Ada Unraveled (6 page)

I would run to the bathroom and call him on
my cell right this minute, but I didn’t want to violate the rules
within my first three hours of knowing them. And apparently modern
electronic conveniences were taboo.

Then again, he might be worried.
Wondering if I’m safe.
Okay, I must confess at this point that
I broke the rules. That’s me.

Took a bathroom break. Took my purse. Called
Matt.

“I knew you’d be worried, honey, so I called
to let you know everything is okay. You won’t believe who’s a
member of this sewing group.”

“Uh, we’re busy here, Rache.”

It was his night to host the poker
players.

“You and the boys. Right. But just in case
you’re bored, can’t think of anything to talk about, I’m sewing a
quilt with the wife of Marshall Patrone.”

I waited.

“
The
Marshall Patrone?”

“Yes,
the!
”

“What’s that echo?” He never misses
anything.

“I’m in the bathroom. We’re not supposed to
use electronic equipment. Don’t ask.”

“Whatever. Just be sure to get an invite to
dinner….”

“Rachel?” It was Elixchel at the bathroom
door. “Uh-oh, I’ve been caught.” I hung up.

But all thoughts of meeting the billionaire
owners of a major league sports team flew out the window when Ruth
said, “This is a good choice as your last quilt, Victoria.”

Abigail gasped and looked around helplessly.
Elixchel stared at the fireplace, her back arching. But Victoria’s
only response was a sad nod of acceptance.

I saw this exchange as two old friends
helping each other prepare for the inevitable. I saw it as the two
older women preparing their young friends. I wasn’t really
surprised at the remark, or the fact that it was indicating
Victoria was going to die soon. Victoria was very old. And she was
clearly suffering from some muscle or nerve disorder. Nevertheless,
my mood sobered.

“How‘s your mother, Gerry?” Victoria said,
turning us back to Gerry.

“She’s fine, still getting over the cold my
four kids gave her on Labor Day, but otherwise fine. I wish she’d
stop working, though. She comes home exhausted.”

“She loves nursing. Why should she stay
home?”

“For one thing to help me with my kids,” the
wild haired Geraldine answered, and grinned.

“You have tons of money. Hire some more
people if you need to,” Victoria said. “And Tom, has he made
Detective grade yet?”

“He’s working on it, maybe a little too
hard,” Gerry said.

I asked, “Whose Tom?”

“My younger brother, Tom Beardsley. He’s an
investigator with the Cleveland County Sheriff’s Department, on the
cold case homicide team. He wants to break out of that into
Homicide which means making grade to detective. But he needs
something special to move him up.”

I made a mental note of the name, knowing
Matt and I might run into him. It was always good to have a
connection in the local Sheriff’s.

My mind began to wander, my focus narrowing
to the fatigue in my fingers and thoughts of my mother when she was
elderly. Until Abigail’s voice woke me.

“Now’s a good time to tell your story,
Gerry.” Abigail said.

“I’m not sure I’m in full agreement with
this,” Gerry began, “it could be uncomfortable…”

“What could be uncomfortable?” I asked.

“Abigail thinks we should modify our secret
sharing this month, in honor of your joining us. Instead of telling
our usual more current secrets, she suggested we search our early
childhoods for a secret, something we think helps to explain who we
are. I’m frankly a little intimidated by the idea, however.”
Gerry.

“Secret sharing?” I was sure my mouth was
hanging open.

“That’s why we call ourselves The Quilted
Secrets…didn’t Hannah explain? It helps to pass the time if we get
really into each other’s secret lives…private tidbits about lovers
and husbands. The low-down on our jobs and how miserable we all are
in them.” Andrea.

“We’re not all unhappy with our jobs. I
loved being a teacher.” Gerry.

“…and health problems, recent alcohol and
drug abuse episodes, any strange rashes we may have…”

My attention slid back to Andrea. She was
really a little devil, wasn’t she? I smiled at her.

“That’s not true!” Abigail said. “Really all
we do is catch each other up on the events of our recent month. But
you’re just starting, so you can’t really play catch up can you,
Rachel?”

“Oh, I don’t know…feels like I’m playing
catch up right now. Are you still teaching, Gerry?” She shook her
head no.

A butterfly briefly launched in my stomach.
What kind of a story could I tell about my childhood? At least I
wasn’t going first.

“It’s more because…” Abigail looked quickly
at Victoria, who was sewing with her head down, pretending she
didn’t know they were glancing at her.

“It’s because our group is…changing. And the
way you guys talk about the group, of being really tight and sewing
together for so many years.

“I’d like us to become friends, become a
band of sisters…like Victoria had.”

Ruth and Victoria continued to pretend they
were deaf. And I got it. It wasn’t such a bad idea really. I must
have smiled.

“Okay, she’s cool. So stop stalling, tell us
a secret from when you were little, something terrible,” Abigail
said to Gerry.

“Terrible? Wow, something just popped into
my head.” She paused for effect. “My mother bit me when I was
little, only three, I think. I remember it vividly.”

“What?” Elixchel exclaimed, and laughed.
“Why would she bite you?”

“Because the little girl who lived next to
us was a biter, and she bit me three times—even drew blood--until I
finally bit back.”

I drifted again. Into my inner thoughts.
Until Abigail’s voice snatched me back again.

“You know, Geraldine and Marshall have an
even bigger house than Victoria’s, Rachel. How many bedrooms do you
have Gerri?” the child-quilter said, and then continued on as if
the answer wasn’t important. “You should see her house! It’s a
mansion in Rancho Santa Fe. Now that’s rich!” Where was this young
girl getting her energy? Chocolate bars? Teens ate chocolate bars,
right? I definitely needed to find her stash. I was beginning to
fade. I glanced at the food table.

We fell to sewing again. I wanted to hear
more about Gerri’s billionaire life, but the silence was
comforting. For a few minutes. And then the talk began again.

“When’s you’re next fund raiser? I want to
be sure to be there,” Andrea quipped.

Without skipping a beat, Gerry replied,
“Next month. We’re working with the heads of the three major sports
organizations to raise money for ALS. It’s a terrible disease.”

Victoria pushed back from her place at the
quilt and stood. “I’m taking a break. I’ll be back in a few
minutes.” It took her almost five minutes to travel to the door,
this time without assistance from Elixchel.

“Do you need anything?” Elixchel called
after her as she disappeared down the hallway. Then to me she said,
“It’s really hard for her now. Being so old. Burying her husband
and best friend…”

But the rest of Elixchel’s revelation was
cut off rather loudly by Andrea.

“So who’s coming to the gala fund raiser?
Anyone I know?”

They prattled on, but my head was still back
on the comment about Victoria’s husband and best friend, thinking
it must have been her best friend whose place I’d taken at the
quilt.

But once more, I’d gotten lost in my own
thoughts and stitches again, and the conversation had moved on
without me.

Hannah was saying, “My children are my whole
life. They are what I live for and why I do everything I do. There
is nothing more important than having children.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Children are what
life is about,” Andrea said earnestly.

I was surprised. Andrea didn’t seem the type
to be thinking about having children. But then I wasn’t certain
what type Andrea was yet, was I? And I couldn’t tell her age,
either. Pixies were like that. Hard to age. And hard to
typecast.

More stitching. More aimless chatter. Until
Ruth said, “Let’s expand the quilt.”

Victoria was retrieved, and we widened the
exposed part of the quilt again, and consequently the space between
us grew more comfortable.

Not that this kept Andrea and Abigail from
arguing, this time over Abigail’s last name, Pustovoytenko.

“You and Elixchel are driving us crazy with
the name changes. What’s wrong with Beardsley, Abigail? That’s your
father’s name, remember?” Andrea said.

Abigail said, “My mother changed her name
back to Pustovoytenko and I live with her, that’s what’s wrong with
Beardsley.”

As in Tom Beardsley, Gerry’s brother?

“You’re breaking the connection.”

What connection? I wanted to interrupt and
force a full explanation, but knew I should be patient. I would
understand everything about them in due course. But there were
seven women in the room whose secrets I still couldn’t follow.

“Am not.”

“Are. And I get that you’re mad at your dad,
but it takes two to divorce, Abby. Your mom isn’t an innocent in
this thing,” Andrea said.

“Okay, that’s unnecessary,” Elixchel said.
“You know the blood issues the family is dealing with.” She glanced
at me nervously, and quickly resumed her sewing.

Blood issues? Whose family? Elixchel’s?
Abigail’s? Were they related to Victoria? And Gerry? Was she also
related to Victoria?

“Part of the family, not all of the family.
Only half!” Abigail shot back defensively. “He could get a
transplant! He’s just…he’s… a coward!”

“Listen to yourself, Abigail. He’s a
Stowall. Stowalls have…”

“Enough,” Victoria barked. I marveled at the
strength in her voice.

We sewed…until I ran into something on her
quilt that halted my hands. I had no idea how to proceed. I glanced
to either side of me and found no hints there. Finally I asked.

“Victoria, there’s a bit of embroidery on
the door I’m about to sew across. Do you want me to sew around
it?”

“Use an echo stitch.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks that I knew
what echo stitches were. Like ripples on a pond they were rows of
stitching one quarter-inch apart that surrounded and highlighted
something on a quilt. Three rows were the usual amount. And since I
was the first to highlight the threaded shapes and Victoria wasn’t
clarifying, I went with what I knew.

Then, as if forgetting Victoria’s
admonition, Elixchel continued the conversation from half an hour
before.

“He’s afraid, not a coward. And his fear is
justified. With all the blood problems in the family, removing
what’s left of his kidneys is a gamble he’s just not willing to
make until it’s absolutely necessary.”

So it was a kidney transplant that her
father needed, definitely doable with today’s medical
advancements—unless a tissue match can’t be found. I continued to
wonder if Abigail was in some way related to Elixchel as the
comments grew more and more personal. And…just what kind of “blood
problems” the “family” had?

“He’s on dialysis. How much more necessary
can you get?” Abigail’s young girl’s voice sounded on the verge of
crying.

Then she looked directly at me and said,
“That’s my childhood secret, Rachel. I hate my father. He’s weak
and useless.” She ran from the room sobbing.

“No way! That can’t count as your secret.
Come back here and tell us more,” Andrea yelled after her.

“Oh,” I found myself saying. “Way
harsh.”

Andrea eyed me a moment, then sighed. “Yeah
I guess.” She followed after Abigail and I heard her mumbling at
the nearby bathroom door, apologizing and soothing. Something about
them sharing father problems.

A few minutes later they were both back. We
sewed. And I wondered what I was doing in the midst of this
apparent family affair.

It was Abigail who started us talking
again—with the rest of her childhood story.

“My dad has been sick all my life.”

I looked up at her. She was tearing up
again, and I worried that she might not be able to make it through
the night either, poor girl. Found myself wondering who would leave
us first, Abigail or Victoria?

“I can’t remember a time he hasn’t been
rushing to hospitals or worse, sitting around yellowy and
depressed. His eyes especially. They look like…like a sick cat’s
eyes. Dry…unfocused.”

“Once…one terrible day…my mom was on weekend
duty.” Her voice caught in her throat. Finally she continued. “I
was nine.”

“You don’t have to do this, Abigail,” I
said.

“Yes…I do. I was painting upstairs. I’d
moved from chalk and pencil to using paint just that year because
mom said I needed to make my art more permanent. My dad was
downstairs watching his favorites…Fox news, CNN, all of those news
stations. He loves to yell at the screen, get all excited over
politics--as if this constitutes having a life.” She paused,
probably to gain control of her story.

“When I paint I lose track of time. I can
work for hours on a canvas before feeling tired or getting hungry.
Painting just pulls me in and keeps me in for hours and hours at a
time.”

I smiled at her. She was so young, yet.…

“I forgot to give him his meds. My mother
called late to remind me, she’d been working an emergency case at
the hospital. I ran downstairs but it was too late. He was…he
was…dead!”

“But…” Andrea.

“No.” Elixchel.

“Abigail! You never told us this,” Hannah
said.

Abigail sobbed then caught herself. I saw a
look of strength not common to teens pass across her face. “The
ambulance arrived on time to revive him—I’d dropped the phone. My
mother had heard my screaming. But for whole minutes I breathed for
him. I pounded his chest and forced air into his mouth. The
worst…the worst of it was…I kept thinking how foul his breath was.
No, no. That wasn’t what I was thinking, I was thinking…how I
should just let it happen. How we’d be so much better off if he was
gone.” She dropped her head into her hands and cried
uncontrollably.