Flesh of the Duck cloth

"First, you'll need to select your textile. A heftier material like canvas or duck cloth is preferable for novice sewers."

Golden sunlight streams through the expansive loft windows, dancing across the spectrum of textiles spread out before me. I sift through several bolts of fabric, finally deciding on an unbleached duck cloth. It was a rustic textile, one that reminded me of the cartoon characters that Sara used to watch in her childhood. The country rabbit mother, in these animations, would intricately stitch her children's initials into freshly bleached napkins. I've never really given it a try. The sewing I had often done, bloody and under the white light in the operating room, made sure I saw Sara asleep more than I did awake.

Perhaps if I embrace this now and master the art of embroidery on duck cloth, it might serve as a small recompense for all those moments when I couldn't play the role of the ideal mother.

"Oh!" Maurice's eyes light up as she looks at me, her voice brimming over with cheer. "I love your selection, Lizzie."

There’s a sort of fizzing energy to her excitement that sometimes pushes me towards the edge; but then again, it's part and parcel of her job. Art therapist and all. With a half-hearted smile tugging at the corners of my lips - enough to make my eyes crease a little - I divert my focus back onto the framework lying in front of me.

Gently manipulating the cloth between two rings on the embroidery hoop, I watch as it begins to form delicate potholes against the stretched linen. My fingers weave around--tightening it till it has just about achieved perfection. All throughout this dance of threads and needles, Maurice watches patiently from aside; a pair of worn-out spectacles clinging low onto the bridge of her nose and hands clasped in her lap.

That's when she lets out those words – “you’re a natural.”

Feeling slightly off-kilter, my hand inadvertently trembles across an ensemble of pastel-coloured floss. Their silky texture caresses against my fingertips, like fragments from another life whispering memories into my ear. As if to shush them away, I give my head a quick shake.

"She’s the best we’ve got," sterile walls stretch endlessly, like a maze leading to nowhere, carrying with it the sharp scent of antiseptic and the faint aroma of coffee that lingers behind my eyes, "a natural."

"Go wild with the colours, I've got a bunch of stencils for you to pick from," Maurice's voice drifts over to me, smooth as river stones. My head is heavy as if filled with cotton wool and somehow there seem to be two Maurice’s before my eyes. Her hair, mottled with streaks of bleach-blond, frames a blurred face. Her lanyard sprawls carelessly across the worn timber table. "Got some with windflowers that you might fancy."

"I'll go for a letter instead," pulling a piece of thread through the eye of my needle, hands steady despite the knot in my chest. The metallic taste lingering in my throat makes me wonder if she can hear the rasping of my quiet struggles. "I'll try embroidering initials."

The first thing my mother appreciated about me was my steady hands. "Those hands could work miracles in a surgical room," she once quipped during a rare moment of clarity, her eyes unsullied by the haze of medication. It felt as if she truly saw me - for what felt like the first after an eternity. The frosty silence and oceans of distance that had formed between us briefly evaporated; I wished it could've stayed that way forever. Inspired by this brief connection, I took up her words as gospel, and thus found myself within the sanitised walls of an operating theatre; a surgeon crafted by desperation not just academic rigour.

“Yellow floss again?” Maurice asks, “How did Sara like the other piece?”

"She loved it." The words tumble out too fast. Too eager for reassurance. They're lies of course. The wad of frayed threads and chewed-up memories – including discarded gum wrappers that still smack of mint and the torn corners of forgotten parking tickets – are crammed into my glove compartment as proof.

“It was her favourite,” chimes a voice. A ghostly woman hovers in Maurice's shadow; her fingers, pale spectres themselves, clutching tightly to a sundress awash in red. She quivers under invisible waves, shifting like some unsteady mirage warped by the sweltering sun sketched above us. “I told her she was finally better, I told her you’d taken care of her.”

With a trembling hand, I form a loop at the end of the coarse, yellow floss. I don’t check to see if Maurice has noticed my trembling hands or not, I force the needle through the unyielding duck cloth. The shade of the fabric unnerves me further. It's the pallid colour of bleached bone which darkens when wetted by blood, transforming into a grotesque imitation of a bruise on living flesh. My fingers—clad in stark white surgical gloves—are stained with a macabre mix of my blood and sweat. A wave of hot fear courses through me as I falter for breath; it begins at my scalp where strands of hair stand on end and curls down to my toes.

"Insert perpendicular to the skin," I instruct myself, my voice cutting through the haze “ensure the needle penetrates both the superficial and deeper layers of tissue…”

"The incision needs to be stitched up, that's all," I reassure myself. In reality, it's not as simple as it sounds. Suturing is an art in itself - using different types of threads according to tissue type and perfecting various stitching patterns. A sloppy suture is a death sentence and I its jury. “Use the curvature of the needle to guide the suture through the skin," I continue my self-guided monologue. The curve of a surgical needle provides control during suturing; It allows for precise placement and effective wound closure. My hands tremble so hard, that I almost drop the needle.

The intense operating light above me glares down, bouncing off the metallic needle. My wrist turns expertly, guiding the needle through in a unique pattern. This is not just about a successful operation; it's also about preserving my reputation - something I've painstakingly built over a quarter of a century. Tears well up in my eyes, spilling over and tracing hot paths down my cheeks. Stress-induced bruxism sets in, my teeth grinding painfully against each other as I fight to control the flex of my diaphragm. "Don't pull too hard or push too forcefully," I remind myself softly. The suturing process is delicate, requiring both firmness and gentleness in equal measures. The wound slowly begins to close under my careful ministrations.

I could go back to work! My hands have steadied, I’ve tightened the knot properly this time, I’ve corrected the suture, I’ve corrected my mistake-

The sun touches my face, the body is gone, and my correct suture is too. Maurice is there instead, warm hands on mine, covering the shaking hand I clasp the needle with. The surgery room has melted away and I’m back in her office. She releases me, sweat trickles down my temple and drips onto the duck cloth. I glance at the fabric, the yellow floss maps out the intricate pattern of the suture I should have exceeded in. The one I failed in.

“Let’s get a cuppa,” Maurice suggests. Her suggestion isn't simply about making tea; it's an unspoken agreement to take a rest, to slow down our pace. It's a shared ritual we've built over our time working together, providing us not just with a dose of caffeine but also a space for open conversation, reflection and mutual support.

“Okay.”