The Fortune Quilt

by Lani Diane Rich

  Three

  The following week, on a Thursday afternoon, my mother returns.

  There are no letters announcing her return. No phone calls to soften the blow. I simply come home from work and there she is, sitting on the couch with Dad, both of them holding drinks. His is the standard scotch on ice. Hers is clear. It could be gin. It could be 7-Up. I really can’t tell, and I have to wonder why I’m focusing on the drink she’s holding rather than the fact that my mother is in our living room.

  I am standing in the foyer, my beat-up messenger bag hanging heavily over my left shoulder as I stare at a woman I haven’t seen in seventeen years. I still can’t believe it’s her, but at the same time, I know that it is her. It is from her that I get my height, my looks, my terminal cuteness. She is me, plus thirty years. Hopefully without the abandonment of my family, but otherwise, we’re dead ringers.

  After a long silence with a side of staring, Dad pushes himself up from the couch.

  “Carly.” He says my name just as though he’s stating a fact, not like he’s talking to me. “I wasn’t expecting you home this early.”

  “I… uh… I left a tape. In my room.” My eyes are still focused on my mother. I don’t feel anything yet, but I know it’s coming, like those tense moments of calm after the flash of lightning when there’s nothing to do but wait for the ground-shaking thunder.

  My mother stands up. Her hair is like mine when I don’t mousse it—wild and directionless. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wide.

  “Carly.” Her lips tremble and her voice cracks and I realize with a powerful certainty that I do not want to speak to her.

  “I can’t do this now,” I say. “I have to go back to work and I can’t do this right now.”

  I look at Dad. He looks shell-shocked as well. I don’t want to leave him here to deal with her alone, but he’s a grown man. He can handle this. He’ll have to.

  “Carly,” she says again. My throat tightens and I hold up my hand.

  “Not now,” I say. I turn around, go up to my room and search for the tape I couldn’t find at work. Perfunctorily, I scrounge through my room, focusing my entire existence on finding the tape. Not on my desk. Not on my dresser. I get down on my hands and knees and feel under my bed. The tape is underneath the quilt. There’s a stab of panic as I think about Brandy’s words.

  Everything’s about to change.

  Total vague pseudo-psychic crap, and yet the panic escalates, moving from my chest into my throat. I squelch it under a heavy sense of professional duty. I don’t have time for this. It’s sweeps, for Christ’s sake.

  I don’t have time for this.

  I pad down the stairs and slip out the back. By the time I get to work, I have myself half-convinced that she was just a figment of my imagination. It’s the desert heat giving me hallucinations, although in November, it’s really not that hot.

  LSD. Someone laced my morning coffee with—

  Brain tumor. Brain tumors cause hallucinations, don’t they? I know they make people smell toast when there’s no toast. Right? Something like that.

  “Carly?” I look up and see Christopher in the parking lot, having a smoke. He really needs to quit smoking. If Lindsay finds out he’s smoking again, she’s going to kick his ass.

  “Do brain tumors make you smell toast?” I ask as I walk toward the front door. Christopher tosses his cigarette to the side.

  “I don’t know. Why? Do you smell toast?”

  “No.” I reach for the door handle, but Christopher puts his hand on mine, stopping me from opening the door.

  “What’s going on?” His eyes search my face, and his eyebrows are knit.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired. I think I need some coffee, or something.” I hold up the tape and lamely add, “I got the tape.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” He looks worried. Christopher doesn’t get worried easily. I must look like hell.

  I pull on a bright smile. “I’m fine. Now get your ass in there and let’s get this bastard edited.”

  ***

  When I return back home, Dad is there. My mother is not. My theories about hallucinations and brain tumors are beginning to hold water. I’m relieved.

  Until I see that Dad’s bottle of scotch is empty. I walk into the living room and lean against the wall.

  “Dad?”

  He raises his head, a look of mild surprise on his face, as though he didn’t hear me come in. He probably didn’t. He looks a lot like he did in the months after she left, distracted and shell-shocked.

  “She’s staying at the Sheraton,” he says. “She likes the beds there.” He offers a weak smile. “Apparently, they have good beds.”

  I take a deep breath. I’m amazed and impressed that my shock has lasted as long as it has. I feel oddly calm and in control as I stare down at my old Keds. They’re dirty and there’s a hole forming over my left big toe.

  “Where has she been?” I ask finally.

  “New Mexico,” he says. “She had a lump on her breast.”

  “Oh. God.” My mind swims for a moment before Dad speaks again.

  “It was nothing. Turned out to be nothing, but for a while she thought maybe it was something, and…” He stares down into his glass, his expression confused. “So I guess that’s why she’s back. I guess she realized…”

  He trails off. I feel as though I’ve been jerked on the end of an unforgiving tether. I can’t imagine how Dad must be feeling.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  He releases a heavy sigh. “Can I answer that question tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.” My heart tugs slightly to see him sitting there, slumped over a glass of scotch, staring into its depths. I am momentarily angry with him for letting her do this to him again, but I shut it down. “Where’s Five?”

  “Staying at Rebecca’s tonight,” he says. “She’s going on that weekend trip to Flagstaff, remember?”

  I nod, although I don’t remember.

  “She’ll be back on Monday. It’s a good thing. I don’t know how I would have explained it to her.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure how I feel about it myself.”

  I get up, grab a glass from the liquor cabinet, and pour myself two fingers of scotch. I take one fiery sip, then turn to face Dad.

  “How long was she here for?”

  Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What did she want?”

  He looks up at me. “She wants to come back.”

  “Well, she can’t,” I snap. My father’s face flashes disappointment, then falls into an expression of resignation.

  “No,” he says finally. “I guess not.”

  He doesn’t sound sure. I take another swig of scotch.

  “What are we going to tell Five?” I ask.

  He sighs, puts his glass down on the coffee table, and pushes himself up off the couch.

  “I need some time by myself,” he says. He runs his hands over what hair he’s got left, then looks at me. “I’m sorry, Carly. I just need…”

  “Of course.”

  He kisses me on the cheek, and finally meets my eyes.

  “Look, don’t say anything to Five or Ella,” he says. “Not yet. Let me do that, okay?”

  I nod and listen as he thumps steadily up the stairs. The living room is quiet, and the longer I stand there staring at the bottle of scotch, the more suffocating it feels. I have to move. I have to do something. I have to… I have to…

  I put down my glass, which is still mostly full. I grab my keys out of my pocket, then dump them on the coffee table. It’s nine o’clock on a Thursday night. Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?

  I think about going to the Sheraton, locating my mother and telling her to get the hell out. She has no right to come back. Not now. It’s too late.

  Then the realization hits me like a dope slap to the side of the head; they’re not divorced.

  He’s going to take her back, I think, but then scrub the thoug
ht. Dad and I argued about the divorce exactly once, and it was the most bitter—the only bitter—argument we’d ever had. He was such a good Catholic that he didn’t even think seventeen years of abandonment was a good enough reason to drop the dead weight.

  Only it wasn’t about being Catholic, and we both knew it. It was the Mary-shaped hole.

  And now she’s here. Is he really going to forgive her? Take her back?

  I realize I’m pacing the room, my hands clenching and unclenching. That’s crazy behavior. One more minute alone in this living room and I’ll be muttering to myself about the government.

  I grab my purse and keys.

  ***

  I call Christopher on my cell phone. Lindsay is in Tempe visiting her mom, so it’s just him meeting me at Flamingo Cove, a huge pool hall in which beer is served by girls wearing fishnet stockings and not much else. But the tables are pink and the beer is cheap. Everything in life is a tradeoff.

  “You really do suck at this game,” Christopher says as he lines up his shot. He’s stripes, I’m solids, and I’ve only sunk one ball. He’s going for the eight ball.

  He’s right. I do suck. But I’ve had two beers and I feel pretty good. Considering.

  “So, you gonna tell me what’s going on?” he says. He shoots. He scores. I’m racking.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to be distracted.”

  “Does getting your ass kicked in pool distract you?” he asks, a wry grin on his face. “Because if that’s the case, I’m definitely your guy.”

  “Heh, you’re funny,” I say, racking the balls. I may not be able to shoot worth a damn, but I rack like a pro. When I finish, I look up to find Christopher’s focus on me, his face suddenly serious.

  “Just tell me one thing,” he says, his eyes dark and unreadable. “This isn’t about Seth, is it?”

  I shake my head no. Christopher nods, but there’s tension in his face.

  “Winner breaks,” I say.

  “Is it someone else?” he asks, his eyes fixed on me.

  I laugh. “It’s sweeps, Christopher. I have no time for men during sweeps. You know that. Now, break.”

  He lays his cue down on the table and walks over to stand next to me. “You gonna answer my question or not? Is it a guy?”

  I stare at him, irritation mixing with affection. While the overprotective-brother routine can sometimes be a bit much, it’s comforting, knowing I’ve got a big strong guy like Christopher ready to beat the crap out of any guy should I say the word. Not that I ever would. It’s just nice to know.

  “No,” I say. “There’s no guy. Trust me, if I was having sex on anything approaching a regular basis, I’d be in a much better mood.”

  Christopher nods, looks down at the pool table, but doesn’t move to pick up his cue. I watch him, and for the first time I really notice that he seems almost nervous.

  Christopher’s never nervous. Something’s not right.

  “Christopher?” I say slowly. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. No. I’m fine,” he says. He runs his hand over his face and shrugs the tension out of his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

  Something’s going on. It occurs to me that maybe something has happened with him and Lindsay. Maybe they are sleeping together. Oh—and she’s at her mom’s. What if…?

  “Did you and Lindsay have a fight?” I ask suddenly, my imagination having connected dots that apparently aren’t there, as Christopher looks at me like I’m totally nuts.

  “No,” he says. “Why would we fight?”

  “I dunno.” I take a sip of my beer, playing it cool just in case I’m right and Lindsay is in love with Christopher. I don’t want to be the one to blow her cover.

  I realize that Christopher is staring at me, and I lower my beer. “What?”

  He continues to watch me for a few moments, then puts the cue on the table and walks toward me.

  “Come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me through the pool hall.

  “My beer…” I say, glancing back at my half-full bottle, sitting on the edge of the pool table. It’ll be gone before we get back; those fishnet waitresses are barracudas.

  Christopher pushes through the doors and pulls me with him through the parking lot. I ask where we’re going, and he doesn’t answer. After a few moments, I see we’re headed toward his truck. He opens the passenger side door, grabs something off the dash, and hands it to me.

  It’s a book.

  “Christopher?” I turn the book over in my hands, flip open to the copyright page. It’s a familiar-looking hard-cover copy of Jane Eyre, and I’m momentarily distracted from his weirdness.

  “Oh, my God,” I say. “This is just like the one I lost in college. Remember?”

  “Do I remember?” He laughs. “You made me search every used bookstore with you for three weeks.”

  I glance at the title page. “Nineteen fifty-three. With the Eichenberg engravings.” I shut the book and look up at him. “This is it. It’s just like mine.”

  He pauses before speaking. “I know.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I close it and run my fingers over the cover. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you found one.” I tear my eyes away from the book and look up at him. “I can’t believe you remembered this after all this time. Where did you find it?”

  He swallows. Hard. And he still looks nervous. Over an old copy of Jane Eyre? I don’t get it.

  “Look at the spine,” he says.

  I turn the book over in my hand. “It says ‘Jane Eyre’.”

  “What color is it?”

  I give him a strange look, then check out the spine. “Um. I don’t know. Kind of orangey-yellow?”

  “Amber.” He gives the word such weight that I’m beginning to wonder if maybe Christopher has the brain tumor. He releases a deep breath and leans back against the truck, staring at me as though waiting for me to get it. I’m flummoxed. Then I pull some pieces together from the cobwebbed corners of my brain, and laugh.

  “Oh,” I say. “What? You think this has something to do with the psychic quilt?”

  There’s a long moment of silence, and then he pushes himself up from the truck, putting his hands on either side of my face.

  And he kisses me.

  Christopher kisses me.

  Christopher kisses me.

  I am stiff. I am shocked. I am…

  Holy God, there’s tongue.

  He releases me. I blink.

  “What… what… what…?” I blink again.

  He steps back from me and stares, looking almost as shocked as I feel. After a moment, he leans back against the truck and nods toward the book.

  “I, uh, I found it at a sidewalk sale seven years ago.” He’s staring at the book, avoiding eye contact. “Right before you left for grad school. I was going to give it to you then. Tell you…”

  He trails off.

  “Tell me? Tell me what?” My brain feels like a tiny goldfish in a great big bowl. I just can’t circle it fast enough, and by the time I get to the other side, I’ve lost track of where I’ve been.

  “—but I didn’t, and then you went to Syracuse and you were with that guy—”

  Guy? What guy? Syracuse… “Oh. What? Mike Bergen?”

  His words are rushing out, all over me, landing in messy piles at my feet. “—and you just never seemed to see me that way, so I gave it up. It didn’t seem… I don’t know. Meant to be, I guess. When you were available I was with someone, and when I was available, you weren’t.” He pauses, his eyes locked tight on mine. “But it’s never gone away, Carly. I’ve never gotten over it. And I’ve kept that book all these years. Just in case the right time came.”

  He finally stops. I stare at the book in my hands, and I still can’t process the fact that Christopher has kissed me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and it feels really weird to have his face so close to mine.

  “I’ve always thought we
were… special. I felt it. I knew it. But it wasn’t until you told me about the quilt, that I thought… maybe…” His hands trail down my arms, and he takes my hands in his. “Lindsay’s out of town. I’ve got the place to myself. Seemed kind of like the right time.”

  Oh. My. God. Lindsay. My mind is whirling. I’m not certain Lindsay is in love with Christopher, but I kinda think so, and why oh why didn’t I ever just be a girl and ask her and stick my nose in the middle of it and get them together because if I had this would never, ever, ever have happened and…

  Christopher drops my hands. “Okay. Well. I guess the sheer terror on your face is my answer.”

  I blink and look up at him. “Oh. God. No. I just… I wasn’t expecting…”

  “Hey, no big deal,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s just forget it, okay?”

  “Christopher…”

  “Come on,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’ll kick your ass in pool.”

  I glance down at the book, then back up at him. “Christopher.”

  He takes the book from my hands and tosses it back onto the front seat of his truck, and slams the door shut. “It’s okay. I get it. I’m just not up for the I-love-you-as-a-friend speech right now, Car, I’m sorry. You coming or not?”

  He looks very much like he does not want me to go with him, so I slowly shake my head. His expression ices over.

  “See you Monday, then.” He turns and goes back inside, and I watch him, frozen where I stand. Part of me wants to run after him, and part of me wants to run away. Part of me feels like I was just hit over the head with a big rubber mallet. I’m not sure that I’ve drunk too much to drive home, but between the beer and the surprise kiss, I’m not taking any chances. I head toward the closest bus stop. I’ll have Dad drop me off here in the morning before work.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m home. I sneak into my room and pull my head under the covers, insisting that when I wake up in the morning, it will have all been a very strange, totally surreal dream.

  Or maybe I have that brain tumor.

  But I don’t smell any toast.

  ***

  Work the next day is relatively normal, if I ignore the fact that Christopher and I can’t look at each other. Which I manage to do, fairly well, until we get in the Blueberry to go interview the Snakebite Kid. Victor wants the story put together by Monday, which means that I’ll be spending a good portion of my weekend logging tapes and writing the script, and then, Monday morning, it’ll be me and Christopher in the editing booth all day while he puts it together. For once, I envy the news people. Their camera people are just camera people. Editors are an entirely separate group of people. But for Tucson Today, no such luck. We’re more expensive to produce, and we make less money.