“You can’t let her decide everything.”
“She controls the money, the car, the house and every legal document with our names on it. She decides everything.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he stood.
“Wait here.”
He left before I could ask where he was going.
Ten minutes later, he returned carrying a large plastic storage container.
I recognized it immediately.
It had been sitting on the top shelf of the laundry-room closet since Dad packed away Mom’s clothes.
Eli placed it on my bed and removed the lid.
Inside were several pairs of Mom’s jeans.
Dark blue boot-cut jeans.
Faded straight-leg jeans.
One pair with embroidered flowers on the pockets.
Another with a small white paint stain near the knee from the summer Mom repainted our old kitchen.
I ran my hand over the denim.
“Where did you get these?”
“The closet.”
“Denise said we weren’t allowed to touch Mom’s things.”
“She also said we couldn’t afford your dress.”
He took a breath.
“Do you remember when I took fashion construction last semester?”
I looked at him.
“You said it was an easy elective.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because Tyler Grant called it a class for girls, and I didn’t want you making a big deal about it.”
“Did he make fun of you?”
“Only once.”
“What happened?”
“I stitched his backpack shut.”
I almost smiled.
Eli lifted one pair of jeans.
“I learned how to make patterns. I’m not amazing, but Mrs. Alvarez said I understand structure.”
I still did not understand where he was going.
Then he said, “I could make you something.”
I looked at the pile of denim.
“A skirt?”
“A dress.”
For several seconds, I just stared at him.
“You can make a prom dress?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve never made an entire formal dress before.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I said I think I can do it.”
He began speaking faster.
“We’d need to combine the fabric because no single pair is large enough. The darker denim could shape the top. The lighter sections could go into the skirt. I could use the seams as part of the design instead of trying to hide them.”
He stopped.
“If you hate the idea, forget it.”
I picked up the jeans with the paint stain.
Mom had worn them constantly.
In one of my favorite photographs, she was kneeling in the backyard wearing those jeans while Eli and I sprayed her with the garden hose.
“I don’t hate it,” I said.
“You don’t?”
“I think it might be the best dress anyone has ever given me.”
That was how the secret project began.
Eli retrieved Mom’s old sewing machine from the garage.
It took him an hour to clean it and another hour to remember how to thread it. We watched videos with the volume turned low and worked whenever Denise was out shopping, meeting friends, or sitting upstairs with the television loud enough to shake the vents.
Eli measured me using a construction tape measure because we could not find Mom’s sewing tape.
He drew designs in an old chemistry notebook.
He cut each piece of denim as carefully as if he were performing surgery.
The first version of the bodice was too tight.
The second version was crooked.
At one point, the sewing machine jammed and Eli stared at it with such betrayal that I laughed for the first time in weeks.
“Mom would know how to fix it,” I said.
“She would have fixed it twenty minutes ago and made us sandwiches.”
“Turkey and mustard.”
“With the crusts cut off even though we were too old for that.”
For a moment, the kitchen became very quiet.
Then Eli looked down at the fabric.
“I miss her.”
“I know.”
“I miss Dad too.”
“I know.”
He nodded and returned to work.
Over the next ten days, the dress slowly came alive.
He shaped the bodice from the darkest denim and designed an off-the-shoulder neckline that made it look elegant rather than casual. He used vertical seams to fit the waist, then created a full skirt from triangular panels in several shades of blue.
Mom’s embroidered back pockets became subtle details along the sides.
The paint-stained section was placed near the lower hem.
“Are you sure you want that part visible?” I asked.
“That stain is part of her,” Eli said.
