The Healing Quilt (39 page)

A knock at the door the next morning made her dust her hands on her apron to answer it.

“Whatchya doing?”

“Hey, Thomas, how are you?” She held open the screen door. Come on in.

“What are you baking?” He eyed the flour-whitened counter.

“Cherry pie. Ryan is coming home tomorrow.” She went back to rolling the bottom crust. The filling sat in a bowl all ready for two pies. “These are the cherries I got from Aunt Teza.”

“Oh. You think Ryan will play ball?”

“I'm sure he will.” She picked up the rolled dough and laid it carefully in the glass pie pan, then began rolling the next.

“Can Missy come out and play?”

“She's in the garage. You can let her out.”

“Was she bad?”

“No, I just forgot to let her in after she followed me out to the washing machine.” She laid the next crust in the pan and poured the filling into both.

“Ryan likes cherry pie?”

“That's his favorite kind.”

“What kind did Amber like best?” Thomas perched on a kitchen chair.

“Apple, like her father, but cherry was her second favorite. Do you like cherry pie?”

He shrugged, his shoulders coming up to his ears. “Never had none.”

“Oh. Your mother doesn't bake pies?”

He shook his head. “Can I give Missy a treat?”

“Sure, you know where they are.”

I guess I need to remember that not everyone bakes pies anymore, or most other things for that matter.
Missy's toenails skittered on the floor as she greeted Thomas with whines and whimpers, a sharp bark answering his command to speak. As they whooshed out the back door, Kit dabbed water around the edge of one lower crust, laid the upper in place and, using thumbs and forefingers, crimped the edge. She cut five slashes in the upper crust and followed the same pattern with the second pie. All the while she rolled and crimped and slashed and put them in the oven, she thought of Thomas's family. He never mentioned his mother, his father worked long hours, and his sister would rather watch television than do anything else.

She glanced out the window to see boy and dog playing with the ball and running, falling and exploding with giggles and barks.

After putting fresh sheets on Ryan's bed, she'd set out the pitchback and play ball too. She'd not been home for much batting practice lately.

Up in his room, she stripped the bed, put on new sheets, and dusted the desk, bookshelves and anything else that needed it. His trophies took extra time as she buffed each one—baseball, basketball, and speech—quite a variety and the symbols of many dedicated hours. Ryan had been good at whatever he undertook, always striving to do his best, or at least keep up with his older sisters. While Jennifer excelled in her studies and was a natural musician, Amber and Ryan were superb athletes plus brains.

She dusted the picture of his basketball team, senior year, second in state in the Single A division. Ryan made the all-stars as a guard. She gazed at him in his uniform, holding the basketball on his hip. He'd dedicated his triumph to his sister Amber, who he said encouraged him and challenged him to always go the extra mile.

She brushed the tears from her cheeks, glanced around the room to make sure all was ready for him, and picking up the laundry, she took it down to the washing machine.

She checked on her pies and had just closed the oven when the phone rang.

“Hi, this is your pain-in-the-neck aunt. My first radiology appointment is tomorrow at 9:30. Could you please drive me, just in case? Oh, and that will be my time five days a week.”

“Of course. How did the mapping go?”

“I'm indelibly marked.”

“When's the first chemo?”

“I go in Saturday morning. This first one is an overnighter.”

“Boy all at once.”

“Yes, and I see the nutritionist on Tuesday. Ryan is coming tomorrow night?”

“Late afternoon. I forget when his last final is. Summer school can be different than the rest of the year. I've got two cherry pies in the oven, and Thomas is outside with Missy.”

“Good. I'll see you about nine o'clock then?”

“Right.” Kit hung the phone up and took down the calendar to write TR in Monday through Friday at 9:00. TR, Teza's Radiology. That meant for these first weeks, she'd be late for the quilting. “Oh well. They can all come in and start without us.”

She wandered into the living room where the quilting frame dominated the room as it had many winters in the past. She glanced at the recliner. If Teza wasn't feeling well, she could take a snooze right there and still feel a part of the group.

She sniffed. Yep, the cherry juice was boiling over. The pies must be about done. At least this time she'd been smart enough to put tinfoil in the bottom of the oven.

With the pies cooling on the rack on the counter, she took out of the jar several chocolate-chip cookies that she'd baked just that morning, along with a puppy treat for Missy, and headed on outside. Perhaps one of the quilters would be by later.

“Treats!” She held them up as she called. Both child and dog ran to the deck and dropped panting on the bottom step.

“You look a bit warm.” She handed Thomas his cookies and tossed the bone for Missy to catch. “You been having fun?”

“Umm.” Thomas nibbled his treat. “You had fun too?”

“Yes, I did. Ryan's room is ready for him, the pies are done, and I thought we could get out the pitchback. Did you bring your mitt?”

O'course.” The look he gave her made her smile. He nodded to the Adirondack chair where he'd left his mitt.

“Dad took me to see the Tacoma Mariners play.” He took a bite of his treat. “They won, four to three.”

“Good game, eh?”

“My dad caught a foul ball. He gave it to me and I got it signed.”

“How wonderful, Thomas. We used to love going to Cheney Stadium to watch the Mariners play.”

“Still like the Major league Mariners better.”

If Mark were here, maybe we could get tickets, and wed take Thomas with us too.
“You want more cookies?”

“Nope, let's play ball.”

“Right you are.” She pulled down the bill of his hat purely for the pained look he gave her. Laughing, they dragged the pitchback out onto the lawn and retrieved the bucket of balls, bat, and her mitt from the garage. After throwing awhile to warm up her arm, she called, “Batter up,” and waited for Thomas to get himself set. He planted his feet just as she'd shown him, lifted the bat over his shoulder, and leveled out his top elbow, pointing it right down the pitching line.

“Very good. You remembered everything.”

“And I gotta keep my eye on the ball.”

“Right on.”

Her first pitch bounced on the plate.

“Good eye. Don't you go chasing any bad pitches.”

Pitch two was even with his helmet.

“Too high.”

“Yeah, I know. Got to get the range here.” Her next pitch came straight in, level with his waistband.

He swung but only caught the top of it.

“Foul ball.”

“Who's that playing baseball in my backyard?”

At the sound of the voice, Missy leaped to her feet, her deep bark heralding the arrival of a friend.

“Ryan!” Kit dropped the ball back in the bucket and ran to throw her arms around her son. “How did you get here so early?” She hugged him, leaned back to look in his face, and hugged him again. “Oh, I can't believe you are really home.”

“So this must be Thomas.” Keeping one arm around his mothers waist, he stretched out his right hand. “I hear you are quite a ball player.”

Thomas shook hands, then dropped to his knees beside Missy. She woofed until Ryan knelt down and rubbed her back and ears. “Good dog, how you been anyway?”

“I play with her so she don't get fat.”

“Looks like you been doing a good job. And you're keeping Mom here in shape too. Whata guy.”

“That's not me. Mrs. C is not fat.”

“Thank you, Thomas. What a nice thing to say.”

He shrugged. “It's true. And you pitch good for a lady.”

“She pitches good, period. She and Dad taught me all I know about baseball. And it looks to me like she's got you standing just right too.”

“You want something to drink? Are you hungry?”

“Drink will be fine if you have lemonade. You like lemonade, Thomas?”

“She always has lemonade and Popsicles. Cookies today.”

“Same old Mom.”

“She ain't old.”

“ ‘Scuse me.” Ryan looked to his mother. “You've got quite a champion here.”

“I know. You two sit over there by the table, and I'll bring out the pitcher and glasses. I don't suppose either of you would like chocolate-chip cookies too?”

The guys nodded, and Missy woofed and wagged her tail.

“Not you, silly dog. Thomas, you want to come get her a puppy treat, too?”

With the snacks on the table, Kit sat down with her boys. “Now answer my question. How did you get here so early?”

“Rob took his final last night, so we left early this morning. Came over White Pass. Those high mountain lakes were just crying for a fishing line.”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

After he'd drained one glass and started on the next, Ryan looked at Thomas. “How about if Mom pitches, I catch, and you bat?”

“Yeah!” Thomas's eyes shone as if he'd been offered a trip to the World Series.

At dinner that night, mother and son ate on the deck, catching up on their news. When a silence fell, Ryan leaned back and clasped his hands over his belly.

“Dad won't be coming home this time, Mom.”

“How do you know?”

“He called and told me.”

But he was too chicken to call and tell me? What is with that mani
She took another drink of her iced tea to hide the quiver in her lips.

“Do you think he'll ever come home?”

The question hung on the still air.

“I don't know,” Kit said softly. “I just don't know.”

“Dear Lord, I confess and give you my fears. I know you are God of everything, Creator, Sustainer. You are bigger than radiation and wiser than the doctors. And I know you are holding me in the palm of your mighty hand…” Teza paused and laid a hand on her heart that had a tendency today to double-time. “Please don't let me climb out. Father, I don't want to go through all this again, I don't.” A tear plopped on her hand. “I don't.”

She returned to reading Psalm 91. Snakes and young lions could surely be read treatments, machines, and doctors. “No harm shall befall me. And yet chemotherapy does just that—harms any fast-growing cells, like stomach lining, hair. If only it would kill only the cancer cells and not the others.” The memory of nausea and vomiting knocked on the door of her mind, but she refused to open it. “I'm in the shadow of the Most High, and nothing can touch me here.” She read the entire psalm again, putting “I” in all possible places. “The angels will bear me up so my foot does not dash against a stone. Lord, I surely need some bearing up about now.”

The urge to flee to her garden and hide in the corn rows brought her halfway to her feet, but she forced herself to sit back down. She leaned against the wicker chair and watched the robin digging in the lawn for the morning worm. When Mrs. Robin had three wiggling worms in her beak, she flew off to feed her children.

“You provide, Lord. You always have, and I know you always will.” Teza turned to her prayer list and brought each name on it before her Lord, spending extra time on Marks name. “Father, he needs to be here where he can receive all the love we have to give him, not off by himself, like an old sick dog going oflF somewhere to die. Is he going to church, reading your Word, praying? Father, I seriously doubt it. I get the feeling he's just licking his wounds, and they aren't healing.” The thought of a scab on a sore came to her mind. “Yes, he's building scabs when the wound is festering underneath, and he doesn't even know it. Oh, my poor boy.” Images from the years since he and Kit married floated through her mind, him building shelves for her sewing room, Kit's sewing room, a wagon for the children, flower boxes and planters, all of them together on picnics, birthdays, Christmas. Through the years he'd become the closest thing to a son as she'd ever had. And now she ached for him.