“I don’t know what time it is,” I say as I answer the door, one eye open, “but it’s too damn early.”
I stop when I see who’s there, and I start blinking to get both eyes functioning. Ella’s eyes are red, like either she hasn’t slept or has been crying. Looking at her, I think it’s quite possibly both. She’s wearing an oversized U of A sweatshirt and jeans, both wrinkled. She has no makeup on, and as her eyes meet mine, they start to brim up. Her lips tremble and the tears spill down her cheeks. We stare at each other for a long while, and I’m not sure what to do, so I do nothing and wait for her to speak while she stares at her feet.
“I don’t blame you if you don’t want to let me in,” she says. “I know I was really horrible to you. I’ve been wanting to call you and tell you how sorry I am, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to me again.”
She puts her hand to her face and cries harder. Without a word, I step outside and pull her into a hug. She sobs onto my shoulder, and I run my hand over her back and make shushing sounds. She is instantly forgiven, because there’s nothing in this world that I wouldn’t instantly forgive her for. “It’s okay, sweetie.”
“No, it’s not,” she says. “I was so mean to you.”
I smile and hug her tighter, a little surprised at how much I just don’t care. “It’s forgotten, babe.”
She steps back from me, sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. Ew.
“Why don’t you come on in?” I say. “I have coffee. And tissues.”
She wraps her arms around her middle and looks so much like she did when she was younger that I almost think I’m still dreaming. Maybe I am. I kinda hope so. Because this broken little girl in front of me is not at all like my confident, beautiful, sophisticated and overly-hygienic sister. I’m beginning to get a little worried.
“Is everyone okay?” I say. My mind rushes to conclusions, and my heart seizes. “Is Dad okay?”
Her eyes brim over, and she nods.
“He’s fine,” she squeaks. “I left Greg.”
Wow. I have to say, I didn’t see that one coming.
“Oh, sweetie.” I put my hand on her arm. “What happened?”
She shrugs and a breath stutters out of her. “I don’t know.”
My protective sister hackles go up. Ella rarely gets angry, and almost never holds grudges. For her to be upset enough to come all the way down here, it’s got to be bad. “What did he do?”
Her face crinkles up and she starts to sob. “He… said… I… use too much bleach. And he doesn’t like my Shepherd’s Pie.”
The sobs come harder, and I refrain from telling her that no one likes her Shepherd’s Pie. It’s really vile.
“Okay.” I step back and hold the door open. “Why don’t you come inside and we can talk for a while?”
She gives a little nod and steps around me into the cabin, beelining for the couch and collapsing onto it with a thud. I hold a tissue box out to her and she takes one and blows her nose.
“Do you want some coffee?” I ask gently.
She sniffles. “Do you have real half-and-half?”
I make a sound of mock indignation. “Of course.”
She smiles and her eyes brim up more. Wow. She’s really a mess, which is very unusual for Ella. Then again, it used to be fairly unusual for me, too. I start toward the kitchenette.
“How did you find me?”
She sniffles. “Christopher.”
There’s a dull pain in my gut at the sound of Christopher’s name, but I try to keep my voice casual. “You talked to Christopher? How’s he doing?”
“He’s… a mess. We’re all a mess. Everything’s a mess.” Ella’s chin quivers. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Like what?”
She stares at me, and I know she’s talking about Mary. About the way she thought it would be when Mary came back. I can’t relate; I never thought about what it would be like when Mary came back, because I never in a million years thought it would happen. I dump the last scoop of coffee into the filter basket, shut it and turn on the coffeemaker, then go sit by her side.
“How did everything get to be such a mess?” she says, grabbing another tissue out of the box.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
She stares at a point on the wall and shakes her head. “Being married is hard.”
I nod in sympathy, although of course I can’t sympathize, as I have no idea how to make it through an engagement, let alone a marriage.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “That’s the word on the street.”
“I mean, what if we end up like Mom and Dad? What if I have a baby and freak out and run off? What if I don’t have what it takes?” She turned to look at me. “Or, worse, what if he doesn’t? What if he and Tami With An ‘I’ - she’s that surgical nurse with the huge fake boobs, Tami With An ‘I’ - what if they lock eyes over a rhinoplasty and end up catching stolen moments in the supply closet and he comes home and says he doesn’t love me anymore?”
I’m not sure what to say. I’m still stuck on “rhinoplasty.”
“That sounds like a lot of what-ifs,” I say finally. Ella reaches forward and snatches a tissue and blows her nose. At least it’s a step up from the sleeve. “What if you and Greg end up making it through all that and have a wonderful life together? Have you considered that?”
She gives a little shrug and stares up at the wall again.
“Who painted that picture of you?” she says. “It looks like the stuff Will used to do.”
I glance up at She Might Be Crying. “It is Will’s. But it’s not of me.”
“Sure it is,” she says. “How did you end up being painted by Will?”
“He lives next door,” I say. I get up to get the coffee. “I found it in a shop when I first got here. And it’s not me.”
I combine sugar, coffee and half & half in two mugs, then return to Ella. She is standing in front of my fireplace, staring at She Might Be Crying. I hand her a mug.
“It’s you,” she says. “Look, the eyes have that ring of brown in the center of the green, just like yours.”
I look closer. Yeah, there’s a touch of brown around the iris, but…
“And the little curl of hair, the one that always dips down over your left eye.”
I swipe absently at my hair. “No. It can’t be me. Before moving in here, we’d only met for like five minutes at your wedding.” I look closer at the painting, and my heart seizes.
Holy shit. I think it might be me.
Ella sips her coffee. “Don’t get wigged. Something catches his imagination, he paints it. He once did twelve paintings of a single granny smith apple.”
I look at her. “Really?”
She sniffles. “Really. That’s what got him the show in New York, actually, if you can believe it. I think they saw him as a Warhol type, without all the crazy.”
“He had a show in New York?” I look back at She Might Be Crying. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” she says. “He left a little while after we broke up. But then, I guess it didn’t work out or something. Next thing I know, he’s back in Arizona. And now you two are neighbors.” She lets out a tired little laugh. “Small world, huh?”
“Yeah.” I sit down next to her and sip my coffee. “He’s not, like, you know, crazy or anything, is he?”
She shrugs. “No. I don’t think so. He never seemed crazy to me.”
Wow. What a ringing endorsement. Then again, she just left her husband. She’d probably have trouble drumming up enthusiasm for puppies bearing chocolate right now.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she adds. “I don’t think he’s likely to kill you in your sleep or anything.”
“Good to know.” I stare at the painting for a minute. The idea that I might be the She in She Might Be Crying weirds me out a little. I’m not sure if the granny smith apple thing makes me feel better or worse about it.
; “So…” she says after a short silence, “is there something going on with you two that I should know about?”
“I don’t know,” I say evasively. “What should you know about?”
She shrugs. “It won’t bother me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Will’s a great guy, I really liked him, but we never really… connected, you know? He was one of those good-on-paper guys, the ones that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them, except that there’s nothing really right either, you know?” She leans toward me with a smile. “So, what’s the what?”
“Nothing’s the what,” I say too quickly, then sigh. I’m busted. I might as well accept it. “One kiss and wondering, that’s it.”
“He kissed you?” She giggles. It is amazing what a little gossip can do for this girl’s disposition. “Really? Wow, how was it?”
“It was…” I can’t finish the sentence, but I can feel my face starting to heat up. Geez. For someone with two sisters, you’d think I’d be better at this kind of talk.
Ella nudges me with her elbow. “That good, huh? Well, you definitely have my blessing if that counts for anything.”
I smile. “It definitely does.”
She smiles back and then breaks out with a big yawn.
“Oh, man. I’m beat.” She puts her mug down on the coffee table and hugs her arms around herself. “Can I get some sleep? Do you mind? Then, I don’t know, maybe we can talk later tonight? I’m just so tired.”
I squeeze her hand. “Sure.”
Her lower lip trembles and she walks over to me for another hug. “Thanks for not being mad at me.”
I hug her tight. “You know I can’t stay mad at you. You still have my angora sweater.”
She gives me a hug and I send her to my room to sleep. Then I call Janesse and tell her I can’t make it to work today. She takes it very well, which surprises me, since Victor used to actually require a doctor’s note documenting a near-death experience if I called in toTucson Today. But Janesse is cool, and gives me a laundry list of comfort food I must run out and get. She even offers to hit the bar at the Miner’s Inn later for karaoke, if Ella is up for it. I thank her, leave a sticky note on the door for Ella and head out the door, being careful to shut it quietly behind me as I go.
Eight
When I get back from the store, Ella is in my living room, talking on her cell phone. An hour and a half has passed - the local store doesn’t carry Chunky Monkey, and Janesse insisted that the breakup of a marriage requires Chunky Monkey. In that time, Ella has napped, showered and changed. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she looks fresh and happy. She gives me a smile and a wave as I make my way across the room to put the groceries away.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, Greg,” she says. I tense up for a moment, wondering if I should go in the other room to give them privacy. Then I decide that if Ella wants privacy, she knows where to get it, and I open up the freezer.
“I don’t know. We got to talking and I’ll probably stay the night. So, I guess you can expect me back tomorrow sometime.”
Wow. They made up fast. I pull the Doritos out and put them on top of the fridge.
“I told you,” she says, her voice all sunshiny-happy. “Everything’s fine. Nothing’s bothering me, silly.”
An idea about what’s been happening begins to dawn on me. I chuckle to myself and put the wine in the fridge to chill.
“I love you, too,” she says, then flips her phone shut.
I turn on her.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” I ask.
“Hmmm?” she says, grabbing a National Geographic off my coffee table and flipping through it.
“That you left him,” I say. “He doesn’t know.”
“I didn’t leave him,” she says, her voice getting defensive. “I left the house.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “You really need to work on your conflict-handling skills.”
“We fought last night and he just went to bed and I slept on the couch, only I couldn’t sleep, so I called Christopher and he told me about your psychic quiltmaker and I drove out here.” She casually flips a page in the magazine. “Is she really psychic?”
I stare at her. Even though I’ve known Ella for her entire existence, she still amazes me. “Seriously? We’re talking about the quiltmaker now?”
She snaps the magazine shut and dumps it back on the coffee table. “I mean, he just up and went to bed. During a fight!”
I take a moment to figure out how to say this tactfully, then give up the ghost. “Are you sure he knew you were having a fight?”
She narrows her eyes at me and I can’t help but smile. We’re back, me and Ella, and it feels really good.
“He knew we were having a fight.” Her expression quickly brightens. “Hey, did you get Doritos?”
I grab the bag off the top of the fridge and walk it over to the couch, where she snatches it from me and rips it open.
“Oooh, Cool Ranch,” she says, and shoves one into her mouth.
“Ella, what’s going on?”
“I’m fine.” She grabs another chip. “I freaked out a little, but now that I’ve had some sleep, I’m really feeling better. I overreacted, and it’s okay. I’ll go back in the morning and everything with Greg will be great.” She smiles brightly. “See?”
It takes me a moment to verbalize my thoughts. “Oh, my God. Is that what I sound like?”
She blinks. “What?”
“When I’m all with the ‘I’m fine,’ even though I’m a complete mess. Do I sound like that?” I stick my hand in the bag and nab a chip.
“Like what? And I’m not a complete mess. I’m really fine.”
“All high-pitched and in denial.” I take the bag of chips from her. “I mean, ‘cuz if that’s the case, that’s just sad. And you and fine? Aren’t within shouting distance, sweetheart.”
“What do you want?” she says. “Do you want me to sit here and cry and bitch and moan because my perfect husband isn’t perfect enough, or because my mother—”
It’s like a guillotine has come down and chopped off her speech. She stares at me for a moment, then says, “Never mind.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “If you want to talk about her, you can talk about her.”
She stares down at her hands. “No, I can’t. You’re just going to say ‘I told you so,’ and I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so.’”
She glances at me sideways, then sighs. “She’s trying so hard, you know? She’s being great. She’s nice, but not too pushy. She’s there when I want to see her, but never asks anything of me. I canceled three dates on her in the last month, and she never said a word about it. Then, last night, we went over there for dinner and she made this great meal and it was really nice.”
“Wow,” I say. “Bitch.”
“That’s just it. She’s not. She’s great. But the more time I spend with her, the more I just want to yell at her, you know?”
“But you can’t,” I say, “so you yelled at Greg.”
“He said her Shepherd’s Pie was better than mine.” Her eyes start to tear up again.
“Oh, honey,” I say, putting my hand on her arm. “It probably was. But that’s not the point. The thing is that she’s your mother, and she hurt you. She hurt all of us. You can’t just decide you’re going to forgive her and it magically happens. You have to work at it.”
“Why? You didn’t. You freaked out and ran away. Why can’t I do that?”
“Um… you did. Only difference is, you’re going back and you’re going to make it all work because you’re Ella and that’s what you do.”
She grabs another chip and stuffs it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.
“And what are you going to do?” she says finally.
“Hmmm?”
“It’s not like you’re really going to stay here forever, are you?” She glances around. “The walls are all dif
ferent colors.”
“Yeah? So what? I like my walls.”
“And you like… what? Working in an art supply store?”
I think on that for a moment, and when I answer, I answer honestly. “Yeah, I like it.”
“But what are you going to do? With your life? When you’re done screwing around here?”
“I’m not screwing around. I’m…” I squinch my eyes shut and mumble, “I’m re-imagining my life.”
Ella stares at me, her expression frozen as though I’d just sprouted polka-dot wings and announced I was a ladybug. “You’re what?”
Looking at her, for the first moment since coming to Bilby, I’m filled with doubt as to whether I’ve made the right decision. Have I gone off the deep end? Because my sister, who knows me about as well as anyone, is looking at me like I’ve gone off the deep end, and that can’t be a good sign. Can it?
Ella leans forward and grabs her purse off the coffee table. After rummaging through it for a few moments, she pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” I start unfolding it and see the name “Rob Jenkins” and a phone number scribbled in Ella’s handwriting.
“It’s something Christopher asked me to tell you about. I guess now that Tucson Today is Tucson Yesterday, the independent station is trying to build up a new show. They’re doing a series of half-hour documentaries - full documentaries - and they need freelance producers.” Her face beams at me. “It’s just the kind of stuff you’ve always wanted to do, and they’re looking for people.”
Wow. This should be really good news. I should be really excited. And yet… I shrug and toss the paper onto the coffee table. “I’m happy where I am.”
There’s a long silence, and I can feel the frustration coming off Ella in waves.
“Carly. You’re an award-winning television producer—”
“Oh, whatever,” I say. “A couple of local press club awards hardly make me award-winning.”
“Yeah,” she says. “They do, you big stupid. And you’d be perfect for this, and then you could come home and—”
The Fortune Quilt Page 14
