It had started out like a typical Saturday afternoon.  Squealing kids careening through the store, their grubby hands leaving sticky, syrupy trails on clothing that their parents would never purchase.  Mothers browsing and gossiping in nearby aisles, oblivious to the havoc their children were wreaking.  The nasally twang of Reggie in customer service announcing yet another red flag special by Aisle 29.  Canned muzak, forced laughter, strained smiles.  It all made me long for the days of the textile mill.

When I saw Michael approaching my display, I didn’t think anything of it.  Novotny regularly made the rounds, tidying shelves, straightening hangars.  He didn’t have to -- the minimum wage peons were paid to do that -- but he did it anyway.   So when he reached for me, I thought perhaps my collar was crooked.  Maybe my sash had slipped, though it felt like it was cinched tight.  It was only when he tucked me under his arm and headed toward the cash register that I understood what had happened.  

He had picked me.  I was going home.

I was filled with questions.  Would I be living with Michael now?  Or was I a gift for a friend?  Perhaps he was taking me to a particular friend -- a tall, striking brunet that, several months ago, had seemed to have a strange fascination with one of Santa’s elves.  The things I saw that man do in Aisle 7!  But it didn’t take long for me to discount that notion.  That friend certainly wanted nothing to do with a plain ol’ flannel robe like me.  He looked like a silk man all the way.

The thick white plastic of the bag hid the view, but couldn’t mask the scent.  Urine, antiseptic, blood.  Pain.  Anger. 

I was taken from the bag and presented with a flourish of ceremony to the man on the bed.  He is not so old, not really.  But his eyes were haunted, giving him the appearance of someone much older than his years.  His flesh was gray, his lips parched.  The tubing in his nose had scratched the skin, and a gauzy bandage held the thin tube in place.  His hands fluttered on the blanket, skeletal in the harsh overhead lights.

I feared for him when a heavyset woman approached his bed, moving fast, talking a mile a minute around a wad of chewing gum.  But her touch was gentle as she lifted him up, cradling his back against her ample chest as Michael delicately lifted the man’s gaunt arms and manoeuvred them into my sleeves.  Together they eased him carefully back to the pillow.  His heart raced beneath my touch, the simple effort having exhausted him.

It was not what I expected.  Not what I had hoped for.  But this man needed me.  My warmth.  My comfort.  I resolved to do my job as best as I was able. 

We settled into a routine.  Vic took his meds.  The nurses did their rounds.  One of them sat with him when she could, idly brushing his hair from his forehead.  She listened to him talk, sometimes lucidly, sometimes not.  She used soothing hands to adjust his IV’s; to smooth my folds.   Others were not so kind.  They did their job brusquely, caring little for his pain or his fear.  There were visitors -- Michael and Debbie always, Brian occasionally.  Michael and Deb kept up a constant chatter of news and gossip, but Brian usually sat silently, one hand resting lightly on my sleeve, and Vic seemed to enjoy both types of visits equally.

Occasionally, Deb took me home.  She washed and tumble-dried me, and once she buried her face into my softness and wept.  I wished that I could wrap myself around her like I do with Vic.  I wished that Michael would drop by and find her there, and somehow ease her pain.  But in the end she dried her tears with my sash and tucked me back into her bag, and when we got to the hospital she was as bright-eyed and cheery as ever.

I worried when Vic got depressed.  He’d stop trying.  The nurses were no help, not even the nice one with the gentle touch. Then Deb would be there, cursing a blue streak.  She’d throw her arms wide and tell him in no uncertain terms why he should simply give up, give in, die and get it over with so she could move on with her life.  I was horrified.  Then Vic’s pulse would race and his spine would stiffen and he’d do the exact thing he was just complaining he couldn’t do, just to spite her.

I grew to love Deb almost as much as I loved Vic.

Vic slept a lot.  Sometimes he cried out, whether in pain or in the midst of a dream I could not tell.  But he clutched me to him when he slept, wrapping emaciated fingers loosely around me, and I knew then that he loved me too.  I was proud that I was doing my job so well.   We belonged together, Vic and me.

And then there was the time that he slept, and slept, silent, immobile, and there was always a vigil around the bed.  Everyone spoke in hushed voices.  When Michael visited alone, he lay his head on Vic’s chest and rubbed his cheek against my flannel and whispered soothing words.  When Brian visited alone, he clutched at my sleeve even though his face remained impassive.  

Then Vic woke, and asked about the Golden Globes.  My lapel was spotted with tears of joy that day.  I didn’t mind, even though I hate to be damp.   

A few weeks later, feeling better, stronger, Vic decided to go home.

The house is gaudy and colourful, just like it’s owner.  But we weren’t home for long.  A whirlwind tour of Italy awaited us.  I saw Rome, Venice, Milan, Naples.  So many other places.  Well, okay.  I saw the hotel rooms in Rome, Venice, Milan and Naples.  But they were snazzy hotel rooms, filled with lavish furnishings and treasures, so much so that I feared that Vic would push me aside for the plush white complimentary robes offered in our suites.  But I needn’t have worried.  Vic was as enamoured of me as I was of him.  One evening, he put me on and waltzed Deb around the hotel suite, both of them laughing, giddy on champagne, the glint of Debbie’s new earrings reflecting off golden chandeliers.

When we got home, we relaxed into a new routine.  Vic still tired easily, so he stayed home a lot.  We watched television.  Movies, mostly black and white, peopled with faded actors giving histrionic performances under unflattering lights.  Endless reruns of tripe like I Dream of Jeannie and Gilligan’s Island.  Vic thought the professor was hot.  Deb sometimes joined us when that one was on.  She thought the professor was hot, too.  It was nice that they had something in common.

Once, Vic took particular care in laundering me, making sure I looked just right.  I didn’t know why… until that night.  

He took me out.  To a party.   

First the bright lights of Italy, now a down-home gathering of his friends and family.  I felt blessed.  The only disappointment was that Brian wasn’t there.  But on the plus side, I did reconnect with a second cousin.  Turns out she’d been made into a baby’s sleeper.  Gus looked adorable.

Vic was feeling better all the time.  He grew more vital and alive and spirited every day, and I can only hope that I had something to do with that.   He went out more -- shopping at the mall, visits with friends, drinks at Woody’s.  He even started volunteering at the AIDS hospice, and helping out with Angels Over Pittsburgh.  But he always came home to me.  

Until the day that HE showed up.  

Rodney.  What kind of a name is Rodney, anyway?  

Now it’s Rodney this and Rodney that.  Between working with Emmett and going out with Rodney, I don’t get the time of day.  Oh, he used to still pull me on in the mornings, all rumpled and grimy, leaving me gaping open and neglected while he stumbled around fixing eggs and toast and talking to Deb.  Or, more often than not, making plans with Rodney on the phone.  

Then it got so he didn’t put me on at all anymore.  He carelessly tossed me toward the chair in his room one night and I slipped off the back, puddling into a pile of frayed flannel on the floor.  I lay in a heap for several weeks, getting covered in dust, before Deb finally found me and took pity on me.  She washed me up and hung me on a hangar and put me into Vic’s closet.  Into the back of Vic’s closet.  

So here I remain.  The wind whistles outside, but I can still hear the television playing softly in the room through the thin panels of the closet door.  I can hear their murmured voices, Vic’s and HIS.  

Vic doesn’t need me anymore.  He has Rodney to wrap around him now.  

Then the door cracks open, a slender sliver of light shining through.  Vic’s voice gets louder as his hand gropes through the clothes, finally coming to rest on me.  He yanks me free.  

He goes back to the bed and cuddles next to Rodney, placing me carefully across their joint laps.  I feel the chill rising from their legs and endeavour to keep them both warm.  Rodney’s hand brushes gently against me, smoothing an errant wrinkle, before they both pull me a little closer to their bodies, snuggling.  Snuggling into me.  

I guess Rodney isn’t so bad after all.