Mom had chosen pink ribbon in the laboratory, when she was creating the three dolls.
Maritza made her way to Mom’s desk and from there, around the room. “Have you found your mother’s scissors? And her thread?”
I pointed to the large table. “There’s a whole selection of scissors and snippers and other kinds of cutters in there. Here. I’ll show you.” I tugged on the drawer’s handle. Maritza poked at the tools and shook her head.
“Moira used all of these but none of these are her spelled blades.”
“Wait.” I held up my hand. “I think I know where they are. I’ll be right back.”
I took the stairs two at a time. It was easy to feel sad about what was once a bustling, well-loved place, one that was always filled with laughter and the constant jangle from the bells that used to hang on the door. Having my aunt around lightened the feel of the entire building, as though the walls and floors could sense her connection to my mom. Squaring my shoulders, I strode toward the front of the store and veered off to the right. On the wall behind the counter was a rack of hooks and on the hooks hung a knit cap, a couple of worn cloth-and-string shopping bags, and my mother’s shop coat.
We were always teasing her about the shabby state of her signature garment, always urging her to make herself a new one. Alderose had even cut out and had me stitch an updated version from black twill. It was still hanging mostly unworn on the hook beside its threadbare counterpart.
I slid my fingers behind the collar and lifted the old coat off the hook. I took the knit cap too, crushing both to my face and inhaling deeply. I closed my eyes, breathed in again and again, until I was able to tease out a scent thread and coax it toward my nose.
Flax, hemp, and lanolin.
Mom.
And underneath that, at the periphery of memory, tangled in with a little girl’s longing, was the scent wet rock. Dank. Old.
I pulled away. Wrinkled my nose. Tried again. Sure enough, the unexpected scents were still there. I slid my hand into one pocket, then the other, and reencountered the bits of crumbs, lint, and forgotten beads I’d felt when I was in the cellar and seeing through my mother’s eyes.
No scissors. I lifted everything off the hooks, patted down the shopping bags. Nothing.
I stuffed the cap in one of the deep pockets and tossed the coat over my shoulder. Crouching behind the counter, I began to pull everything off the lower shelves, all the tins and boxes and cups with pens. I opened their lids and poked through their contents—including a small, plastic file box filled with numbered cards and book titles—and ended up with ink-splotched fingers and more questions than answers.
Mom, who were you?
It was like my mother had two distinct modes: Mom-mode and Moira-mode. Mom-mode included tons of hugs and macaroni and cheese by the case. The tiny fridge in her office was always stocked with sliced carrots and celery and boxes of organic apple juice. The chairs in the front of the shop were always available for anyone who wanted to sit. And the donation box… I peeked over the edge of the counter, reached for the battered container, and gave it a shake for old times’ sake. Paper rustled inside. I hunkered down in the narrow space between the wall and the counter, clutching the box in both hands.
My mother switched into Moira-mode when she slipped her arms into her shop coat and stood tall amongst her women friends, listening to their stories, nodding her head, never over-dispensing advice or freebies, but always—there.
Always available for them.
Always available for fund-raisers, food and clothing drives—anything that would assist with providing women in the community with a safe place.
I admired my mother’s spirit, her drive, her generosity.
And now we knew that for all her activism, she was holding something back from us, her daughters. Something big and important that was now creating a giant mess in our lives. A giant, dangerous mess.
I smoothed down the peeling edges of the box’s faded label, set it on the shelf, and squawked when a pair of scissors dislodged from underneath the countertop and landed on my knuckles.
Stainless steel, polished to a mirrored shine, glinting in the gloom. M. B. was engraved in an elegant, swirly script on the outside blade. Each shank was covered with a filigree design. The generous length of grosgrain ribbon was looped through one of the finger rings, with the ends tied together in a casual knot.
A reverential calm came over me. I swiped my hand on my jeans and reached for the scissors I had seen my mother wield hundreds and hundreds of times.
They were heavy. I slipped my fingers into the metal rings, separated the points, and felt the blades cut the air.
They were sharp. Decisive. I quickly closed the blades, set the scissors back on the shelf, and landed on my butt.
“Sissy?” Beryl’s voice floated down the stairwell.
“I’m good. I’ll be right up,” I yelled. I rolled forward onto my knees and patted the underside of the counter. There were no more surprises, and I’d need a flashlight to see into the corners of both shelves, but for now I considered my foray a success. I had Mom’s coat, her scissors, and her hat.
And all three were remarkably dust-free.
I trotted up the stairs and held up my treasure for approval. In my absence, my sister and my aunt had created most of a salt circle and placed lit candles around the room.
“This is beautiful.”
Beryl beamed. “Tía’s only been here an hour and already I feel like I’ve learned so much.” She extended a hand and I passed over the shop coat. Beryl slipped her arms into the sleeves and laughed. Mom was a good five or six inches taller than me, the tallest of her three girls, and the
