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Fred curled up deep into the windo wseat, both her, and her shadow an off-kilter collection of legs and arms, knees drawn deep into chests and heads resting just so. The jumbled array of pillows at their backs were there for no other reason than that they were liked, and there was no color or age or theme that tied them together.
"You fixed him."
Her shadow spoke with distinct authority, aged four years as Fred untangled herself enough so that they were no longer sitting one, like the other. With a tentative smile she passed over her project.
"Sarah," Fred started softly, tripping over words that were well practiced between them. "If I have to sew his ear on again, even just one more time, I'm thinking there won't be any ear left to sew on."
Two pig tails delivered their denial in bobbing unison.
"You just have to sewded him again. Like now."
"Sewed," mother corrected daughter quietly, as she blinked and blurred her eyes a few times, trying to see what Sarah did. If she could blur the already furry edges enough, then maybe she could shave at least a few years off. Five, maybe even ten.
"Sewed," the shadow was now an echo, too. "Yes."
Fred blinked again, and from the corner of her eye -- the farthest, topmost corner there was -- he was almost new again. Or at least, almost her old. But once she blinked it was all gone. Gone were the glasses, lost when they cracked between a two-year-old's body and the front sidewalk. The felted sides so this she could nearly see right through. Back were all the stitches, row by row by row, and most especially around the ears. They seemed to be most vulnerable to carrying.
She'd called Cordy for advice on that, of course. Doctoring wasn't a lesson Fred had stayed long enough at the hotel to really learn, at least not well. And memories of her friend's neat, even stitches had lead to the first call, for the left ear's original mishap. It was a reason, at least, and it kept being a reason after that, too.
Their voices always sounded very far away.
"I have to go now," Sarah announced, scrambling down from their perch to collect her not-quite-abandoned pile from the floor. On went her yellow rain slicker, her mother's old glasses minus the frames, a wiffle ball bat tucked up under one arm, and an abandoned gym bag dragging the floor. That, of course, was were Fiegenbaum went to recover from his recent surgery. Hopefully the bumps weren't going to be too many.
Fred couldn't even be bothered to hide her smile. For as far away as those voices sounded, she hadn't realized just how good she'd gotten at repeating their stories until the last year or so, as her daughter got older.
"Who are you saying today?"
"Everyone," the answer was delivered from as far away as the dining room, focused ahead.
"That's my girl."
"You fixed him."
Her shadow spoke with distinct authority, aged four years as Fred untangled herself enough so that they were no longer sitting one, like the other. With a tentative smile she passed over her project.
"Sarah," Fred started softly, tripping over words that were well practiced between them. "If I have to sew his ear on again, even just one more time, I'm thinking there won't be any ear left to sew on."
Two pig tails delivered their denial in bobbing unison.
"You just have to sewded him again. Like now."
"Sewed," mother corrected daughter quietly, as she blinked and blurred her eyes a few times, trying to see what Sarah did. If she could blur the already furry edges enough, then maybe she could shave at least a few years off. Five, maybe even ten.
"Sewed," the shadow was now an echo, too. "Yes."
Fred blinked again, and from the corner of her eye -- the farthest, topmost corner there was -- he was almost new again. Or at least, almost her old. But once she blinked it was all gone. Gone were the glasses, lost when they cracked between a two-year-old's body and the front sidewalk. The felted sides so this she could nearly see right through. Back were all the stitches, row by row by row, and most especially around the ears. They seemed to be most vulnerable to carrying.
She'd called Cordy for advice on that, of course. Doctoring wasn't a lesson Fred had stayed long enough at the hotel to really learn, at least not well. And memories of her friend's neat, even stitches had lead to the first call, for the left ear's original mishap. It was a reason, at least, and it kept being a reason after that, too.
Their voices always sounded very far away.
"I have to go now," Sarah announced, scrambling down from their perch to collect her not-quite-abandoned pile from the floor. On went her yellow rain slicker, her mother's old glasses minus the frames, a wiffle ball bat tucked up under one arm, and an abandoned gym bag dragging the floor. That, of course, was were Fiegenbaum went to recover from his recent surgery. Hopefully the bumps weren't going to be too many.
Fred couldn't even be bothered to hide her smile. For as far away as those voices sounded, she hadn't realized just how good she'd gotten at repeating their stories until the last year or so, as her daughter got older.
"Who are you saying today?"
"Everyone," the answer was delivered from as far away as the dining room, focused ahead.
"That's my girl."
