Of course she wanted to have a baby. She’d wanted it so much that she’d gone through with the wedding against her better instincts and foolishly turned a blind eye to Zach’s long hours and late nights at the office, because he said it was all about him getting promoted and making enough money so they could buy a house and start a family.
Now she was getting her wish. But not the way she’d thought she would.
The idea of raising a child alone was still overwhelming to her. It was Zach’s baby too, but given the way he’d displayed his trustworthiness, or lack thereof, McKenzie wasn’t going to count on him. Thank heaven her folks were in the picture. In spite of the circumstances, they were totally excited about the baby.
McKenzie was sure she would be too. Soon. But not yet. For all these reasons, she gave her mother’s baby shower proposal a big thumbs-down. Maybe later, but not now, she told her mother. Not when she was so far from her due date. And so depressed. McKenzie didn’t mention this last part, but she didn’t have to. Hope already knew.
Which probably explained why she just wouldn’t let it go. Hope wheedled and whined, lobbed arguments and counterarguments, played the guilt card and devil’s advocate. Finally, McKenzie caved. But only after issuing her caveat.
“All right, already! Fine! You can throw a baby shower. But you have to promise to keep it simple, okay? Cake, a few presents, a few people. Nothing crazy. Seriously, Mom. I just don’t have the energy for more.”
“Absolutely,” she said, nodding her assent. “Just a nice little party to celebrate you and the baby. Nothing over the top.” She held her hand out flat, as if taking an oath. “Promise,” she said.
She totally lied.
Going behind McKenzie’s back, she had called Zinnia, McKenzie’s best friend from work, and gotten her to expand the number of office invitees from six to twelve. Hazel, Kate, and Nancy came, as well as Wanda, Zach’s mother, who drove down from Bellingham and brought a huge basket full of baby gifts, everything from towels and toys to bottles and bibs. It was a little awkward, having Wanda there, but she seemed so happy to have been invited and McKenzie was glad she came. In addition, Hope invited every other female resident of the condo, so there were about twenty-four women in attendance. McKenzie’s dad was there as well, to serve beverages and help out in the kitchen.
The decorations were beautiful and, yes, totally over the top. Why had McKenzie even gone through the motions of asking her to tone it down? And why had Hope pretended she could? It was like dangling a freshly caught fish in front of a cat and then asking her not to eat it, a futile request.
Even so, McKenzie couldn’t help but smile when she opened the door and saw dozens upon dozens of yellow balloons bobbing near the ceiling, each wrapped with a square of gauzy, transparent tulle with a pattern of tiny silver stars and tied with yellow ribbons.
Since McKenzie had only just found out she was having a girl, Hope had kept the color scheme a gender-neutral yellow and white. The effect was fun and feminine without being fussy, and, when the sunlight streaming through the windows glinted against the starry tulle, kind of magical. The table decorations were just as fabulous. Each of the four tables was covered with a snowy white cloth overlaid with a topper of cheery yellow gingham and matching gingham napkins. Hope had sewn the toppers and napkins herself and made the fishbowl centerpieces. Each fishbowl, filled halfway with brilliant blue water, had a bright yellow rubber ducky bobbing inside.
“What could be simpler than a bowl of water with a plastic duck floating in it?” Hope said with an innocent smile when McKenzie accused her of violating their agreement regarding simplicity.
When it came to the food, Hope actually had kept it simple. At least according to Hope’s standards.
Upon arriving, guests were offered appetizers, pretty much a repeat of those she’d served at Christmas, and cups of fizzy punch with lemon sherbet. The actual meal consisted of a “simple” salad bar.
After choosing between lettuce, spinach, kale, arugula, or some combination of the four, guests could top their greens with carrots, peppers, onions, radishes, and heirloom tomatoes, pickled beets, corn, and okra, artichokes and avocados, two colors of cabbage, and four varieties of cheese, as well as grilled chicken, shrimp, or steak, sunflower seeds or croutons. There was salad dressing too, five different kinds, and Rick’s homemade sesame breadsticks.
It was the most extensive and impressive salad bar any of the guests had ever seen. Everybody oohed as they went through the line, choosing their favorites. But most impressive was the way Hope displayed the food. Each item on the buffet came in its own appropriately sized glass jar. Each jar was wrapped with a wide yellow ribbon, overlaid with a thinner white and yellow polka-dot ribbon, and had a small wooden chalkboard on the front, announcing the contents of the jar in yellow chalk and Hope’s elegant script.
It all looked so pretty and fresh and, in its way, simple.
Then there was the dessert. Which was anything but.
McKenzie couldn’t get on Hope’s case about that. The dessert was all Rick’s doing.
“Well, Kenz? What do you say? Do you like it?” Rick asked, crossing his arms as she admired the cake, all four tiers of it, iced with alternating layers of yellow and white, the edge of each decorated with a row of cheery marzipan duckies.
“Oh, Daddy. It’s just . . . I don’t even know what to say. It’s stunning.”
“Whew!” Rick replied, grinning and wiping imaginary beads of sweat from his brow. “That’s a relief. If you knew how many episodes of Cake Wars I’ve watched since you moved into your new apartment, trying to get this right.”
“Too many,” Hope injected. “Then there were all the trial runs. He baked three prototypes before this one. Just when I was finally able to fit into my jeans. I don’t think I’ll eat another slice of cake for as long as I live.”
Rick raised his brows. “No? Not even if it was lemon poppy seed cake? With raspberry filling?”
“Well . . . Maybe,” Hope said. “Just a little piece. I mean, we’re only having salad for lunch, right?”
“That’s my girl,” he said, pulling his wife close and kissing her full on the lips.
McKenzie stood there, watching them kiss, waiting to feel the usual twinge of jealousy and accompanying dose of self-pity. It didn’t come. Instead, she felt happy for her parents and for herself.
Nobody’s life is perfect, but it suddenly occurred to McKenzie that hers was way better than most and that she was very lucky.
“I love it. The cake, the food, the decorations. Just everything. Thanks so much. This is amazing. You shouldn’t have done it,” McKenzie said, her tone just slightly scolding. “But I can’t say that I’m sorry you did.” She looked down toward her swelling waistline, feeling that skittering bubbling sensation in her middle that signaled the baby’s movement and, she felt, her approval. “I can’t say that we’re sorry you did. It’s going to be a great party, guys. The best ever.”
It was. Everyone had a wonderful time, McKenzie most of all.
But it wasn’t about the decorations, the gifts, the food, or even her father’s spectacular cake. It was about how all of it made her feel: loved, special, cherished, and anything but alone.
The mountain of gifts—blankets, bottles, and bibs and tiny, impossibly adorable sets of footie pajamas and sweaters and hats, a diaper bag from Kate, as well as a really sweet watercolor of a baby lamb resting in a field of flowers that she’d painted herself, a blue sling carrier from Nancy, a car seat from her aunt, the huge basket of gifts from Wanda, and the world’s most beautiful vintage white wicker baby carriage from her parents, refurbished into perfect working order by Rick and fitted out with a yellow gingham carriage pad and tiny quilt sewn by her mother—sparked her imagination, got her to think about how a sweet baby, her baby, would look wearing those clothes, using those gifts, sleeping peacefully and soundly as McKenzie wheeled her down a tree-lined street or the quiet paths of a pretty park.
For the first time since seeing that blue line on the drugstore pregnancy test, just two days after coming to grips with the truth of Zach’s infidelity, McKenzie felt fully awake, alive, and optimistic about her future, overjoyed at the prospect of impending motherhood, and bristling with impatience to meet her baby.
Hope’s plan worked. For the first time in a long time, McKenzie was happy and very, very excited.
When the party was over and McKenzie was leaving for her new apartment, she kissed Hope and Rick in turn, saying, “How did I ever get lucky enough to score you two as my parents? It sure wasn’t anything I did.”
“Oh, stop,” Hope said, giving McKenzie another squeeze. “You’re a good person and a wonderful daughter.”
“The best,” Rick said.
“Well, we all know that’s not true. But thanks for saying it anyway. And thanks for . . . Well, for everything. Not just the party.” McKenzie rubbed her palm over her belly. “Until today, I was feeling scared, like it was all on my shoulders, worried I’d make a mess of everything. But now I feel like maybe I’ve got this.”
“You do,” Hope affirmed. “You’re going to be a terrific mom. And if you ever need help, we’re just up the street.”
“Yeah,” McKenzie said, relief apparent in her sigh. “How lucky was I to find a perfect apartment less than five minutes from here? And how lucky will this baby be to have her own personal daycare just up the street, right? It’s going to make everything so much easier. Well, good night, guys. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome,” Rick replied. “Hey, I’ll bring the rest of the presents over to your place tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock, okay?”
“Sounds good,” McKenzie said. “That’ll give me time to sleep off the sugar high from all that cake I ate.”
Rick laughed. McKenzie joined in, then gave them each one more hug for good measure and headed down the hall toward the elevator, so blissfully happy that she didn’t even notice the strange and somewhat stunned expression on her mother’s face, as if she’d just been caught totally off guard.
Chapter 30
“That. Is. Beautiful,” Debby Harper said, enunciating each word as she leaned over Mandy’s shoulder.
After much sewing and ripping and resewing, Mandy had completed eight of her Dove in the Window blocks. But until that morning, she hadn’t been feeling that great about the quilt.
Hope kept telling her to quit worrying, assured her that the finished quilt would be just as pretty as the one she’d seen in the pattern book and even prettier because Mandy had picked prettier fabric.
Mandy was less convinced.
The blocks were okay. She’d sewn them exactly according to the instructions. They were all the correct size and almost perfectly square. But Mandy just couldn’t see how it was all going to come together. Each block was fine on its own, but when she tried to picture them joined in one big quilt it just seemed like there was so much going on. Maybe too much?
The fabrics were beautiful—a rich range of purple, blue, and gray. But maybe it had been a mistake to use so many different fabrics? Maybe she should have used fewer fabrics. Or fewer colors?
There were only about two months remaining until Mandy’s release. Time was running short. She didn’t want to spend what was left of it sewing block after block after block, only to put them together and realize that Talia’s quilt was a big mishmash of colors and patterns. Mandy wanted this quilt to be perfect, something Talia would be proud to have on her bed so that someday, when they had their own place and Talia invited friends over, she would point to it and say, “Isn’t it cool? My mom made it.”
Hope said it saved time to finish all the blocks before putting them together, but finally, probably sick of listening to Mandy’s worrying, she gave Mandy permission to stitch her finished blocks together. Mandy was so glad.
Her quilt was weeks away from being finished, but as soon as she joined those eight blocks Mandy could see the pattern emerge. She could see other patterns too, smaller, more subtle, and sometimes surprising secondary patterns that suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere, pulling her vision in different directions and new discoveries, drawing her eyes into a maze of pattern, shape, and color.
And the colors! Oh, the colors were perfect! Her teacher had been right all along; she’d had no cause for worry. In spite of the range and variety—chambray, lilac, opal, berry, teal, deep gray, periwinkle—every color she’d chosen enriched and balanced the others, adding depth and harmony to the design. Her concerns about the patterns were likewise unfounded.
When Hope had brought in a huge bag of donated fabrics, saying she could pick anything she wanted for her quilt, Mandy had been immediately drawn to this particular collection, partly because it included that one incredible purple fabric, as deep and rich as the skin of the eggplants that had grown in her mother’s vegetable garden when she was little. Purple was Talia’s favorite color, lavender her second favorite. But when she took a closer look, it was the patterns printed on the fabrics that really caught her eye.
There was a vaguely industrial feel to them. One of them was actually printed with little gears and wheels. Another had a design of scallops edged with rows of pie-shaped spikes that reminded her of fencing. And another soft gray piece of material had a pattern that looked like a jumbled tangle of barbed wire. But other fabrics in the collection were decidedly softer, sporting flowers, vines, polka dots, and clouds.
The imagery of those designs spoke to Mandy. They seemed like a perfect reflection of the tension she felt at this moment, still surrounded by fences and wire but teetering on the threshold of life beyond these walls, a land of open skies and flowering fields.
But this quilt wasn’t for her. It was for Talia. Maybe she ought to choose fabrics that were younger and more girly. There was another purple fabric in the bag, printed with pictures of Disney princesses. Maybe Talia would prefer something like that?
“Not for long,” Hope advised her. “She’ll outgrow it in a year or two. The other collection will appeal to her for a lifetime. The colors are just beautiful, but the patterns are subtle. That’s one of the things I love about using batik fabrics; those tone-on-tone prints influence overall impact of the quilt without overpowering the design. And I think it’s good that the fabrics are speaking to where you are right now.
“Yes, it’s going to be Talia’s quilt, but it will also be yours. Even when given as a gift, a quilt should convey something meaningful about the maker. The piece of yourself that you put into a quilt is what makes it special. Years from now, this quilt will help remind you, and Talia, about how far you’ve come. It also might give you a way to talk to her about the journey.”
Mandy was glad she’d listened to Hope’s advice. As soon as she’d finished stitching her first few blocks together and could envision the finished quilt, Mandy knew she’d made the right choice. It was going to be beautiful. Talia would love it. Mandy already did.
Deedee had caught a bug and wasn’t in class that day. Eager to show her handiwork to her sick friend, Mandy asked if she could take her partially finished quilt down to the infirmary so Deedee could see it. Normally, their quilting supplies were kept in the locked cabinet between classes, but since Mandy was just talking about fabric, nothing sharp or potentially dangerous, Hope said she could.
Mandy had gone from class directly to the cafeteria, intending to visit Deedee in the infirmary right after lunch. But then Bonnie Glazier caught sight of the folded-up fabric and asked to see the quilt. Mandy obliged, spreading the partially completed quilt out on the cafeteria table. Within moments, they were surrounded by other inmates, all of them oohing and aahing over Mandy’s creation in progress.
“Can I touch it?” Debby Harper asked. When Mandy nodded, she leaned in and brushed her fingers across the blocks. “It’s so soft. And I love the colors.”
“It’s for my little girl,” Mandy replied. “Purple is her favorite.”
“Mine too,” Bonnie said. “Geez. This must h
ave taken you forever.”
“Not forever. But yeah, I had to put some time into it. This first block—” Recalling her frustration, Mandy let out a puff of disgust. “I ripped it out twice before I got it right, spent the whole class making just that one block. Really, I felt like tossing the whole thing at that point. But it got a lot easier after the first one. Once you understand how the block goes together, it’s not that hard.”
“For you maybe.” Bonnie shook her head. “I could never make something like that.”
“That’s what I thought at first too,” Mandy said. “But you just have to take it one step at a time. If you break it down like that instead of worrying about the whole thing, it’s not so overwhelming. You could do it.”
“Oh, please,” Bonnie said, rolling her eyes. “I’m the least crafty person on the planet. I can’t even sew on a button.”
“What difference does that make?” Mandy countered. “When we started, about half the people in the program would have said the same thing. Now they’re all making quilts. Deedee didn’t even know how to thread a needle when she started.”
“Oh, well . . . Deedee.” Bonnie spread her hands, as if to indicate that Deedee’s ineptitude shouldn’t have surprised anybody.
“Hey. Don’t start dissing Deedee,” Mandy cautioned. “She’s my friend.”
“I wasn’t dissing anybody. I’m just saying, stuff like this comes easier to some people. But I’m not one of them.”
“Have you ever tried?” Mandy asked. Bonnie shook her head. “Then how do you know? I mean, look at Deedee. Who knew she could sing like that? Nobody. Not until she opened her mouth. People have all kinds of hidden talents.”
“Yeah? Well, mine must be really hidden.”
Bonnie’s comment brought a murmur of laughter from the growing knot of women who had surrounded the table to check out Mandy’s quilt and listen in on the conversation. Bonnie looked up, seemingly startled by the noise and the size of the crowd. Grinning, she delivered her next line in a louder and more expressive tone, playing to the gallery.
Hope on the Inside Page 21
