On the eve on her momentous birthday, Amy tries to calm her nerves by sewing something special. Will Sheldon appreciate her work? Will he even notice?
THE NIGHTGOWN BLOSSOMING
Part One: The Bud
It was unlikely she would sleep, what with her mind racing and her loins still faintly burning from the waxing. She could not stop thinking of tomorrow, not just a birthday but the day she'd waited for her entire adult life. Amy glanced at the clock as she poured a glass of water. At this exact time tomorrow evening, it was entirely possible that - the water went down her throat with a particularly large gulp - Sheldon Cooper would be on top of her. Inside of her. First, she took a deep breath and then another drink. Or, perhaps, if she played her cards right, she'd already be deflowered. Penny and Bernadette had done their best to alternately distract her and downplay the event and encourage her all evening, but still her world was spinning.
Finishing the water, Amy stood indecisive in her kitchen for a moment. But there was nothing else to be done this evening. It was past her bedtime. She turned off the kitchen light and proceeded to the bathroom to prepare for bed. If she couldn't sleep, then she'd sit up and read in bed, the dark room lit by only the small, slight glow of her clip-on reading lamp. Usually, after a chapter or two, sleep would come. Tonight, she hoped, would be no different.
She tried not to think about how this was the last time she'd perform her nightly ablutions as a virgin. When she brushed her teeth, she tried not to imagine Sheldon's teeth gently hitting hers during an especially passionate kiss. As she brushed her hair, she tried not to imagine his fingers doing the same. She tried to ignore the way her clothes brushed against her skin as she removed them, raising goosebumps as she failed to not imagine the hush of fabric as removed by Sheldon's beautiful hands.
Crouching down, Amy opened a dresser drawer to get out a clean nightgown. Her hand hovered over her choices. All of her gowns were there, folded upright like soldiers to protect her from the night, as they had been ever since she'd read Marie Kondo's book a few months earlier. She grasped the first one, the feel of flannel familiar beneath her palm, and she frowned.
Amy made all of her own nightgowns. Sewing and other needlework had always provided her with a soothing hobby. Something to do with her hands, even as she worked through problems in her mind. It was so different from her scientific work that it felt like a welcome respite, a resetting of her mental processes. The math was simple and concrete, the sequence of events unchanging and sure. There were no unknown variables and only minor unexpected roadblocks like a snagged bobbin or a dropped stitch. It felt like a hypothesis and a conclusion all rolled effortlessly into one: Amy could visualize the finished product, know exactly what steps to take, and be certain of the outcome. Making nightgowns was a simple project, repeated every time using an old McCall's pattern. Every nightgown she had was structured the same; she'd made so many she didn't even have to consult the instructions anymore.
Except now they were all wrong, every single one of them. Amy's frown deepened as she pulled a blue plaid version over her head. Perhaps she should have taken Penny's suggestion when she marched her into Victoria's Secret after their waxing session. At first Amy was tempted to experience the stereotypical lingerie-wearing fantasy. But as her two blonde friends held up one flimsy, see-through item after another, her opinion shifted and her resolve strengthened. She would not go into her deflowering looking like anyone other than herself. In the end, she'd only bought a new pair of serviceable pink cotton underwear, although she'd agreed to bikini-style instead of her usual full briefs.
After years of angst and want and desire and self-doubt and long months of pain over a hasty and regrettable break-up, Sheldon Cooper wanted to be intimate with her. Her, Amy Farrah nightgown-wearing-Fowler. Sheldon loved her, for her intelligence and her modesty and other things that couldn't be squeezed into a red lace corset.
But he also loved her because she surprised him and challenged him. Because she presented new and fresh ways of seeing the world. At least she thought so. And none of Amy's long flannel gowns were new or fresh. It had been awhile since she'd made any. Even if they were, Sheldon had already seen her in them before, when she was sick or at their sleepover. If Sheldon was going to try something new for her, with her, the least she could do was wear a brand-new nightgown. It was an unread chapter in their lives, a fresh start, another beginning. She didn't want any reminder of the mundane times; she wanted something that later, when she saw it in her drawer, would only spark the joyous memory of a special night.
She looked at the clock. She was not going to sleep anyway. As she had done for years, she had taken her birthday off work to spend doing whatever she wanted to do. And right now, she wanted to sew a new nightgown. She didn't want to wait until the fabric store opened tomorrow; there was already too much tomorrow on which to wait. Her mind made up, she didn't want to waste another second. Amy grabbed her robe and wrapped it around herself as she went to the hallway closet where she stored her craft supplies. She pulled out and opened the large plastic tub at the bottom where she kept extra fabric. She tried to recall the clearance fabric she bought once as she rummaged through the box. Did she ever end up using it, perhaps for a quilt? Oh, yes! There it was, at the very bottom!
It was pale pink with tiny dark pink rosebuds connected by wispy vines. She liked the idea of a rosebud: a thing not yet opened, the promise of a bloom just waiting for the sun to kiss it and stroke it and warm it until it blossomed with excitement into being. She smiled at the metaphor, at the quiet scandal that was spring.
But when she pulled the folded fabric out, she sighed. It was not flannel, as she thought. It was a thin cotton percale. That's probably why she'd never made a nightgown with it; she was often chilled at night, and flannel was not just soft but also warm. Also, as it unfurled, she saw there was less than she remembered. Amy stretched her arms to estimate the yardage and realized it was not enough for a full gown. But it felt crisp and snappy, like it had been waiting with pent-up energy. Despite its years at the bottom of the fabric box, it even gave off a faint whiff of laundry detergent. She'd already washed it and preshrunk it, assuming at the time that she would use it soon, but for some reason she never had. This fabric was like her, waiting for its opening night.
That made the decision. So what if it were thin and cool? She would not be wearing it for long. So what if it was shorter than usual? By night's end, she would expose far more than her calves. Setting it aside, she dug around more until she located some white lacy floral trim; there were two different types, and she pulled them both out. Maybe she'd go wild and use both together. Maybe she'd add a little pizzazz by making the version with pintucking, too. If she were going to engage in premarital sex, she wanted to do it with flair.
Quickly now, she set about her tasks. She took out the heavy sewing machine, carrying it to living room for when she needed it. The thread box was sorted through for a coordinating shade of pink, and she choose a row of small shimmering buttons to march down the front. The old pattern envelope was collected and tucked under her arm. She cleared off the dining table, washed it clean, and dried it thoroughly. The fabric was stretched upon the surface, and Amy measured it using her long white tape.
She was certain it would be enough - just - but she picked up the pattern envelope to confirm. Yes, there was enough for the knee-length, cap-sleeved version. Of course, she'd never made that one before, but the basic construction looked the same. She pulled out and read the instructions to be certain. The pattern pieces, those beige filmy sheets, were carefully unfolded to avoid tearing them. Then, just as gently, Amy refolded upon the new line, the one that indicated the shorter length. The cap sleeve was a new piece she'd never used before.
Each piece of the pattern was arranged and pinned into place with precision, the middle of the back along the fold to give the gown the width it needed. Amy paused with her shears in her hand and smiled down. Almost every part of the fabric was covered, with very little unused. It was perfect; this fabric had always been destined for this moment. Without knowing it, her fabric box had always been her trousseau. Already the world was spinning less, her heart pounding less, her breath more sure. Already nervousness and anxiety were giving way to conviction. She would make her own unique version of a negligee, just as she and Sheldon had made their own version of love.
The percale cut beautifully, the edges very straight with no fraying; what little excess there was fell away gracefully, as though it knew it was being sacrificed for a greater whole. Gathering it in her hands, Amy felt moved to take an unprecedented step before she tossed it in the trash can. "Thank you," she whispered to the scraps.
Moving the pieces to the side, Amy set up the sewing machine at the edge of the table. First, she used the spool of thread to make her bobbin, and then she guided the thread from the top of the machine down through the levers and loops and at last through the eye of the needle. She removed the front corner of the machine to align the bobbin in its carriage and then carefully wound the wheel until the needle, plunging again and again into the hidden depths of the machine, caught it and pulled its partner up, up, up, into the light.
She knew the steps by heart. First, the pintucks: tiny little folds to rest along the top of her bosom. Dainty, demure, they would belie the thump-thump of her heart beneath them. The only clue would be the way they rode upon the heaving of her chest. The stitches were small, the pleats measured in the narrowest of increments. There was no room for error. Amy squinted and concentrated and held her breath as she stitched first one and then another and then another. Six little rows on each side. One for each year she'd known Sheldon. One for each year she loved him.
Satisfied, Amy exhaled loudly and relaxed. The hardest part was done. She was able to work with ease now, lining up the cut pieces, pinning the right sides together, guiding them under the foot and over the plate, carefully reversing at each end so they would not come apart again. Then each new, larger piece was cut free and she opened it like a book to inspect it, the inside now the outside, the two pieces now one, forever locked together with invisible threads.
In some places, after sewing, she tugged gently on the thread to gather the fabric, scrunching and sifting it, making sure each bunch was equidistance from another. Technically, a gather was a flaw, a forced pucker in the fabric. Something erratic and lumpy, unpredictable and bumpy. But, instead of fighting it, a seamstress welcomed it. She had learned that flaws were inevitable, that they could not be avoided, only massaged and smoothed into the whole. In fact, as the garment took shape, it was these very flaws that often gave it its shape, that allowed for movement and volume. A small gather across the yoke at the back, a reminder of the weight of love upon her shoulders. A longer gather in the front, beneath the pintucks, a reminder of the greater lightness of love upon her heart.
Amy measured out the placement of the button holes, indicating each with a faint chalk mark. She put on the buttonhole foot, reset to a zigzag and stitched down first one side, returned to the beginning, and did it again. Each buttonhole felt like starting over. Each buttonhole felt like a memory. Each buttonhole felt like both a mistake and the slate being wiped clean. Each buttonhole was forgiveness. By the time she reached the end of the placket, there was nothing left to forgive.
A sweetheart neckline, for the beautiful ache that had grown within her chest every day for years. Cap sleeves, like Juliet pining for true love upon a balcony. Knee-length hem, a reminder that love was a journey walked together. Thin white trim encircling her arms, a band of hope for a ring someday. Larger floral trim across the top, leftover from a previous nightgown, a reminder that although she would be changing, she was still the same. Amy sewed with hope and stitched with dreams.
At last, she flipped off the machine and stood, holding the nightgown in front of her. Amy smiled. Even gaping open, it was more than she imagined. And it wasn't even done. The last two steps, the last two thresholds for her to cross, would change it entirely. Only when these were complete would the gown be whole.
Moving to the sofa, she used the sharp spear of her seam ripper to open each buttonhole. The little harpoon tugged and cut. It was only a small prick, a brief but necessary pain. It was necessary to open oneself to the hurt to find oneself fulfilled. Amy licked the end of the thread to help tie the knot, and she sewed the first button in place by hand, her arm stretching out long as she pulled the thread behind her. At first it rotated, unsure of its place in this new experience, until she secured it. Only once she was certain it was set did she move on to the next.
After each button was secure, she closed it. Each piece searching for and finding its exact match, the only one that lined up perfectly with it. She slid each one through its corresponding slot, a straight movement at first until the fulcrum caught and then suddenly the thing was complete and the two were now incontrovertibly attached. Once they were unfastened, they would never be the same again. They had formed themselves to each other.
Her shoulders aching, she stood and rolled them back. Amy stretched toward the ceiling and lifted up on her toes. A yawn escaped; perhaps she'd manage to sleep a few hours, after all. Still standing, she inspected the finished nightgown for any stray threads, for any errors or flaws. There were none.
She smiled and set it down on the arm of the sofa only long enough to reorganize her supplies and return them to the closet. Then she took the gown into her bedroom and tried it on in front of her full-length mirror, biting her lip at what she saw. It was strange to see herself in a short nightgown with such small sleeves. The ambient lighting shone through it, and she could made out her dark silhouette under the fabric. Amy ran her palms down her sides, feeling crisp and clean. Sheldon would like that, surely. Following the contours of her hips, her breath sped up.
Would Sheldon touch her like that? Up past her ribs and her hands cupped her breasts, the cool air in the room raising her nipples like little marbles beneath her fingers. She bit her lip. Did it show too much? Did it conceal too much? Would Sheldon like it? Would he understand what every stitch had meant to her? Would he even notice?
Trembling slightly, she lowered her hands and studied her reflection. It was unusual for the task to which it was assigned, she knew that. Maybe it was a little too big, a little too old-fashioned, a little too functional over fashionable. But, then, so was she. The trembling stopped and she nodded firmly at what she saw. Amy Farrah nightgown-wearing-Fowler. Different yet the same. New yet familiar. Nervous yet sure.
Unique yet loved. For all her doubts, that was not one of them.
To be continued . . .
Just like Amy's new nightgown, this story is comprised of two separate parts that are incontrovertibly linked, so much so that I couldn't decide how to present them. One long story? A serial tale? However, as the two pieces of the story are also forever locked together with invisible threads, it was decided to try something new and post them together. And so, if you are so moved, continue on . . .