is grinning from ear to ear. We really lucked out with Ms. Brooks, or “just Tiffany drop the Ms.,” like she informed us to call her on our first parent-teacher meeting. It makes the children feel more at ease to be on a first-name basis, such was her reasoning. I cannot help but agree. According to Michael, our daughter beams every morning at the sight of her beloved teacher. And today is no exception.
“So, I am,” she answers, all smiles and curtsying to my daughter.
Natalie giggles and curtsies back.
Tiffany leans to my daughter’s level and touches her nose with her index finger.
“But your costume is much prettier than mine,” she says, flashing a smile worthy of a Hollywood star.
“My Momma made it!” my daughter tells her, grabbing the front of her dress and extending it forward so Tiffany can have a better look at all the patches.
“Very pretty! Run along now; class is about to start,” Tiffany tells her.
My daughter turns to me, and I kneel in front of her, and I hug and kiss her, and I rearrange her lopsided hat.
“Now, you have a great day, and I’ll be here in the afternoon to pick you up, ok?”
“Ok, Momma!” she answers, nodding her head.
She hugs and kisses me back and goes off to join her classmates. I stand up and glance at Tiffany, who is watching me with a furrowed brow. I guess what she is thinking.
“My husband flew out on a business trip today, and I have the day off, so that’s why I’m here, dropping off Natalie,” I explain.
She nods her head and replies with a polite smile, but the furrowed brow still wrinkles her forehead.
“Oh, I know. Your husband mentioned yesterday that you would be the one dropping Natalie off this morning. Since he was going out of town and his flight left pretty early,” she replies.
Really! Michael is always in a hurry in the mornings. Sometimes forgets to give me a kiss goodbye but somehow finds time to converse with the pretty teacher. This bothers me for some reason. No, it is not jealousy. I am not the jealous type, and Michael is not one to flirt. Still, I can see how a man of his age would want to impress an attractive girl like Tiffany with a conversation about his important business trips.
Tiffany then presses her lips.
“It’s good that you came today. I wanted to talk to your husband yesterday. But, when he mentioned you were coming today, I decided to wait and talk to you instead. You think we can talk after class this afternoon?” she asks, clearing her throat.
Now, I furrow my brow. I have a knot in the pit of my stomach warning me this is not leading anywhere good. Has Natalie said something about me? I am going to play this safe and act dumb. I do not want to expose myself without having all the information. Who knows? I might be wrong.
“What is this about?” I ask her, scratching the side of my neck with one finger.
“I prefer to wait until after class. Don’t worry. It’s nothing too dramatic. Just something I’m concerned about,” Tiffany explains.
She licks her lower lip then bites it, and she is having difficulty keeping eye contact with me. Great. She cannot even look at me. Now I know Natalie must have said or done something. Should I say something right now to defuse the situation and avoid an uncomfortable conversation later?
The children in the class are enjoying this teacher-free time. They have worked themselves up into a commotion of singing and dancing. Some are even stomping their feet on the floor. I think it is best to let it go… For now.
“All right then. I’ll see you this afternoon,” I say.
“You have a great day, Mrs. Arnold,” she replies and enters the classroom and restores order with a simple clearing of her throat.
Shaking my head, I scurry down the corridor towards the exit. Out of all days, it had to be today—just my luck.