The Goodbye Quilt (11 page)

Other memories—all the mornings I awakened her, doing my best to soften the ordeal of getting up for school. I’d lie down next to her on the bed and rub her back until she surrendered to the day. Then I think about all the late nights lying awake, listening for the reassuring rumble of her car engine. We used to have long, whispered conversations when she came in moments after curfew, sitting on the side of the bed to tell me about her date.

Now I marvel at how tender I still feel toward this fully grown creature.

Oh, baby. I used to be responsible for drawing the boundaries around your world. Now you’re on a path that leads you over the boundaries and away
from me. I’ll always cherish our time together. Always. But you’ll never be my baby again.

She curls closer, a subtle natural movement, a drawing in. I tuck my arm around her. After a while, she pulls away as though preparing herself for her departure.

“Moll?”

She sighs herself awake. “Yes,” she whispers, turning away from me. “This means what you think it means.”

“Where’s Travis?”

“Where do you think? He went standby on the next flight home.”

I exhale a cautious breath of relief. It doesn’t last long. Molly comes fully awake, crying with the kind of sobs that shake the whole bed. She’s crying too hard to speak, so I just wrap myself around her and hold on for a while, silently willing her to stop. As an infant, she’d been fretful, and I spent many midnight hours walking the floor with her, making mindless shushing sounds, just as I do now.

Eventually, the storm subsides. She is still tearful, her voice shaky. “He was so mad at me, Mom. He was so mad. He might never speak to me again. I hurt him that bad.”

“I’m sorry, Moll. I know you can’t stand hurting anyone.”

“Why couldn’t you just let me go home? Why did you have to make a federal case out of it?”

“I left it up to you,” I reminded her.

“But it was the
way
you did it. It made me feel like an idiot.” Agitated now, she blots her tears with a corner of the quilt and sits up.

“I never meant to do that.” But wow, is she right. I want her to have the life I passed up in order to be a wife and mom. She is my road not taken. And it’s not fair to put that burden on her. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “If you want to turn around now, we’ll do it. No hard feelings, no recriminations.”

She’s quiet for a long time. “I’d hate myself if I didn’t go for this. But I need for you to listen, Mom. This is my choice. I’m not doing it because you never had the chance. I’m doing it because I want the chance for me.”

Odometer Reading 123,937

I hold the map, with the route to the city highlighted. “I think our turn-off is coming up.” We pass through suburbs filled with crackerbox houses, small businesses, big-box stores. I notice a fabric shop with a nice window display; maybe I’ll stop in on my way back home. There’s a charmless strip center with a beauty salon called the Crowning Glory and a charitable organization called New Beginnings, apparently dedicated to providing clothing and supplies for a local women’s shelter. There’s also a bakery that fills the air with a smell so delicious, it brings tears to my eyes.

We treat ourselves to butterhorns and insulated cups of strong coffee. Molly, always a compulsive
reader of free literature, grabs a flyer with a hair salon coupon and a rundown of the women’s shelter services: “Help someone make a New Beginning. Career clothes needed.” We try to imagine what it might be like, running for shelter with nothing but the clothes on our backs. It puts our own issues into perspective, for sure, and I keep the flyer, vowing to send a check. We don’t linger, though. The destination we’ve been driving toward for days now lies just a few miles ahead.

We haven’t said much about yesterday. Finally, Molly says, “So Travis is home now. He just sent me a text.”

I brace myself. She might still want to turn around. “I know you’re hurting and I hate that. Everything that happens to you goes straight through my heart.”

“Then you know how it feels.”

In the beat of hesitation, I hold my breath and wait for her to speak again.

“I have to do this,” she says. “I want it, I really do.”

“I’m proud of you, Moll. You’re going to do great.”

We take the interstate to the multilane bridge.
Like thick arteries, ramps delve down toward the heart of the city.

An official green-and-white sign marks the city limits. Elevation 40 Feet. Population 101,347.

Molly whips her head toward me. “Which way, left or right?”

“Left.”

My thumb traces the route, inching forward as each side street flips past. This place has no grid, just densely aligned roads, some only a block long, others leading nowhere. It’s like a web or a net. How will Molly get around in this strange, busy city? How is she going to find her way?

“You have to go left here. Can you make a left from this lane?”

A sense of change takes hold as the city rises around us; I am delivering my only child into un-charted territory. We’re here. Our arrival seems abrupt, even though the drive lasted for days. We go from one world to another in a matter of steps. One moment, we’re wending our way through a tangle of turnpikes and traffic jams, and the next, we find ourselves in a placid oasis of calm.

The quiet brick street looks like a movie set: trees gracefully shedding the first of their leaves,
green rectangular yards crisscrossed by footpaths, colonial-style redbrick buildings with small-paned windows, their frames painted a fresh white. Gaslight fixtures line the sidewalks. The brick walkways bear generations of pockmarks and dents.

We stop and purchase a one-day parking permit. Cars and minivans and SUVs are parked along the curbs on both sides of the roadway. Shiny vehicles disgorge long-legged, laughing girls, slender boys staggering under boxes and cartons, mothers consulting lists, a father or two, standing around talking on cell phones or looking lost.

It’s a good thing Dan’s not here, after all. He hates feeling like a misfit.

Upperclassmen, facing their orientation groups and talking constantly, are showing the new students around. The tour guides walk backwards with impressive confidence, certain they won’t stumble.

Molly maneuvers the rumbling old SUV into the narrow street. It’s easily the largest noncommercial vehicle in sight. She pulls into a gap at the curbside, her mouth grim as she tries to align the big truck along the curb. “I won’t miss parking this beast,” she grumbles.

She switches off the engine. It dies with a
shudder. I turn to find her looking at me, and for a moment, the two of us just sit, staring into each other’s eyes, not smiling, not talking, just…looking.

It’s amazing how much you can see in a face you love, all the layers of years, still visible in the present moment. The infant Molly, her eyes as blue now as they were then, round and open wide, staring upward at me. And my face, eighteen years ago, had filled the baby’s whole world.

“Okay,” Molly says suddenly, unbuckling her seat belt with a decisive click. “We’re here.” The car inhales the belt as she jumps out and slams the door.

A black Lexus trolls along the street, headed straight for Molly.
Watch out.
I nearly scream the warning, but the moment passes before I open my mouth. She steps up onto the curb, the car whizzes by and I sit alone in the passenger seat, my heartbeat a stampede of anxiety.

“Okay,” I mutter, echoing Molly. “We’re here.” The breeze carries a subtle chill, a whiff of dry leaves, the tang of autumn. If we were back home, I’d be posting the high school football schedule on the fridge and paging through bulb catalogs.

Molly has the cargo doors open and is staring at
the lopsided stacks and bundles. Uncertainty creases her brow.

I offer a suggestion. “Maybe you’d better—”

“—check in first,” Molly finishes for her. “I was
so
going to do that.”

“You want me to come in with you?”

“That’s okay, Mom. It’ll probably only take a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait out here, then.”

The Suburban huddles in a rusty heap, disreputable, inferior compared to the gleaming, late-model cars with plates from Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, Virginia. In contrast to the forest-green and burgundy imports, the old Chevy, with its flaking paint job, is as garish and ungainly as a parade float left out in the rain.

The Joads go to college, I’m thinking, certain everyone is staring at me. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I focus on the shopping bag filled with my brand-new, never-worn clothes. I should have worn something special for today, comes the belated thought.

Old worries surface. I still find myself feeling inferior, the misfit, the one who gets picked last. Oh God. Does Molly feel inferior, or did I teach
her better? I check her out to see if she’s self-conscious about the car. But no. Molly’s oblivious as she makes her way inside. She couldn’t care less what the car looks like, what state is on the license plate.

I call Dan. I’ve never been a big fan of mobile phones, but right now, I love my cell phone so much I would marry it. It’s proof that someone wants to talk to you. It saves you from having to loiter in a strange place, trying to appear as though you belong.

Molly called him this morning to talk about Travis. He doesn’t sound surprised. We backed off and she made her own choice.

“We’re here,” I tell Dan. “It’s amazing.”

“How’s our girl doing?”

“She didn’t have much to say about Travis. We’re not talking about it yet. I’m hoping she’ll just focus on getting settled here.” My gaze skips over the quad, currently an anthill of activity as students move in en masse. “Looks like there’s plenty to keep her busy.” I take a breath. “Speaking of which, I had a thought.”

“Lindy, not another orphan.”

“No. Not now, anyway. Saying goodbye to
Molly is making me crazy, I admit it. What I’ve been thinking about is that I need a new life when I get back.”

“Something wrong with your old life?”

“Not at all, but without Molly there, I need a plan. So I thought… Don’t freak out.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m going to talk to Minerva about the shop.”

“What do you mean, talk to her?”

“About taking over the shop. She’s retiring, and I thought maybe…I could see if I can qualify for a small-business loan and…” I falter. Spoken aloud, it sounds silly. “Anyway, maybe it’s a crazy idea, but I think I can make it work.”

Silence.

“Dan?” I wait for him to tell me how foolish I’m being, especially now, with a kid in college.

“You can make anything work, Linda.”

It’s the last thing I expected to hear from him. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. Don’t sound so surprised.”

“But…you never…I never knew you felt that way.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve always felt that way about you.
Just because I didn’t say it every day doesn’t mean the sentiment’s not there.”

“You were such a skeptic about my last idea—”

“Adopting an orphan? Come on, Linda. This is hardly the same. This is something you want for you, not to fill some void left by Molly.”

I shut my eyes, catch my breath. When did I stop knowing this man? I never did; I just let the busy part of life get in the way.
“Thank you.”

“I miss you,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you.”

His words ignite a rush of passion in me, an emotion as strong and fresh as the first time I felt it. “Same here,” I say, smiling.

Carrying a thick manila envelope, Molly comes out of the dorm, talking to a woman with a clipboard. The woman is about my age, early forties, but she wears her hair in a sleekly careless ponytail and sports an ethnic-print skirt, a trendy blouse and a tooled silver thumbring. Molly looks enchanted with her.

Acutely aware of my lap-creased jeans and the mustard stain on my sweatshirt, I chastise myself again for not wearing a selection from my new
clothes. Then I put on my best smile, walk over to the sandstone steps and introduce myself.

“Linda,” the woman says. “I’m Ceci Gamble. The residential facilitator.” She has a slightly nasal voice and a distinctive, East Coast boarding-school accent.

The theme music of the Wicked Witch of the West buzzes in my head. Who is this exotic new mentor, poised to supplant me? “Nice to meet you. So is Molly all set to move in?”

“Absolutely. Everything’s in the information packet. Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”

I smile in gratitude, quashing the sudden resentment, but Ceci Gamble is already turning away, her glossy ponytail flying. She greets another mother who is busy unloading a Mercedes station wagon with a Choate sticker on the back. They crow at each other, embrace, old chums from prep school or the country club. Girls stream past in groups, all talking, the autumn sun strong on their silky, straight hair as they mount the stairs to the freshman dorm.

For a fraction of a second, Molly looks uncertain, her full lower lip soft and vulnerable. She scrunches
a hand into her hair. The beautiful corkscrew curls have been the bane of her existence for years, no matter how much her friends claim to covet them. She wishes for straight hair. Prep school hair. East Coast hair.

She’s the outsider here, after fitting in so comfortably in high school, playing varsity sports, winning music competitions, laughing on the phone, never at a loss for a friend or a date. She looks lost in the moment now, uncertain. Hesitation is written in her stance, though I’m the only one who can see it. I see the tiny girl afraid to take off her training wheels, jump into a pool, recite a poem for the class, endure her first piano recital, taste an oyster for the first time.

I was always the one pushing her to get past the fear and do it anyway. Dan tended to want to whisk her away from it all. Now I wonder if she felt the constant push-pull of our warring need to protect and promote. Then I remember her confidence in sports, in music, in academics. The gift of her hard work is that self-confidence. She’s going to be fine.

I can see her rally in the determined set of her chin. We head inside, to a building that once
housed future scientists, jurists, artists and world leaders. Following the directions in the packet, we find a bare room, hung with the smell of Pine-Sol and airless summerlong neglect. Molly heads straight for the window and opens it wide.

The roommate hasn’t arrived. Kayla from Philadelphia is nowhere in sight. The barren room contains two phone jacks and wireless modem setups, two desks, twin consoles of drawers and shelves and the requisite two beds. We climb up and down the worn concrete stairs, bringing stuff from the truck to the room. “Want some help unpacking?” I ask.

“That’s all right. I’ll do it myself. That way, I’ll know where everything is.” She is clear on not wanting me to linger, to tuck shirts away in drawers, stack office supplies, stand in registration lines with her.

She tackles the first box—towels and toiletries. Then she opens another. Her face looks tense.

“Did you remember your alarm clock?” I ask a mundane question to distract her, but it doesn’t work. “Moll?” I ask, tentative, not pushing at all now. “What’s up?”

She pulls out the green-shaded desk lamp. “It’s
broken. I wonder when it broke. Maybe when I slammed on the brakes to miss that deer.”

“It can be fixed. We could find a store, look for a replacement for the shade.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You’re the one who insisted on bringing it.”

“And I was wrong. So sue me. Geez, I can’t believe you’re still doing this,” she snaps.

“Doing what?”

“This… I don’t even know what to call it. You want me to be here, to have the whole college experience, but at the same time, you keep acting like I’ll fall apart any second. You don’t need to fix everything. You don’t need to be my human shield anymore. I’m not that fragile. I won’t break, I swear. Don’t feel like you have to protect me.”

“It’s my job to protect you.”

“Well, congrats. You’re finished. Now you can do something else.”

The breeze through the open window is reviving her curls.

“Why are you acting so annoyed?” I ask her. I’m getting annoyed, too.

“You always try to make everything easier for me. It’s like I live inside this artificial bubble you
created. That’s what’s annoying. It’s my time. My life. My turn to screw up and suffer the consequences.”

“Your turn to succeed and be amazing.”

“Whatever. The point is, it’s my turn, Mom. What happened with Travis—just to remind you again, it was my decision. Not yours or Dad’s or even Travis’s. Mine, a hundred percent. Right or wrong, I own it, okay?”

“Of course.”

“So quit worrying.” She’s close to tears, her expression taut with suppressed panic.