Ada Unraveled (7 page)

‘Oh Abby,” Hannah soothed, and rounded the
quilt to pull her out of her chair and into a hug. “It’s okay.
Those were normal thoughts, hon. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Of course not,” Victoria said, reaching up
to place an ancient hand on Abigail’s back. “We get to practice
dying in thousands of ways during our lives, including wishing
others dead.”

I had to stop sewing. My vision had
blurred.

…
a long summer

More than a month passed. Eddie’s mind began
to clear. His father wasn’t as careful with his medicines as his
mother had been.

After his father killed his mother, he’d
disappeared, for maybe three or four days. Eddie had thought he was
going to die of starvation. Then the beast had returned.

It went like that for weeks, the monster
growing more and more erratic.

In a moment of extreme bravery, Eddie
convinced his father to leave him extra food, so he wouldn’t have
to worry about his son. Eddie had carefully made his appeal. And it
had worked.

Then things changed again when Eddie asked
him for some clean towels. He knew from the look on his father’s
face that he was pushing his luck. He waited for the expected
beating to begin.

If pure evil had a face from which to peer
out at the world it was Luke’s.

But the beating never came because Eddie
quickly offered to be of help, suggesting that if the cage door was
left open he could do the washes for them both. And he could still
be locked in the basement, securely, by the wooden door at the top
of the stairs.

After staring wonderingly at Eddie for
horrifying moments more Luke had just turned and walked away.

It wasn’t until the next day that Eddie
thought to try the door to his cell. His father…
Luke
…had
actually left it unlocked!

He stepped out, into the greater space of
the basement. A wave of fear washed over him. He stood for many
minutes, not moving, listening for the beast.

He was so filled with terror he finally
retreated to his cage. Exhausted.

Another day went by. Eddie prayed for Luke
to return. The summer heat was so intense. Eddie mostly slept,
dreamt. He had water from the little bathroom. But he was starving
and he knew it.

Finally he began calling. He tried opening
the small basement window, the one he’d seen his dead mother’s face
through. The window wouldn’t budge. He banged on it, trying to
loosen it from its rusty frame, until it broke!

A new terror raced through Eddie. His father
would be enraged at the damage. But a wave of clean air washed over
him, and he relished it.

He stopped calling out for help. He kept
thinking his father—Luke--was waiting, right outside.

On the fourth day of fasting Eddie climbed
up to the kitchen door.

He’d stood, listening for any sign that this
was a trick. Finally he reached for the knob. Held it, his heart
racing. Pulled. It didn’t move.

A wave of dizziness made him sway, and he
leaned into the door, pushing forward.

It opened!

He watched as it slid, listened, searched
the widening space of light. It stopped, opened four inches.

The kitchen clock struck ten times.

The kitchen clock struck eleven times. He
picked up his right leg, placed it up onto the linoleum, pushed the
door further open. He had to eat. The full light from the kitchen
windows streamed in on him for the first time in…
years
.

It had to have been years. Maybe even
decades.

His heart seemed to lift into the air on the
sheer strength of its fluttering beats, carrying him with it,
elevating him off the final step, up into the kitchen.

Into the room where his mother used to make
the good smells—when he was a small boy. When she was still
lovely.

He whimpered, a sound that forced another
step from him, sideways away from the landing. He pressed his back
against the wall and felt his eyes doing a fear jig in his
head—searching for the beast.

The refrigerator hummed to life—jolting his
body with another dose of adrenaline. Finally his purposeful
stomach prodded him from his spot on the wall toward the food. He
was famished!

He was certain if he didn’t eat soon he
would lose the ability to make it all the way across the
kitchen.

At first he’d eaten ravenously, raiding the
cabinets for dry foods as well. Then realizing he was standing
exposed in the forbidden upstairs space, he loaded up his arms and
quickly snuck back down. He made three trips all told, so he didn’t
have to be brave again for a few more days. He would wait in his
basement for his…Luke’s return, fortified and praying the beast
wouldn’t notice the missing food. He hid the purloined food behind
some old furniture outside his cage and waited. And waited.

Eddie even dared to pray Luke wouldn’t
return at all.

He almost got his wish. Luke only returned
to fill the refrigerator and cupboards one more time in August, but
it was enough for Eddie to make it through. Never in August did the
crazy man think to make him swallow the altering drugs.

Eddie even began to make plans for what he
would do when he stopped coming back altogether. Where he would go.
How he would get there. To his grandma’s.

He was remembering things. He was
remembering that his parents’ home was only a few blocks from his
grandma Vicky’s.

When the monster came back, he brought a
woman with him.

Eddie crept up the basement stairs to listen
at the kitchen door, his heart pounding in a mixture of excitement
and dread. Excitement that there’d be fresh food. Dread because his
father…Luke…didn’t really like women.

She had an ugly voice as if her vocal cords
had been scalded with acid. She spoke in filth.

They left the kitchen and stumbled drunkenly
up the stairs to his parent’s bedroom. A sudden disgust filled him.
He retreated to his small bed, listening as always.

Bang! Thump! Thump!

The bad woman’s screams mocked his memory of
his mother.

“You pig! You think you can treat me like
that. You crazy pig!”

She was coming back down the stairs,
stumbling and cursing all the way. “I’ll tell the cops, you
disgusting sot.”

Then silence. A very long silence. A silence
of days and weeks. Once again his father retreated from the house.
He hadn’t actually seen the man for a long time.

Later Hannah rose from her seat and placed
her hands on my shoulders. Startled, I shrugged up close to my
ears—an anti-tickle reflex.

“Relax your shoulders, Rachel. You’ll go
home with a wicked neck ache if you don’t. You need to remove your
glasses so my hands don’t get tangled in the chain. Rest your hands
in your lap and close your eyes as I help you. You’ll catch up with
the others later. Everyone gets neck and shoulder work on our first
break.” She began firmly kneading my shoulders and neck. It was
glorious. Just what I needed.

“Hannah, you work magic,” I moaned after a
few minutes. Her hands lifted slightly, then resumed.

“I’m a massage therapist, have been for a
couple of years. I think that’s why I’m here, as a matter of
fact.”

Strange comment. I almost asked where here,
thinking she was making an existential remark. Thinking…she had
children, weren’t they her reason for being here? As Gerry had
said? And then I thought maybe she meant
here
here, at this
Quilted Secrets bee.

I was definitely ready for a rest. We’d been
sewing for almost three hours and I was cramping up all
over—including my brain. Maybe a nap.

Then Ruth said, “Nonsense. You’re here to
have babies and take care of your old parents. Oh, and to keep that
man of yours happy. Someone in the Stowall family has to have
babies. You and your sister are elected. I’ll get fresh tea and the
fruit. We have red grapes Rachel, the kind that lowers your
triglycerides. God knows, we’ll need sustenance to make it through
this.”
Make it through what? Life? Didn’t high triglycerides
shorten your life?

And then I caught the central part of her
comments…that someone in the Stowall family has to have babies. And
then I lost it again. Flit, gone.

Okay, I was definitely in need of a nap.

A still-teary Abigail trailed after Ruth
toward the kitchen. Finally I took Hannah’s advice and closed my
eyes and slipped down into the pure enjoyment of tactile sensation.
A little portion of paradise. I slept.

Hannah moved on to Gerry. I sighed and
stayed in my relaxed position for a few more moments, wishing I
could call her soothing hands back.

“You need to get up and move around now,
Rachel, get the blood flowing. And switch to herbal tea,” Hannah
said. “Eventually all the caffeine is counterproductive.”

She was right. So I rose and moved about the
room for a few minutes, staring out at the constant rain, not
really seeing anything in the dark. I was floating on a magic
carpet of inner peace unleashed by Hannah’s healing hands. The
question was out of my mouth before I could stop it. It was the
question I’d been wrestling with since Hannah had called a week
ago.

“Well, if you’re here for your massages,
Hannah, why am I here?” A few minutes passed. It was as if I hadn’t
even spoken. Hannah seemed entranced with her work.

Victoria finally answered me in a tremulous
voice, “Because you are a retired research librarian and some of us
think we have secrets we need you to explore.”

The words were said with finality but left
so many unanswered questions in its wake. She seemed upset and even
angry. A second butterfly took flight in my belly. There was
something going on here I had yet to identify.

And why, for heaven’s sake, was I reacting
with anxiety? Perhaps it was the excessive caffeine.

“Rest your eyes, Victoria,” Hannah said, and
began massaging her shoulders.

I waited, letting the silence play out into
minutes as I watched them.

Finally, Elixchel stopped sewing and looked
at me, feigning innocence I thought. “We needed a replacement.
There has to be eight of us to complete a quilt in one night. It’s
always been that way. You don’t have to have a quilt ready until
next spring.”

Then what did Victoria just mean?
Mind-reading Ruth didn’t respond. Ruth was rocking gently as she
sewed. I thought about how far behind quilting I was falling,
playing this silly game. They would tell me when they were
ready.

Hannah completed her work on Victoria and
moved to Abigail.

The view of the little group of women from
my new seat by the fire, where I had settled with my tea, was
enlightening. A different view than I had when I was sitting
amongst them.

Victoria’s long, steel-gray hair, which had
been tightly braided and formed into a knot at the nape of her
neck, was beginning to fray in earnest now. The old woman looked
exhausted. I began to wonder if she would make it through the
night.

Hannah moved to Andrea who’d stopped sewing
minutes before, and was resting with her eyes closed and a smile on
her face, clearly in anticipation.

“Ada would have brought us a quilt to sew in
March, I think. Or maybe April.” Ruth said.

Ada. The woman I’d replaced. Finally a
name.

“Perhaps you should tell me who this Ada is.
Ada is the woman who died that I’m replacing.” I made the
statement, forcing someone to contradict me, or leave it said. No
one did. The room closed in upon itself.

Maybe this was the real meaning of their
name.
They quilted and they were very secretive.
And I hated
the butterflies dancing in my belly. The women sewed like robots in
silence. Ah, the anonymity of hiding in a group—a gentler form of
mob psychology was spread out before me.

Finally, Geraldine stood, stretched and
faced me. “The answer is yes. She died three months ago. We had a
hell of a time finding you, but we did and you’re perfect. And I
need a potty break.” She flounced out and into the barely lit
zigzag hall.

Still no answers.

But that was all I would get now. I moved
back toward my chair and asked, “How long has this group been
meeting?”

“Our quilting group has been in existence
now for over three hundred years,” Abigail said, perking up. She
launched historical essay.

“It began in the year 1678, in the
Colonies,” Victoria Stowall intoned. “One of my female relatives
sewed at that first one.”

Her pride imbued the room with lighter
feelings. Abigail rose from her sadness. And promptly joined a
debate with Abigail and Elixchel over how many generations ago the
group had begun. And promptly joined the debate over how many
generations ago the group had begun. Turned out it was forever, as
far as Victoria knew.

“Do you mean the bee has always been in your
family, Victoria?” I asked.

She nodded yes.

“And how is it you know the exact year?”
Then I remembered. “Wait…that was the year of Pilgrim’s Progress,
wasn’t it?” My reference librarian’s brain had called up one of its
many disassociated pieces of information.

Victoria beamed, which was a lovely sight to
see. Until Elixchel said, “John Bunyan’s real message, his
underlying moral, is that mankind lives in a corrupt hell and
heaven sits above us.”

And Elixchel believed that this was
true?

I looked at Elixchel. What a harsh
philosophy for such a beautiful young woman.

I said, “Maybe you should tell your story
now, Elixchel.” She nodded agreement and took a breath.

“My story is about how my parents died. I
was almost ten. This event abruptly ended my childhood.

“They were shopping in Mexico. My mother was
from Mexico. They had an accident…and they were trapped in the
car…on fire...” her voice wavered and she paused in her story.
Finally she resumed.