Margaret dropped the empty laundry basket on the floor in front of the clothes dryer. She wore an oversized gray hoodie sweatshirt, the college logo faded and nearly rubbed off altogether from years of washings, the sleeve cuffs stretched out and ratty. She also wore dark gray sweatpants, also oversized, the waist rolled over itself several times so that it would fit her small waist, as well as make the legs not so long on her, though those still pooled around her ankles. To round out the ensemble, she wore holey men's crew socks, her hair was pulled into a loose braid, frazzly brown hair wafting like a halo around her head, and a wedding band and engagement ring on her left hand.
The clothes dryer was an ancient beast of a machine, made in the days before designed obsolescence. It was built to last until the end of the world, or so said Margaret's husband, Richard. All it needed was regular maintenance and the occasional replacement of easy to find parts. She supposed it must be true. It had survived for nearly six decades. It had even rattled on for the two years since Richard's death, though what she would do once it started acting up she didn't know.
She supposed she could ask Alex, their son, to try his hand at it. He was smart as a whip, going for his degree in Mechanical Engineering, he could figure out an old dryer. Though he had said she should get new appliances, ones from this century at least. Dryers today could not only dry the same sized load faster and cost less electricity, but had smart programming that measured the humidity to ensure the clothes were dry before shutting off, and even tell the difference between a load of heavy towels and a load of delicates, and tumble and heat accordingly. Not to mention they weren't whopping great behemoths that filled the laundry room so much there was hardly any room.
But she remembered a time when Richard had brought Alex down here to replace a belt or something and Richard had shown him how the dryer worked from the inside. Alex had been so intent, so serious, hanging on Richard's every word. Richard's strong, deft fingers dismantling the dryer as if by magic, then putting it back together just as quickly.
He had great hands. Fingers long enough for a pianist, strong enough to open even the most stubborn of pickle jars, and gentle enough to send shivers down her spine with every touch.
She realized she had been standing over the basket for some time, her mind replaying bittersweet memories. In a daze, she dropped down into a squat with a whuff. Slowly, mechanically, her hand moved and grabbed the door handle and she jerked it open.
That happened a lot. She knew she should have recovered from her husband's death by now, at least enough to get through a load of laundry without losing herself. She had been in therapy for a year, but she just couldn't move on.
Richard had been her True Love, her soul mate, her reason for living, her everything. Her life had come to a screeching halt, literally a fiery crash, two years ago, and now she was just going through the motions, mind in a constant haze, usually somewhere in the past rather than the present.
Her therapist said she needed to get out of the house, visit old friends, make new ones, get a hobby, get a job even, volunteer at a soup kitchen, train for a marathon, something, anything. She couldn't just spend all day every day in her house doing house chores and staring off into space.
She knew her therapist was right, of course, but she couldn't make herself get out of the front door. Scratch that, she couldn't even make herself get dressed in her own clothing. This sweatshirt was Richard's. These sweatpants were Richard's. Even these holey socks were Richard's. The only things she wore that were hers were her rings.
He used to grumble when she'd wear his favorite sweatshirt. She'd just beam a smile at him and give him a kiss and say, "Take it off me then," and she'd watch the mock anger melt from his eyes, to be replaced by a different, though no less heated, emotion. He would growl and reach out to grab her, but she'd slip away with a wicked 'Come and get me' grin and the chase would be on.
That last thought shook her out of her daze. She didn't want to let that memory play itself out. It hurt too much. She focused on what she was doing and realized she had frozen again, her hand stopped halfway out of the dryer holding a shirt. The ache in her knees told her she had been squatting in front of the dryer for some time.
Twice for one basketful of clothes! Come on, Margaret, get it together!
She grabbed out a pair of her panties from the dryer. At least she still wore her own underwear. She snorted. It was good to remind herself that she wasn't so hopelessly lost to grief and depression that she would wear Richard's streaky underwear. Although... Those might be the last holdout of anything that still smelled like Richard.
No. No! She was not going to go sniffing his underwear! Get that thought out of your head, girlie!
With a huff, she reached in for the last sock, way in the back. She had to poke her head into the dryer to even reach it. It wouldn't move. Frowning, she tugged on it. It was stuck on something. It was dim in the laundry room, only a single, yellow sixty watt bulb, and even dimmer inside the dryer.
She leaned farther into the drum to see better, now head and shoulders inside. The sock looked like it was stuck in the seam between the drum and the hub in the back. Why it wasn't all one piece, she didn't have a clue. She gripped the sock and yanked. No go. She wrenched at it with all her might. She heard the threads in the sock protesting this treatment.
Panting, she looked closely at how the drum was connected. Maybe if she pushed on the back and twisted on the drum with her shoulders while pulling on the sock with her other hand...
Margaret yelped as the drum spun, tumbling her about until she was facing upward, the small of her back holding her weight painfully on the rim of the opening, one arm wrenched underneath her and the other above her head, the back of her hand pressed firmly against the drum. She attempted to right herself but met resistance. The arm above her wouldn't move. In fact, to her shock, the cuff of the sweatshirt had been wedged into the seam, very much like the sock she had tried to retrieve. The loose cuff had been cinched tight about her wrist, trapping her hand. After some careful and not so careful tugs, she concluded that she was stuck. The pain in her back grew more intense every second.
"Alex!" she yelled. "Alex! Help! Alex!"
***
Alex's phone dinged and he picked it up. Megan had sent him a text. The two had gone on a date last night and had hit things off well. He smiled as he opened the text. "I had fun last night," was all she said, but she included a selfie in just a bra, the sheer material doing little to hide what was underneath. Only in his boxers, he took a quick selfie and sent it with a reply of "Me too". She responded with a peach and three water emojis.
"Alex! Alex! Help! Alex!" His mother's cries might as well have been a bucket of ice water, the way they caused him to swear and leap to his feet.
He ran out of his bedroom yelling, "Mom? Mom!" and shortly pounded down the steps into the laundry room. "Mom! What's wrong?" he yelled again when he saw her lower half sticking out of the dryer.
"Help me! My hand is stuck and my back hurts! Oh, it hurts!"
Alex dropped to his knees beside her, panting, and peered into the dryer. His mom's eyes were shut tight and her face was screwed up in a grimace. He was still holding his phone in his hand. He flicked on the flashlight mode and saw immediately what had happened. His panic drained out of him.
"It's ok, mom, I'll run and get some scissors and cut the sweatshirt."
"No! Don't cut it! It's your dad's! Just turn the drum so I'm not on my back and help me get the sleeve unstuck!"
