Ties That Bind (32 page)

July

I
opened the cardboard box, pulled out a ceramic cup with pink blossoms painted on the side and a green handle that looked like a twig. “Mom? Where do you want these?”

My mother was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor trying to figure out how to fit a small mountain of cookware into a cupboard about the size of a toaster oven. She looked up at me and groaned. “The Desert Rose dishes? Didn't those go in the garage sale?”

I peered into the box and shook my head. “Looks like they're all here, the whole set. What do you want me to do with them?”

“I don't know.”

She climbed up off the floor and started opening cupboards, searching for an empty shelf. There weren't any. Every inch of available space in the tiny kitchen was already packed with dishes, glasses, serving pieces, pots, pans, and assorted bric-a-brac. In preparation for the move, my parents had sold or given away about half of their possessions, but they still had way more stuff than could be easily squeezed into the two-bedroom cottage they'd decided to rent for a year before buying a house in New Bern.

Mom turned around and stared vacantly at the box, then shrugged. “Just tape it up and put it in the garage with the rest of the overflow. I think we're going to have to rent one of those storage units. Is that the last box for the kitchen? Please,” she said and clutched at my arm in mock desperation. “Tell me it is.”

I smiled. One of the several pleasures of having my parents move to New Bern was rediscovering my mother's sense of humor.

“Unless Dad and Paul are hiding more in the truck, that's it. Where are those two anyway? I haven't seen them for a while.”

“I don't know,” Mom said, quickly opening a drawer and riffling through a pile of silverware. “Margot, have you seen any other teaspoons? I think some are missing.”

“No.”

“Huh. You sure? Well, I suppose they'll turn up eventually.”

Mom shut the drawer as Olivia came running into the kitchen. Except for a slight limp that the doctor said she'd always have, you'd never have been able to tell that she'd spent so many weeks in the hospital and in physical therapy. Olivia would never be a track star, but she could walk and she could run. I was so grateful.

“Grandma,” Olivia said in a voice that wasn't quite a whine, but close, “you promised to play with me. James is
so
boring. He's just reading his stupid book and I've been waiting for you for-ev-er!” Olivia moaned and draped herself over the back of a kitchen chair, feigning exhaustion. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Olivia was Mari's child, all right.

“Livie,” I chided. “Is that any way to speak to Grandma?”

She looked at me and squirmed a little, rolling her head sideways. After a moment, she pulled herself to a standing position and sighed. “Grandma, could you please play with me?”

Mom smiled. “Of course I will play with you, sweetheart, right after I make lunch.”

“I can do that, Mom.”

Mom cast a doubtful glance at the pile of cookware that was still sitting on the floor. “You don't mind?”

“Not a bit,” I assured her. “You two go on and enjoy yourselves. After all, isn't that why you've moved to New Bern? To spend more time with Olivia?”

Mom turned to me and smiled that sweet smile that, when I was little, first made me think I knew what angels looked like.

“Among other people.”

 

The bond between Olivia and my parents has grown quickly; she's so open, so ready to give and receive love. For the rest of us, the process has been a little more complicated.

Spring and summer has been a period of getting reacquainted for my parents and me, a time for sloughing off old prejudices and shredding out-of-date biographies, making allowance for growth and change, casting off the assumption that what always was is what always must be.

It hasn't been easy. There have been arguments, not all of them instigated by Dad. I, too, have raised my voice in these last weeks, not often but more than once. I'm a peacemaker by nature, but I've come to learn that to attain real and lasting peace, you sometimes need to endure temporary disharmony, and that speaking your mind isn't disloyal or sinful. In fact, if you think about it,
not
speaking your mind can be the greater sin. After all, it's just another kind of deception, isn't it?

Paul taught me that. It's one of the things I love about him, his honesty. I never have to guess where I stand with him and I never have to pretend. It's so refreshing, different from any relationship I've ever had.

Bit by bit, my parents and I have gotten to know each other again, and to appreciate each other. And so, when Mom started dropping hints that she wasn't sure if she could endure another winter in Buffalo and Dad started talking about retiring and both of them finally came right out and said they'd like to move to New Bern so they could spend more time with Olivia and help take care of her when I was at work, I said I'd like that very much. And I meant it, for all kinds of reasons.

The transition from single woman to working mom has been every bit as challenging as I thought it would be. Without the help of my quilt circle friends, I'd never have managed. They cheered me on, offered me advice and shoulders to cry on, and helped me cobble together a schedule of play dates and babysitting that allowed me to work a full schedule in the quilt shop. Olivia is crazy about “the aunties,” and it's easy to see why.

Take this weekend—Olivia stayed with Ivy while I drove up to Buffalo to help my folks with the move. When I picked her up last night, Olivia told me all about her adventures.

On Saturday morning, she and ten-year-old Bethany walked to the inn to visit Auntie Madelyn. Madelyn let them play with the dollhouse in the parlor and helped the girls bake a batch of lemon lavender shortbread cookies. Next, they walked to the quilt shop to help Auntie Evelyn sort fat quarters into colors and Auntie Virginia stitch bindings on two new baby quilts that were to be donated to the preemie unit at the hospital. At lunchtime, they walked to the Grill on the Green, where Uncle Charlie made them cheeseburgers and fries. Later, Auntie Abigail picked them up and drove them to her house for a swim in her enormous pool. Bobby, who had spent the morning fishing with Franklin, joined them. Finally, Auntie Ivy took the troops home and made them a picnic supper they ate inside a tent they made out of quilts and sofa cushions while they watched
The Black Stallion
on DVD. It had been a busy and wonderful day.

When she finished the story, Olivia let her head flop back onto the seat of the car and sighed. “I love having a big family.”

So do I.

Families, I've decided, are a lot like quilts—they've got layers. The first layer is the family of choice, the people you pick out of the crowd and stitch together, as different in outlook and experience as patches in a quilt. Piecing it all together, figuring out exactly how the patches fit together, takes time and patience. You've got to find just the right balance of colors, shapes, and textures, but if you stick with it, before long you'll have created something unique but sturdy that keeps you covered and makes life lovelier. That's exactly how I think of Evelyn, Virginia, Abigail, Ivy, Tessa, Madelyn, and now, Philippa. Had I searched the world over for my pick of sisters, I couldn't have found any better.

Then there's that other layer—the family you're born with. You don't get to pick it; it comes all of a piece, a backing of whole cloth, intricately and deeply stitched by memory, a pattern that stays with us from birth and through life. The colors and design may not always be to your liking, but I've discovered that it serves its purpose. Without a good backing, your stuffing falls out.

Of course, just because you can't pick your family of birth doesn't mean you can't adjust it a little, maybe even take out a few stitches and take the design in a new direction. A three-strand thread of love, honesty, and forgiveness goes a long way in easing mismatched seams and quilting out the bumps.

That's what I've been busy doing these last weeks and months, stitching it all together, joining the layers one to another, making them fit, making it mine, creating something that will last.

I love having a big family. Oh yes, I do.

 

Even amid the chaos of moving, my mother made sure the refrigerator was well stocked. The selection of sliced meats and cheeses alone could have supplied a deli. Knowing that Dad preferred roast beef and Cheddar, Paul ham and Swiss, Mom turkey with Monterey Jack, Olivia ham with no cheese and no mayo, and that James could and would eat absolutely everything—a common condition among teenage boys—I decided to make a big platter of assorted sandwiches and let everybody figure it out on their own.

After gathering a collection of meats, cheeses, and condiments from the refrigerator, I laid slices of wheat and white bread out on the cutting board and, assembly-line style, started making sandwiches. I was putting on the lettuce when Paul came and gave me a peck on the cheek before stealing a piece of ham from the stack and popping it into his mouth.

“If you'll wait three more minutes I'll have a whole sandwich for you.” I pretended to slap his hand away. Paul and Dad had worked side by side carrying furniture all day. He was probably starving.

“Thanks for helping with the move,” I said as I spread mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “We couldn't have done it without you. I saw how you grabbed the heavy boxes without letting Dad know what you were doing. That was so sweet. You saved his dignity and his back.”

Paul shrugged and pinched another slice of meat from the pile. This time, I didn't even pretend to scold. “Werner is still pretty strong. I hope I'm in half the shape he's in when I'm sixty-seven. And he's a good guy—interesting. I hear he volunteered to install the new furnace at church.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded and started cutting the sandwiches into triangles. “Should save the church a couple thousand at least. And he's going to volunteer with Helping Hands too. Adam Kingsbury was thrilled. They've got a lot of helpers, but not many with skills. It's good for everyone. I know Dad says he's retired, but he's not much good at sitting around. He needs to keep busy.”

I began piling sandwich halves onto a blue platter, arranging them into offset circles, like bricks in a wall. Paul leaned against the counter and watched, saying nothing.

I turned my attention back to the sandwiches, feeling a bit awkward and anxious. When Mom mentioned that Paul and Dad had gone for a walk and then so quickly changed the subject, as though she were trying to hide something from me, I'll admit that my mind wandered briefly—okay, more than briefly—to the subject of matrimony. Sure, at my age it was a little silly to think of a suitor asking my father for permission to propose, but Paul and I had been dating for several months now. And I thought it was odd that, after a whole day of moving furniture, Dad and Paul should feel the need to get even more exercise. And now here was Paul, who usually had so much to say, standing next to me and saying nothing while I arranged sandwiches on a platter. Maybe he was trying to work up his courage. Or maybe he was searching for the right words. Or maybe he was looking for an opening, or needed a bit of encouragement.

“So,” I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “where did you and Dad get off to anyway? Mom said you went for a walk.”

Paul nodded and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, keeping his eyes on the platter of food. “Yeah. I wanted to talk to him.”

“Oh?”

“I needed some advice. About my future.”

His future? Our future? My heart started to beat faster, thumping so loud in my ears that had I looked down at my chest, I wouldn't have been surprised to see my blouse pulsing in a sympathetic rhythm.

“Really?” I said, still trying to sound nonchalant and, I'm sure, failing miserably. “That sounds serious.” I grabbed a tea towel off the counter and wiped my hands. If Paul suddenly got down on one knee and tried to put a ring on my finger, I didn't want my hands to be slimy with mayonnaise.

“Well, it kind of is. I quit my job yesterday.” He pulled a sandwich off the pile and took a bite. “This is good,” he said with his mouth full.

The thumping in my chest stopped abruptly. In fact, for a moment I almost thought my heart stopped, but it only sank with disappointment. Why had I gotten my hopes up?

So much had changed in the last months. I didn't
need
a man, any man, to be a woman. I knew that now. And I didn't
need
Paul. But I wanted him. And I loved him, with all my heart.

When Evelyn and Abigail had lectured me about not settling for less than the real thing, hearts and flowers, roses and chocolates, swept off your feet L-O-V-E, they had been talking about the kind of love I felt for Paul, the genuine article, I knew that now. But just because I felt that way about Paul didn't mean he felt that way about me. Or maybe he wasn't ready. His first marriage had been such a bust—maybe he'd never be ready. It was a possibility I had to consider—but only for a moment.

I loved Paul enough to take him as he was, ready for marriage today, tomorrow, or never—there was no one else for me, and by now I knew there never would be. Even so, it was hard to mask my disappointment, but I did. Quitting his job was not something Paul would do lightly. Right now, he needed my listening ear.

“You quit? Why didn't you tell me?”

“You had so much going on,” he said, spreading his hands to take in the pile of cookware still sitting on the floor and the stack of empty boxes in the corner. “I figured I'd wait until today.”

“But … why did you quit? What happened?”

“What happened was the stunt that Geoff Bench pulled with you. I couldn't do anything about it before because Mr. Baxter, the only one with seniority over Bench, was on an extended trip to Asia when it happened. When he returned, I asked for an appointment to see him, but he kept putting me off. I finally met with him yesterday and told him about Bench's unethical behavior, but he shrugged it off with a lot of managerial murmuring that didn't amount to more than ‘boys will be boys.' So I told him I was going to file a complaint with the state bar.”