“She watched too much Sesame Street as a baby, because she didn’t have a mother, and decided her name was Five.” The muscles in my legs start to tremble and I know I should leave, but instead I move a step closer to Mary. “Because you weren’t here, my sister is named after a fucking number!”
“Go to your room!” Dad says.
I turn to him, and I’m sure I must look as shocked, hurt and offended as I feel.
“Just to be clear, there’s a difference between looking fifteen and being fifteen,” I say, his betrayal blowing around me like a mini-cyclone.
“And there’s a difference between being twenty-nine and acting it,” he shoots back.
“Go to hell!” I yell at him. I’ve never said this to my father. Never. My legs are full-on shaking now and I feel like I’m going to fall over. Ella starts to weep actively in the background. I am at sea, I have no anchor, I don’t know if I’m out of line or not, and I don’t really care.
After the moment of shock passes, Dad opens his mouth to speak, but Mary puts her hand on his arm. Again.
“Declan.”
Dad’s eyes go to her, and he instantly calms. Because she told him to.
Jesus. She’s his wife. Seventeen years, and suddenly, she’s his wife again. My legs start to shake even more violently.
What the hell is wrong with this family, anyway?
Mary looks at me. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.” Her voice is thick, but she’s fighting the tears. Good for her. “You remember how I was. I was a mess. The doctor I found in New Mexico said it was postpartum, but by the time I got better…” She shakes her head, blinks hard, gathers herself. “It took me seventeen years to get over the guilt, to get the courage to come back, to tell you how much I’ve regretted not being here with you.”
“Should have taken forever,” I say.
“Shut up!”
I shift my focus to see Five pushing herself up from the table. She walks toward us and slowly situates herself at Mary’s side.
“At least you got a chance to know her,” Five says. She seems so mature, suddenly. Much more mature than me. And she’s taller than me. And she sounds older than me. I am overwhelmed with sudden bitterness that my baby sister looks more grown-up than I ever will. “I just want to know her. Think about someone besides yourself, Carly. Don’t ruin this for me.” A fresh tear skips over her cheek. “Don’t make her go away again.”
Mary strokes Five’s hair and places a shaky kiss on the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Huh. I turn to Dad. “So what now?”
His eyes are such a mixture of anger and sadness that I can’t look at them.
“Your mother is moving back,” he says.
“No,” I say.
He has the nerve to look offended. “Excuse me?”
I cross my arms over my stomach. “I said no. If she comes back, then I’m gone.”
I instantly regret the ultimatum, because I am against them. I think they’re horrible and manipulative and I can’t believe I’ve just laid one down. I’m about to take it back when Ella stands up.
“Carly,” she says, “you can’t do that.”
Yet, I can’t go back. Because as much as I despise ultimatums and the people who issue them, I mean it. “It’s done.”
Dad, Mary, Five and Ella exchange looks. Then I see Five entwine her fingers with Mary’s. Ella sniffles and takes a step toward me. “You can stay with me and Greg.”
She puts her hand on my arm and I wrench it out of her grip, my eyes on Mary.
“I was twelve.” I point to Ella. “I couldn’t go out for field hockey because I had to be here every afternoon when she got home from school.” I nod toward Five. “When she was eight months old, she had chicken pox and almost died. I snuck into her room and slept in the chair by her bed every night for two months because I was so terrified she’d stop breathing in the middle of the night. While you were in New Mexico having a good long conference with your inner child, Dad was wandering around this place like a ghost, and I was the one who made sure we had food. And what? You’re sorry, so it’s suddenly okay?”
Mary looks down at her feet and begins to weep. Five puts one arm around Mary’s shoulder and gives me the most blatantly mutinous glare I’ve ever gotten. I feel Dad-, Ella-, and Five-shaped holes burrowing their ways through me. And that is when everything breaks for me. The emotion is suddenly gone, as though some determined housewife simply swept it away. I am no longer angry. I am no longer hurt. I am cold inside. I am hollowed out. I am relieved.
“I’m gonna go pack,” I say.
Dad gives a tired sigh. “Carly—”
“No worries.” I allow a tight smile. “I’m fine.”
I turn my back on all of them. My legs take over, carrying me out of the kitchen, up to my room. On autopilot, I pack random bits of my stuff and bring it down to my car. I toss my hairbrush in my suitcase, but I forget underwear. The four of them stay in the dining room; I can hear them talking in hushed tones as I pass by with boxes and luggage. I need something to wrap my little thirteen inch television in and grab the quilt from under my bed. It is my last trip. I shut the door behind me and get in the car, without the slightest fucking clue where I’m going.
I’m halfway to Phoenix when I glance in my rearview mirror, and a swatch of light from a streetlight washes over the quilt-covered television. A sudden realization and a crazy calm comes over me.
It’s the quilt’s fault.
It’s the quilt’s fault.
Before the quilt, everything was fine. Then Brandywine McCrazy gives me this quilt, talking about books with amber spines and women named Mary and—
“And—oh!” I say, smacking the palm of my hand down on the steering wheel and accidentally hitting the horn. “South America!”
Reginald Davies took off for Buenos Aires. That was the rumor. I heard it.
My life was fine, it was fine, before Brandywine Seaver and her stupid fucking quilt. A part of me—the sane part, I’m thinking—sits back helplessly and watches as I take the next exit and trade I-10 West for I-10 East. This part of me knows I’m completely off my nut, that I don’t believe in quilts or curses, that spending my time racing to Bilby to confront a quilt maker when I’m homeless and unemployed is just plain nuts, and yet, this part doesn’t stop me.
Probably because it couldn’t if it tried.
***
It is past ten o’clock by the time I pull up in front of Brandywine Seaver’s artsy little cottage. The green lawn rocks, the “Rentals Available” sign, the picket fence… all of it is pissing me off. I’m annoyed by the air in Bilby. I’m annoyed by the very existence of Bilby. It’s a stupid artsy stupid town with a stupid name and stupid left-wing nut cases running around being all Bohemian with their sandals and their recycled toilet paper, and I despise them all.
The sane part of me realizes, of course, that the only nutcase in the vicinity at the moment is me, but doesn’t make a big deal out of it.
I step out of my car and open the back door, yanking the stupid quilt off the television and bundling it in my arms. I slam the door to my car with my hip and march up the path to Brandywine Seaver’s house. This time, I wrap my finger in the quilt to protect it from the zapping doorbell of death.
I hope it catches on fire, I think. I hope this entire town goes down in flames.
Brandywine Seaver opens the door. She has two pieces of fabric draped over her shoulder and her hair is half in a ponytail, half out. She looks like she’s had a long day, but I don’t care, because she and her stupid quilt ruined my life.
She stares at me blankly for a second, then her eyes flash surprise and recognition. “Carly?”
“Take it!” I say, shoving the quilt toward her. She makes no move to take it from me, nor does she look at me like I’m insane. Which I clearly am. What the hell is wrong with her, anyway?
She cocks her head slightly to one side and looks at me
with kindness and understanding. “Do you want to come inside? I can make us some tea.”
“What are you?” I say. “A witch?”
“Well…” Her lips twitch in a smile. “Yes, actually. Wiccan, anyway. But what does that have to do with—”
“I knew it!” I say, pointing my finger at her, only it’s still wrapped under the quilt from hitting the doorbell, and I look like an insane Martha Stewart wannabe trying to hold up an insane Martha Stewart wannabe. “You did something to me! You gave me this quilt, and you ruined my life. My life? Is ruined. I am homeless, I am jobless, and my best friend is in love with me. What… what… what…?” I stammer. I am insane. The part of me that is sane enough to recognize this sighs and gives up. I narrow my eyes at Brandywine Seaver. “What did you do to me?”
Brandy watches me for a moment, her face showing no sign of irritation. She is sympathetic, and yet not pitying. I get the feeling that somehow she knows what’s going on without my having to tell her, which I guess would make sense, seeing as how she put the damn curse on me in the first place.
Brandy steps out of her home and puts her hand gently on my shoulder.
“I think you might benefit from a cup of chamomile tea,” she says gently. “It’s very calming.”
I am about to refuse, but then, it starts to rain. The thing about storms in the southwest is that on the rare occasions that the skies allow them, they really mean it. Within seconds there are big fat droplets attacking me from all sides.
I am homeless. I am unemployed. And a witch who has cursed my life is offering me sanctuary.
Suddenly, I feel nine years old. Suddenly, I am craving comfort, from any source. I don’t care. I just want to be cut a break. I want to be taken care of.
Suddenly, with a desire so raw I can’t fight it, I want chamomile tea.
Well, hell. Any port in a storm, right?
“Do you have honey?” I ask feebly, and let her lead me inside.
***
I am sitting on Brandywine Seaver’s couch, wrapped up in a fleece throw. The Quilt of Evil is slumped on the floor below where I’m sitting, and I have my feet tucked up under my legs so that I don’t accidentally make contact with the evil. Brandy comes out from the kitchen carrying a tray with a tea pot and two mugs.
“Have you ever had real tea? I mean, loose-leaf brewed?” she asks amiably.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
She smiles, radiating inner peace. “You’ll never go back.”
She places the tray on her coffee table, pours us each a cup, hands me one, and sits down on the couch.
“So,” she says, sipping her mug. “Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I say. The sane part of me is gaining ground, and I am starting to amass just enough perspective to be embarrassed by my behavior.
“Well,” she says slowly, “how about with your best friend?” Her nose wrinkles slightly as she gives me a look of sympathetic discomfort. “You didn’t know she was a lesbian?”
I laugh out loud, and it feels good, but it’s followed by a wave of sadness that I don’t enjoy so much.
“His name is Christopher.”
“Christopher?” Her brow crinkles. “The camera man?”
I am confused for a moment then remember, of course, she’s met Christopher.
“We’ve been best friends since college. He bought me a book with an amber spine seven years ago because, as it turns out, he loves me, which, you know, who saw that coming?”
Brandy is silent, looking at me as though I’m stupid.
“What?” I say. “You saw that coming?”
Brandy gives a demure shrug, then nods. “Well. Yeah. You guys were only in my house for an hour but… yeah. I thought you were already dating.”
I stare at her. Of course she would claim she knew or her cover as a psychic is blown. But still. It’s kind of obnoxious.
“And you knew, too,” she says, taking a sip of her tea.
Okay. That’s really obnoxious. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No.” I clench my teeth. “I didn’t.”
Brandy makes a face that says, “Did, too,” but out loud she only says, “Well.”
I keep quiet. It’s not worth it. Instead I sigh and say, “Well, if you knew so much, you could have tipped me off that Christopher had the book with the amber spine.”
Brandy’s face is blank.
“You know,” I prod. “The amber spine. The book that Christopher had.”
She gives a confused half-smile and shakes her head. “What? Is that from the reading?”
“The reading that ruined my life?” I say. “Yeah. You don’t remember?”
“No,” Brandy says matter-of-factly. “I read the quilts to get them out of my head. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Did I say something about a book with an amber spine?”
I sigh. “I don’t even know if it was amber. It might have been orange. It was dark when he showed it to me.”
She quirks her head to the side and grins. “So, he’s in love with you. Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” I whine. “I’m thinking maybe.”
Brandy looks contemplative for a moment, then leans forward. “There’s something you need to understand. You got that quilt because it was time for you to have it. Because these things were coming. Maybe the Universe wanted to give you a heads up. I don’t know. But I didn’t curse you. All of this would have happened anyway, with or without the quilt.”
I stare at her. This hadn’t occurred to me. And it sounds like typical pass-the-buck crap to me.
“But the show got canceled. The story didn’t even air.”
Brandy smiles knowingly. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“That I’ve lost my job?”
“No,” she says. “That you were brought here for a purpose, and that purpose was not to put my pretty mug on TV.”
She’s looking at me expectantly. I got nothing. “I was brought here to fulfill an assignment.”
Brandy smiles softly. “I’m sorry things are so hard on you right now. Do you want to hear my theory on times like this?”
No. I sip the tea. She’s right. It’s good. She’s watching me, waiting, and I sigh. “Sure.”
“I think that when everything goes wrong, it’s because nothing was right in the first place. It’s like, when you knit… do you knit?”
I stare at her. Do I look like I knit? I wonder.
She shrugs acquiescence. “Okay. Well, when you knit, if you get something wrong and keep knitting, then when you discover it, you have to rip out all those rows of stitching to go back and fix it. Life is like that. Sometimes, it has to rip out all the stitches to go back and fix what’s wrong.”
This sounds ridiculous to me. But the tea is good, so I just give a noncommittal, “Hmmm,” and sip some more. And suddenly, I am bone tired.
“Wow,” I say, yawning. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s—” I yawn again and can’t finish the sentence.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “I should have warned you. Chamomile packs a punch if you’re not used to it.”
“Oh,” I say. Great. Now I’ve been cursed and drugged.
Brandy smiles. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”
I shake my head, staring into my mug. The tea is looking kinda swirly and pretty. I take another sip.
“I’d offer to have you stay here,” Brandy says, motioning around, “but the quilts kinda take over all the extra space. I usually need at least a week’s notice to have guests.” She stands up, smiling. “But I own a cabin, back on the land behind the house. My tenant is a good friend, and he’s out of town for the weekend. You can stay in his bed.”
Sleep in a strange man’s bed? Yuck. “No. That’s okay. I’m sure there’s a motel around here somewhere.”
Brandy looks scandalized. “Motels are where people go to commit suicide. Come on. We can put on fresh sheets. He won�
�t mind.”
She starts for the door, and I follow, deliberately stepping around the Quilt of Evil. We walk out to my car and I grab the backpack I filled with a change of clothes and basic toiletries. She leads me down the white rock path that winds to the back of her property. As we get to the side of her house, the foliage takes over, and we’re surrounded by creosote and palo verde. The air is fragrant and warm, and the moonlight sprinkles down on us through the trees. The path angles upward toward the foothills, and then opens into a clearing where there are two cabins, each surrounded by so much foliage that they look like they’re just wedged into the hills themselves. The closest one is painted yellow; the second one, a little farther down the path, is a robin’s-egg blue. Both have small decks that are adorned with wind chimes and mismatched outdoor furniture, ranging from small plastic tables to whitewashed wooden rocking chairs.
“Wow,” I say. “How… eclectic.”
Brandy grins and turns toward the yellow cabin. She pulls a key out of her pocket and turns it in the lock. We go inside and it’s… interesting. The space is large and open, with white walls and hardwood floors. The cabin is large enough for two, maybe three rooms, but instead it’s simply wide open with a couple of support columns in the middle. A kitchenette lines one wall with a small table and two chairs nearby. In one corner is a bed, with a slightly ajar door to what I assume is the bathroom.
The other half of the space is taken up by paintings, drop cloths, palettes, paintbrushes. Leaning against the walls, covering the modest sofa and coffee table, are dozens of paintings, some finished and some not. Landscapes, portraits, still lifes. The subjects vary greatly, but the style ties them all together. Everything is painted in little swishes of color, like a bunch of tiny S’s, some tightly curled, some relaxed and lazy, all twisting and twirling together to be the parts that create the whole. As I step closer to one, a still life of brightly colored gerbera daisies, the daisies give way to the swishes. When I stand back, the daisies take over again, and I can see the forest for the trees.
“So,” I say, “the guy who lives here. He’s a painter, huh?”
The Fortune Quilt Page 7
