I like that idea, not having to think about what to wear every day. I like eliminating being sad or mad if I lose something, when someone takes my stuff, steals my shirt, my shoes, I lose my socks in a new house’s washing machine or in a rushed move. So I took some saved allowance and work money to the mall and bought myself an Einsteinish wardrobe: three blue and three gray scoop-neck T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, one pair of black pants. One pair of shorts. Indoor shoes. Outdoor shoes. Done. All replaceable. Any of it can be worn with anything else, and most of all, it is a wardrobe that, like my entire existence, stays safely beneath the radar: utilitarian, muted, inoffensive, breaks no rules, draws no attention.

Clothes one loves and chooses because they fit and look good are the luxury of a free person, a person who depends solely on herself, who can decide where they live and with whom, and can screw up and break rules and get in trouble, with only herself to answer to. A wardrobe a person really loves is for someone who has somewhere to keep it—a closet, in a place where she can stay as long as she wants.

A mom I lived with when I was twelve had a sewing room. An entire room dedicated to fabric and a sewing machine, and she let me play with a needle and thread and scraps of cloth. She didn’t exactly show me how to do it, but I figured out that if I found something to wear at a thrift store that would work for the Einstein wardrobe but that maybe was too small or too long, I could fix it. Make it fit. She gave me all the thread and needles I needed.

But what I really wanted was her brass thimble. I loved how it kept her fingers safe from needle pricks, how shiny the brass started and how warm the patina after she used it for a while. She had a ton of them, like a person with a bunch of reading glasses lying around the house. She was nice. She never yelled at the kids; she always had many types of bread for toast. I liked to sit and listen to the hum of the sewing machine when she worked on patterns for dresses for herself or the little girls. I began to like living there with her.

So I called Joellen, who came to take me to a new house, where, she confirmed, no one knew how to sew.

As I carried my suitcase out to the curb, there in the dust near the baseboard in the hallway was a lone thimble. I picked it up and took it. Protection from hurt.

Chapter Twelve