Round Robin (26 page)

“Meet Daniel and Dad first,” Kirsten begged. “Please. You came all this way.”

All this way, and for what? To learn that one sister had deceived her and that another hated her on sight. What was worse, she now understood why Robert had never married her mother. Kirsten was right; he couldn't have. Sharon was older than Judy, and perhaps Daniel was as
well. In an instant, Judy had gone from being the daughter of the wronged first wife to being the daughter of the other woman, and somehow that changed everything.

“Please,” Kirsten repeated, pleading.

Judy gulped air, dazed—but she nodded. Kirsten took her hand and led her down the hallway in the direction of the music. In a front room, a man who appeared near Judy's age sat talking with another man several years older, their voices a low murmur beneath the sound of the stereo. On the other side of the room sat another man, worn and gray-haired. He stared out the window as if he were alone.

The first two broke off their conversation as Kirsten brought Judy into the room. “Daniel,” she said firmly to the younger man. “This is our sister, Judy.”

The color drained from the man's face. “Uh—hi, hello,” he stammered, rising. He shook Judy's hand, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to speak but had no idea what to say. Kirsten didn't give him a chance to compose himself, but as she propelled Judy to the other side of the room, he found his voice. “Kirsten, don't,” he said. “Dad's not having a good day.”

Kirsten spun around to look at him. “Good day?” she echoed. “How long has it been since his last good day? You know as well as I do that they won't be getting any better.” She continued on, taking Judy with her. Her pace slowed as they approached the old man, who didn't look up.

“Dad?” Kirsten said softly, kneeling down and placing a hand on his knee.

A muscle tightened and relaxed in the man's cheek, but his gaze never left the window.

Kirsten leaned to the side, interrupting his line of sight. “Dad? There's someone here to see you.”

He blinked at Kirsten, who smiled and motioned to Judy. By instinct, Judy knelt beside Kirsten and tried to hand him the bouquet of flowers. He would not take it, so she placed it on his lap instead. Slowly his gaze traveled from Kirsten to the flowers to Judy, his brow furrowing in confusion.
The muscles in his face worked as if he were struggling to focus on her features, fighting to recognize her.

Then he spoke. “Tuyet?”

A wave of grief, of pain, washed over her as the old man groped for her hand.

“No, Dad,” Kirsten said gently. “This is Judy, Tuyet's daughter. Your daughter.”

Judy saw at once that the old man didn't understand, if he even heard the words. She gave him her hand and clasped her other around them both. She felt the man's bones through his skin, which felt as dry and thin as paper.

“Tuyet,” the man repeated.

Judy wanted to weep. Unable to speak, she squeezed the man's hand and got to her feet. Blinded by sudden tears, she hurried out of the room, back to the kitchen. She heard Kirsten call after her, but she couldn't stop. She raced out of the house, down the driveway, along the winding, wooded street until she reached the main road. She kept walking until she managed to hail a cab, which she took back to the hotel.

There were two messages waiting for her, one from Steve and one from Kirsten. She called Steve, but reached the answering machine. “It was a nightmare,” she said. “I never should have come.” Then she told him she'd see him tomorrow and not to call back, because she was taking the phone off the hook, in case Kirsten tried to reach her.

It was too early for sleep, but she pulled the heavy drapes shut until the room was dark, put on her pajamas, and crawled into bed. There she lay, thinking of how her world had shifted. She felt that she ought to be weeping, but the tears wouldn't fall.

Sleep came hours later.

She did not remember her dreams the next morning, but she woke feeling heavy and sore and as weary as if she had not shut her eyes all night. She had planned to spend the day with the Scharpelsens; since that was out of the question, she called the airline and arranged to be transferred to an earlier flight. After gathering her belongings, she checked out of the hotel and called a cab from the lobby.

When she went outside to wait, she saw Kirsten's car parked right out front. Kirsten was leaning against the passenger-side door, but she straightened at the sight of Judy. “Hi,” she said.

Judy composed herself. “Hi.”

“I figured you might leave early.”

“I didn't see any point in staying.”

Kirsten nodded in acceptance and opened the car door. “I'll take you to the airport.”

“I already called a cab.”

As if she hadn't heard, Kirsten went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. She didn't look at Judy as she picked up the garment bag and put it inside. Judy sighed and got in the car.

They drove in silence past the wooded neighborhood of her father's house, through the downtown, and across the isthmus. Kirsten didn't speak until they pulled up beside the airport terminal.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “I never meant for things to turn out like this.”

“I know.” Judy unfastened her seat belt and got out of the car.

Kirsten did the same, and came around the back to unlock the trunk. “Will I ever hear from you again?”

“I don't know.” Judy grabbed her garment bag and put it on the sidewalk.

“Can I write to you?”

Judy shrugged.

“If I do, will you write back?”

Her voice was so forlorn that Judy relented. “Of course I will.” The relief on Kirsten's face was so intense that Judy decided in an instant that this would not be the last time they saw each other. They were sisters. Even if the other Scharpelsens wished she would disappear forever, she and Kirsten could still be friends.

They embraced and promised to talk soon. Judy picked up her bags and entered the airport alone.

Sharon was waiting at the gate.

Judy approached, set down her bags, and eyed her unflinchingly, waiting for her to speak.

Sharon gave her a shaky smile. “I thought you would be here,” she said. “It was the earliest flight. I figured you couldn't get out of here soon enough.”

Judy didn't quite know how to respond to that, so she said nothing.

“I'm sorry about yesterday,” Sharon said. “It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault.”

“If I had known Kirsten hadn't told you, I wouldn't have come.”

“I know.” Sharon looked away. “It was just such a shock, you see? I've known about you for years. My mother knew about you, too. Dad wanted to bring you and your mother to America, but my mother forbade him to have any contact with you. To her it was a matter of her husband's having an affair and flaunting his mistress in her face. She—she didn't understand, she couldn't have known what—what—”

Judy placed a hand on her arm. “It's all right. I understand.”

“Will you stay? I'd like the chance to talk to you.”

“I can't.” Judy gestured awkwardly toward the gate. “I already changed my flight, and—”

“Of course. I see.”

“But—” Judy hesitated. “Maybe we'll try again someday.”

Sharon held her gaze for a moment. “I hope so.” She clasped Judy's hand, then turned and walked away.

Judy watched until she disappeared around the corner, then found a seat and waited for her flight to be called.

Judy chose green for the homeland she had left behind and did not remember. She chose blue for the skies over the new homes she had made for herself with her mother and stepfather, with her husband and child, and with her friends at Elm Creek Manor. She chose gold for sunlight and illumination.

She set the block on point again, knowing that unexpected shifts could be as enlightening as they were jarring. She could not add solid triangles as Diane had done, however, not when the most fundamental assumptions of her life had been thrown into disarray. One day the pieces would settle into a pattern and she would feel whole again, but not yet.

Instead her triangles were composed of partial Mariner's Compass blocks, the diameter of the compass running along the longest side of each triangle. The compass was for all the journeys she had made in her life and all that she had yet to make. She knew that it was unfair to judge an entire journey by the first step. Often what seemed to be the right path turned out to lead in the wrong direction—but just as often, perseverance along a hard trail would lead to an important destination.

The potential rewards made the journey worthwhile.

C
arol watched as the round robin quilt took shape, admiring the Elm Creek Quilters' handiwork and wishing she could add a border of her own. Each time they brought out the quilt, she told herself it didn't matter that no one had asked her to participate. Since she didn't sew well enough yet, she would have declined rather than ruin the quilt. Still, it would have been nice if they had given her that choice. As always, she was the odd woman out, lingering just outside the circle of friends, wishing someone would invite her in.

Not that anyone other than Sarah had made her feel unwelcome. Sylvia was generous and kind, and the Elm Creek Quilters were friendly. With Sarah so hostile and eager for her to go away, though, Carol knew she would never feel wholly a part of the place her daughter called home.

This visit was not going at all the way Sylvia had assured her it would over the phone that winter morning several months before. Carol didn't blame Sylvia; the older woman had done all she could, more than anyone could have asked. Maybe it was time to give up. Carol could go home, back to her job and her empty house, and Sarah could resume her usual life. Maybe they would both be happier that way. Carol had not gotten along with her own mother; why should she expect anything different between herself and Sarah?

Sarah did not need her—not for advice, not for a shoulder to cry on, certainly not for friendship. Carol could leave Waterford with a clear
conscience, knowing her daughter was in good hands. If Sarah's marriage faltered and failed, as Carol dreaded it would, the Elm Creek Quilters would bear Sarah up. Carol's presence would be unnecessary and unwelcome. She had warned Sarah against marrying Matt, and when her predictions about him came true, Sarah would hate her for it. She would never believe that Carol had hoped with all her heart that she had been wrong about him. Carol wanted to like Matt, despite his modest aspirations, despite his resemblance to her own husband, which she alone seemed able to detect. When she looked at Matt, Carol saw another man who was diligent and reliable instead of fascinating, a man who knew right from wrong—and would hold everyone to it no matter what the cost. How long could a man like that keep the interest of someone like Sarah? And what penance would he force from her if she failed him? In the years to come, would Sarah learn to accept her widowhood with some measure of relief, as Carol herself had done?

Carol could have used a group of friends like Sarah's to see her through the hard times after Kevin died, and those that had come before. But except for one brief period before she married, Carol had never had a group of girl friends, or even one best friend. She had been too bookish, too introverted, too sensitive. The discrepancy between the way things were and the way things ought to be had been very clear to her, but she had felt helpless, powerless to do anything to make up the difference. It had been easier to live in the safe, scripted world of stories than to try to change her own world.

She was the child of her parents' middle age, the baby they had neither expected nor wanted. Her mother accepted Carol's arrival with her usual resignation, but her father made it clear he wanted nothing to do with this new mouth to feed who hadn't the decency to be born a boy. He had the two sons he wanted and could afford; another boy would have been accepted grudgingly, but not this girl child who would drain him dry and contribute nothing. Well, at least when she got older she'd be able to help her mother around the house.

Since her older brothers had entered college by the time she started kindergarten, Carol grew up as an only child, but without an only child's
sense of uniqueness and privilege. Her best childhood friends were Laura Ingalls, Nancy Drew, and the other smart, headstrong girls in books, girls who faced enormous challenges and always overcame them in the end. Carol longed to be like them. She wished she could melt into a novel and live there, and spend her days helping Pa harvest the wheat or solving mysteries with her friends Bess and George. At night before she drifted off to sleep, she would tell herself stories of the places and people she had read about, writing herself into the scenes. She was Nancy's younger sister, held hostage by a con man, rescued just in time by her lawyer father, Carson Drew. She was Laura's cousin visiting from western Minnesota, twisting hay into sticks to fight off the cold of the blizzards that howled around the small house in DeSmet. In her imagination she could be anything. She learned to welcome twilight.

As she grew older, she realized she could never climb inside a book and stay there, but at least she could get out of her parents' cold home. She could escape; she
must
escape. Her brothers had found jobs after college and came home only to visit. If she studied hard and earned good grades, she could do the same.

Her teachers were pleased to have such a diligent pupil, though they wished she'd smile more and play with the other children instead of spending lunchtime and recess with her nose in a book. In high school, her honors English teacher took notice of her, the quiet, brown-haired girl with the pale face and wide eyes who wrote such thoughtful essays. He recommended books to her—the classics, new works by emerging authors—and her world expanded. She confided in him as she had in no one else, and he encouraged her. He even told her he thought she could win a partial scholarship to college if she kept up her hard work.