Ties That Bind (2 page)

I
built a fire in the fireplace and stood watching the flames dance before settling myself on the sofa to work on my sister's Christmas quilt. Quilting, I have found, is great when you want to think something through—or not think at all. Today, I was looking to do the latter. For a while, it worked.

I sat there for a good half an hour, hand-stitching the quilt binding, watching television and telling myself that it could be worse, that my life could be as messed up as the people on the reality show reruns—trapped in a house, or on an island, or in a French château with a bunch of people who you didn't know that well but who, somehow, knew way too much about your personal weaknesses and weren't afraid to talk about them.

When I picked up the phone and my parents started to sing “Happy Birthday” into the line, I remembered that being part of a family is pretty much the same thing.

“I'm fine. Really. Everything is fine.”

“Margot,” Dad said in his rumbling bass, “don't use that tone with your mother.”

I forced myself to smile, hoping this would make me sound more cheerful than I felt. “I wasn't using a tone, Daddy. I was answering Mom's question. I'm fine.”

My mother sighed. “You've been so secretive lately, Margot.”

Dad let out an impatient snort. “It's almost as bad as trying to talk to Mari.”

At the mention of my sister's name, Mom, in a voice that was half-hopeful and half-afraid to hope, asked, “Is she still planning on coming for Christmas?”

“She's looking forward to it.”

Looking forward to it was probably stretching the truth, but last time I talked to my sister she had asked for suggestions on what to get the folks for Christmas. That indicated a kind of anticipation on her part, didn't it?

“She'll probably come up with some last-minute excuse,” Dad grumbled.

In the background, I could hear a jingle of metal. When Dad is agitated, he fiddles with the change in his pockets. I had a mental image of him pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other, the phone cord tethering him to the wall like a dog on a leash. Dad is a man of action; long phone conversations make him antsy.

“Wonder what it'll be this time? Her car broke down? Her boss won't let her off work? Her therapist says the tension might upset Olivia? As if spending a day with us would scar our granddaughter for life. Remember when she pulled that one, honey?”

A sniffle and a ragged intake of breath came from the Buffalo end of the line.

“Oh, come on now, Lil. Don't cry. Did you hear that? Margot, why do you bring these things up? You're upsetting your mother.”

“I'm sorry.” I was too. I hadn't brought it up, but I hate it when my mother cries.

“I just don't know why you're keeping things from us,” Mom said.

“I'm not keeping anything from you. But at my age, I don't think I should be bothering you with all my little problems, that's all.”

I heard a snuffly bleating noise, like a sheep with the croup, and pictured my mother on her big canopy bed with her shoes off, leaning back on two ruffled red paisley pillow shams, the way she does during long phone conversations, pulling a tissue out of the box with the white crocheted cover that sat on her nightstand, and dabbing her eyes.

“Since when have we ever considered you a bother? You're our little girl.”

“And you always will be,” Dad said. “Don't you ever forget that, Bunny.”

Bunny is my father's pet name for me—short for Chubby Bunny. My pre-teen pudge disappeared twenty-five years ago when my body stretched like a piece of gum until I reached the man-repelling height of nearly six feet. I haven't been a Chubby Bunny for a quarter century, but Dad never seemed to notice.

“It's Arnie, isn't it? Is he seeing someone else?”

Mom didn't wait for me to answer her question, but she didn't have to. Somehow she already knew. How is that possible? Is that just part of being a mother?

“Don't you worry, Margot. Arnie Kinsella isn't the only fish in the sea.”

“Maybe not. But all the ones I haul into my boat seem to be bottom feeders.”

“Stop that. You can't give up,” Dad said with his usual bull moose optimism and then paused, as if reconsidering. “You still look pretty good … for your age.”

Ouch.

“You know what I think?” he asked in a brighter tone before answering his own question. “I think maybe your husband's first wife hasn't died yet.”

“Werner!” My mother gasped, but why? Was she really surprised?

“What?” Dad sounded genuinely perplexed. “At her age, a nice widower is probably her best shot at getting a husband. I'm just saying …”

“Hey, guys, it's sweet of you to call, but I need to get ready to go.”

“Are you going out with friends? Are they throwing you a party?” Mom asked hopefully and I knew she was wondering if my friends had thought to invite any bachelors to the celebration.

“I've got a meeting.” Not for two hours, but they didn't need to know that.

“On your birthday?” Dad scoffed. “Margot, they don't pay you enough at that quilt shop to make you go to meetings after hours. I keep telling you to get a
real
job.”

Yes, he does. Every chance he gets.

I used to have a “real job” according to Dad's definition. I worked in the marketing department of a big company in Manhattan, made a lot of money, had profit sharing, a 401(k), and health insurance, which I needed because I was forever going to the doctor with anemia, insomnia, heart palpitations—the full menu of stress-related ailments. After I moved to New Bern and started working in the quilt shop, all that went away. Insurance and a big paycheck aren't the only benefits that matter—I've tried to explain that to Dad. But there's no point in going over it again.

“It's a church meeting. I'm on the board now. Remember?”

“Oh. Well, that's different, then.”

My parents are very active in their church. Mom has taught fourth grade Sunday school since 1979. When there's a snowstorm, Dad plows the church parking lot with the blade he keeps attached to the front of his truck and shovels the walkways. No one asks him to do it; he just does. That's the way my folks are. They're good people.

“What a shame they scheduled the board meeting on your birthday,” Mom said.

“This is kind of an emergency thing. We've got to pick a new minister to fill in while Reverend Tucker is recovering.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, remembering our last conversation. “How is he?”

“Better, I think. I'll find out more tonight. Anyway, I've got to run. Love you.” I puckered my lips and made two kiss noises into the phone.

“Love you too, sweetheart. Happy birthday! If that sweater doesn't fit, just take it back. But promise me you'll at least try it on before you return it.”

“I'm not going to return it.”

“Well, there's a gift receipt with the card if you do.”

Dad cleared his throat. “And there's a hundred-dollar bill in there too. That's from me. Buy yourself something nice.”

“Thanks, Dad. But you didn't have to do that.”

“Why not? Can't a father spoil his daughter on her birthday? After all,” he chuckled, “you only turn forty once.”

Thank heaven for that.

“I don't care how old you are, Bunny. Don't forget, you're still our little girl.”

As if I could. As if they'd ever let me.

 

After I hung up, I went back to work on the quilt. This time I left the television off and just focused on the stitches, trying to make them small and even. It's a very soothing thing to stitch a binding by hand, almost meditative. With my tears over Arnie spent, I turned my thoughts, both hopeful and anxious, to Christmas, and my sister.

Mari's full name is Mariposa. That means “butterfly” in Spanish, so when a bolt of fabric with butterflies in colors of sapphire, teal, purple, and gold on a jet-black background came into the shop, I made two important decisions—I would use it to make a quilt for Mari
and
I would invite her and my parents to come for Christmas.

It's been five years since the last time we tried it. Olivia, my niece, was only a few months old. I'd seen the baby a couple of times, but my parents had never met their granddaughter. There is a lot of bad blood between my sister and parents. I talked Mari into coming to Buffalo for the holidays, but at the last minute she called and canceled. Mom was crushed and cried. Dad and Mari got into a shouting match. It was awful. Mari blamed me. It was almost a year before she'd answer my phone calls again.

That's why making a second attempt at bringing the family together for Christmas really was a big decision, but I had to do it. When I saw those sapphire blue butterflies, the exact blue of Mari's eyes, I knew I had to take the chance and at least try. Honestly, I didn't really expect Mari to say yes. At first, she didn't.

“No, Margot,” she snapped, almost before the words were out of my mouth. “I am
never
going back to Buffalo. Too many bad memories.”

“No, no. Not Buffalo. I didn't say that. Come here, to New Bern.”

In truth, I
had
been thinking we'd get together at Mom and Dad's, but perhaps things would go more smoothly if we met on neutral ground.

“New Bern is beautiful at Christmas. There's a huge decorated tree on the Green and they outline all the buildings with white lights. You and Olivia can stay here and I'll reserve a room for Mom and Dad at the inn.”

Would the inn already be booked for Christmas? It didn't matter. I talked as fast as I could, spinning out a vision of the perfect Christmas, making it all up as I went.

“My friends, Lee and Tessa, have a farm outside of town where we can cut our own tree. Lee just refurbished an old horse-drawn sleigh. I bet Olivia has never been in a sleigh! And the quilt shop has an open house on Christmas Eve with cookies and punch and presents. Everyone will make the biggest fuss over Olivia, you'll see. I'll ask Charlie, Evelyn's husband, to dress up as Santa Claus and deliver her presents!”

Would Charlie agree to that? I'd get Evelyn to ask him. He'd do it for her.

“And after the open house we can decorate the tree together and go to the midnight service at church, all of us together, the whole family, and …”

“No, Margot … just. Wait. Give me a second to think.”

I clamped my lips shut, closed my eyes, said a prayer.

After a long minute, Mari said, “I don't know, Margot. It's just … we have plans for Christmas Eve. Olivia is going to be a lamb in the church nativity play.”

“Oh, Mari! Oh, I bet she's adorable!”

“She is pretty sweet,” she said in a voice that sounded like a smile. “I had to rip out the stupid ears on the costume three times, but it turned out so cute.”

“I'd love to see her in it. I bet Mom and Dad would too. Would you rather we all came to Albany for Christmas?”

“Nooo,” Mari said, stretching out the word for emphasis. “Very bad idea. Too much, too soon. But … what if we just came for Christmas dinner, just for the afternoon? I think that's about all I can handle this time.”

This time? Did that mean she thought there might be other times too? I was dying to ask, but didn't. She was probably right. After so many years apart and so many resentments, an afternoon together was probably as much as anyone could handle.

It was a start. Sometimes, that's all you need—a decision, a second chance.

Sitting quietly and sewing that bright blue binding inch by inch to that border of brilliant, fluttering butterflies, covering all the uneven edges and raveled threads with a smooth band of blue, seeing all those different bits and scraps of fabric come together, stitch by stitch, into a neatly finished whole helped me look at things differently.

Coming upon Arnie and Kiera in the restaurant was a blessing in disguise, I decided, an opportunity to change my outlook, a chance to quit feeling sorry for myself and find peace and purpose in my life as it was, not as I wished it to be. I came to this conclusion just as I placed the final firm stitch in the edge of the binding. When I was done, I spread the quilt out on the floor.

It would have been easy enough to create a pretty pieced quilt using the butterfly focal fabric. Every quilt I've made has been a variation on that theme, but this time I wanted to try my hand at appliqué. Having taken that leap of faith, I decided to go one step further and create my own design. And rather than planning out every little detail of the quilt, I decided to gather up my fabrics and just “go with the flow,” letting inspiration come to me as it would, leaving myself open to the possibility of new ideas and insights.

The center medallion, which I'd come to think of as “the cameo,” was an ink-black oval appliquéd with flowers and leaves and fat curlicues, like dewdrops splashing on petals, all drawn by me, in teal, cobalt, azure, butterscotch, honey, and goldenrod, colors I'd picked up from the butterfly wings. The cameo was framed by curving swaths of sunshine yellow, making the oval into a rectangle. Next, I built border upon border upon border around the edges of the rectangle to create a full-sized quilt; three plain butterfly borders, of varying widths, and the same number and sizes of sawtooth and diamond borders, one with the diamonds all in yellow, another all in blue, a third with colors picked at random, and a thin band of black to make those brilliant colors even more vibrant. Finally, I dotted the top with individual appliquéd butterflies “fussy-cut” from the focus fabric and placed here and there on and near the cameo and borders.

That idea had come to me at the last moment, but it made a world of difference. It was almost as if a migration of butterflies had seen the quilt from the air and come to light gently upon the smooth expanse of cloth, taking a moment of respite in that rich and lovely garden of color before going on their way. That's how I felt looking at it, rested and renewed, hopeful, ready to rise again and resume the journey.