The Unremarkable Heart

own husband, the man with whom she’d shared a bed, created a child, built a life, remained an enigma.
    June turned her head away, staring out the window. The curtains needed to be washed. They slouched around the window like a sullen child. Her hands still remembered the feel of the stiff material as she had sewn the pleats, and her mind conjured the image of the fabric store where she had bought the damask. Grace had been eight or nine then. She was running around the store, in and out of the bolts, screaming, so that June had finally given up, quickly buying a fabric she wasn’t particularly fond of just to get the annoying child out of the store.
    And then came the horrible realization that the annoying child would be in the car with her, would come home with her and continue screaming the entire way. Outside the store, June had sat in the blazing hot car and recalled stories of motherswho’d accidentally left their children unattended in their cars. Their brains boiled. They died horrible, agonizing deaths.
    June had closed her eyes, summoned back the cool interior of the fabric store. She saw herself browsing slowly down the aisles, touching bolts of fabric, ignoring the prices as she selected yards of damask and silk. No child screaming. No clock ticking. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but please herself.
    And then her eyes popped open as Grace’s foot slammed into the back of the seat. June could barely get the key in the ignition. More shaking as she pressed the buttons on the console, sending cold air swirling into the car, her heart stopping mid-beat as she realized with shame that it was not the act of killing her child that brought her such horror, but the fall-out. What the tragedy would leave behind. Grieving mother. Such a sad story. A cautionary tale. And then, whispered but just as clear, ‘ How could she … ’
    Every mother must have felt this way at one time or another. June was not alone in that moment of hatred, that sensation of longing for an unattached life that had swept over her as Grace kicked the back of her seat all the way home.
    ‘I could just walk away,’ June had thought. Or had she said the actual words? Had she actually told Grace that she could happily live without her?
    She might have said the words, but, as with Richard, those moments of sheer hatred only came from longer, more intense moments of love. The first time June had held little Grace in her arms. The first time she’d shown her how to thread a needle or make cookies or decorate a cupcake. Grace’s first day of kindergarten. Her first gold star. Her first bad report card.
    Grace.
    June came back to herself in her dank bedroom, the sensation one of almost falling back into her body. She felt a flutter in her chest, a tapping at her heart; the grim reaper’s bony knuckles knocking at the door. She looked past the dingy curtains. The window panes were dirty. The outside world was tainted with grime. Maybe she should let Richard take her outside. She could sit in the garden. She could listen to the birds sing, the squirrels chatter. The last day. The last ray of sunlight on her face. The last feel of the sheets brushing against her legs. The last comb through her hair. The last breath through her lungs. Her last glimpse of Richard, the house they had bought together, the place where they had raised and lost their child. The prison cell he had left her in as he went off to live in one of his own.
    ‘A house on Taylor Drive was broken into late Thursday evening. The residents were not at home. Stolen were a gold necklace, a television set and cash that was kept in the kitchen drawer …’
    She had loved sewing, and, before her life had turned upside down the second time, before the detectives and lawyers intruded, before the jury handed down their judgment, June had thought of sewing as a metaphor for her existence. June was a wife, a mother. She stitched together the seam between her husband and child. She was the force that brought them together. The force that held them in place.
    Or, was she?
    All these years, June had thought she was the needle, piercing two separate pieces, making disparate halves whole, but suddenly, on this last day of her life, she realized she was just the thread. Not even the good part of the thread, but the knot atthe end – not leading the way, but anchoring, holding on, watching helplessly as someone else – some thing else – sewed together the patterns of their lives.
    Why was