When Joe asked her to marry him, she hardly dared hope that he meant it. His proposal sent a shaft of light into the dark room that was her life. She told him, honestly, cruelly, that she would never love him as she had loved Richard. Joe said he had enough love for both of them. No one had ever spoken to her so kindly or offered her so much while expecting so little in return.
Claudia begged Agnes not to abandon her, for living with Harold without Agnes there would be worse than living alone. Her pleas pained Agnes, but she proceeded to show Claudia the household budget and accounts. When Claudia saw that Agnes would not be persuaded, she resorted to threats. “If you leave, you can forget about your inheritance,” she shouted. “If you betray my brother’s memory, you forfeit his share of the estate!”
Agnes looked at her with genuine pity. “Oh, Claudia,” she said. “Do you really think that’s why I stayed so long?”
She married Joe, and not a day went by that she didn’t thank God for bringing him into her life. She grew to love him sooner than she would have dreamed possible, and if she never felt the passion for him that she once had for Richard, she never regretted her decision. Joe gave her love, a home, and two beautiful children. She learned that she could love again, and she knew, somehow, that Richard was happy for her.
But Claudia and Harold lived out their days in bitterness. Agnes mourned them long before they passed away.
Now she, Andrew, and Sylvia were the only ones left from those old days. Sylvia had stayed away for more than fifty years, returning only after Claudia died. Even before their reunion, Agnes was proud that Elm Creek Manor was still there to take Sylvia in. She knew she ought to be grateful that she and Sylvia had been given the past two years to reconcile.
But she was not grateful. She was angry. Two years was not enough. God owed her a reprieve. The God who had taken Richard, who had taken James, who had taken so much from the Bergstrom family, could not, must not, take Sylvia, not yet. Not yet. It was too soon. It would always be too soon.
It was the angriest prayer she had ever made, but she meant every whispered word of it. Then, her anger spent, she sat with her friends and waited.
They all looked up when the doctor entered. They rose as one and waited for him to approach. In the seconds it took him to cross the floor, Agnes tried to read his expression, but his face gave away nothing.
Not until the very last moment, when he smiled.
Fourteen
She pulled through,” the doctor said, smiling. “Thank God,” Sarah murmured. Her knees felt weak. If not for Matt’s arm around her waist, she would have fallen. “When can we see her?” Andrew asked.
“In a few minutes. She’ll be a little groggy for a while. Don’t be alarmed if she doesn’t respond when you speak to her.” The doctor hesitated. “Mrs. Compson suffered a cerebral thrombosis. That means that a blood clot formed in an artery carrying blood to her brain, blocking the flow.”
“Did you use TPA?” Carol asked.
“Actually, yes, we did. It was a viable option in Mrs. Compson’s case, especially since we were able to treat her so soon after the onset of the attack.” He turned to the others. “TPA is tissue plasminogen activator, a drug that dissolves blood clots like the one Mrs. Compson had. TPA has its risks, but the benefits of treatment far outweigh the dangers. Ideally, TPA will clear the blockage and allow the blood flow to resume.”
“Ideally?” Matt echoed. “Has it worked for Sylvia?”
“It looks promising at this point, but we’ll have to wait and see.”
It looks promising, Sarah repeated silently, relief washing over her. Thank God.
The doctor continued. “Later we’ll have to discuss her long-term care and rehabilitation, but I’m sure you’d like to see her first.”
Sarah started to follow him out of the waiting room, but then she stopped short. “Wait a minute. Long-term care? Rehabilitation?” She looked from the doctor to Carol and back, heart sinking. They looked at her with such compassion and regret that she knew at once she had felt relieved too soon. Something wasn’t quite right, something they knew that she didn’t.
Carol took her hands. “Honey, recovery from a stroke can be a long and difficult process.”
Sarah stared at the doctor. “But—but you said she pulled through.”
“She did pull through,” the doctor said. His voice was kind. “She will live. However, it’s too soon to tell how much damage her brain has sustained.”
Carol stroked a lock of hair away from Sarah’s face. “Sarah, honey, when the clot blocked the artery, it prevented blood from reaching parts of the brain. If those parts die, they don’t regenerate.”
“Rehabilitation can help,” the doctor said, trying to reassure her. “Typically, spontaneous recovery in the first month accounts for most of a stroke patient’s regained skills, but rehabilitation is still very important. It might even mean that Mrs. Compson can return home rather than be institutionalized.”
“Oh, my God.” Suddenly, Sarah’s world went gray, and her legs buckled beneath her. She felt Matt helping her into a chair. Someone placed a paper cup of water in her hands. By instinct she clasped her fingers around it, but her hands shook so violently that she spilled the water all over herself. Her teeth chattered. Someone took the cup away and ordered her to take slow, deep breaths. She tried to cooperate, but when she closed her eyes she pictured Sylvia slumped over in a wheelchair, staring into the distance, lifeless.
“I thought—” She struggled with the words. “When you said she pulled through, I thought—” She thought that meant Sylvia would be fine. How stupid of her. Of course she knew the devastating effects of stroke. She should have prepared herself. God, she was so stupid. They were only through the most frightening part of this ordeal. The most difficult part was still before them.
What if Sylvia never fully recovered?
Carol put one arm across her daughter’s shoulders and grasped Sarah’s arm with her other hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see Sylvia.”
Panic flashed through her. “I can’t.” She tore free from her mother’s embrace. “I can’t.”
Andrew studied her, concerned. “Sylvia will want to see you most of all.”
Sarah shook her head as hot tears began to streak her face. “I can’t.”
Andrew began to speak, but Carol shook her head at him. “Later, maybe,” she said. “You three go ahead.”
“I’ll be right back, Sarah,” Matt said as he followed Andrew and Agnes after the doctor. “I’ll let you know how she is.”
Sarah nodded and wrapped the twisted hem of her T-shirt around her right hand. This was her fault. It was all her fault.
When Matt and Sarah dropped Agnes off at home later that day, she felt as if she had aged a hundred years. Sylvia had looked so still and small in that bed that Agnes had hardly recognized her. And the way Andrew held her hand and spoke to her so gently—it was enough to break Agnes’s heart.
They would not know for some time how much of Sylvia would return to them. It was too soon to tell, the doctor had said.
Agnes hadn’t eaten all day, and her stomach growled with hunger. It didn’t seem right that the normal processes of life should continue as if nothing had happened. Somehow, Sylvia’s stroke should have brought everything to a standstill as the world waited, holding its breath, to see what would become of her.
Sylvia would not deal well with incapacity. If she could not walk, if she could not speak, if she could not quilt again, she might hate the doctors for saving her life. She might hate her friends for letting them. As long as Agnes had known her, Sylvia had hidden her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities. She had always found her identity in being the strong one of the family. Now she would have to acknowledge her weakness and let others be strong for her. Would she be able to? Would she let her doctors and her friends help her? Or would she let this stroke win?
No. That didn’t sound like the Sylvia Agnes knew. Sylvia hated to lose. So often Sylvia’s
stubborn streak had been her undoing. This time it could be her salvation.
Agnes heated a can of vegetable soup, made some toast, and ate her supper as she read the morning headlines. More bombings, more political non-sense, more children suffering all over the world. She sighed and pushed the paper away.
She cleared away the dishes, put the leftover soup in the refrigerator, and wondered what to do next. In her heart, she longed to be at Sylvia’s side. She should have stayed there with Andrew, but Carol had insisted she go home and rest. Agnes was tired, but she could not rest. She wanted to do something; she wanted to help. She should have gone to Elm Creek Manor to welcome the new campers. There would be so much work to do now, what with covering Sylvia’s classes, leading the Candlelight—who would lead the Candlelight that evening? Surely not Sarah. She was so distraught she ought to be in a hospital bed herself. Thank God Carol was there to look after her.
Agnes felt the knot between her shoulder blades release for the first time all day. Yes, Carol was there. So were Matt, and Summer, and Gwen, and Judy, and Diane. She needn’t worry. The Elm Creek Quilters would take care of everything. They could manage without her that night. Tomorrow she would join them and contribute whatever she could, but tonight she could rest.
She carried her sewing box out to the front porch and sat on the swing Joe had hung there so many years before. For a long while she pushed herself gently back and forth and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood. She had rocked her babies to sleep on that swing more times than she could count. After the children had been put to bed, she and Joe would return to the swing and hold hands as they talked about the day, their children, the future. It had been a good life with him, and she was grateful for it.
She took the round robin center from her sewing kit and finished piecing the last tree. She had chosen the colors of Elm Creek Manor—blues and greens, gold for sunlight, brown for earth and the strong trunks of the elms that had given the creek its name. The gray stone walls of the manor had taken shape beneath her fingers; the cotton was so much softer than the stone it represented, and yet it could endure so much.
It was an act of courage to take the scraps life provided and stitch them together, wrestling the chaos into order, taking what had been cast off and creating something from it, something useful, beautiful, and strong, something whose true value was known only to the heart of the woman who made it.
As twilight fell, the women formed a circle on the cornerstone patio. A few who had visited the manor before knew what was coming, but most waited, unknowing, anticipating, whispering questions to the women beside them, enjoying the stillness and peace of the night.
She lit a candle, placed it in a small crystal votive holder, and held it in silence for a moment, remembering how Sylvia had held that same light at the beginning of the summer. So much had happened since then. So much had yet to happen.
She sent up a quick prayer for Sylvia, inhaled deeply to calm herself, and looked around at the faces of the newest guests of Elm Creek Manor. The dancing flame cast light and shadow over them as they watched her and waited for her to speak.
“Elm Creek Manor is full of stories,” she told them. “Some of these stories are joyful; some are full of regret; all are important. I have been lucky enough to call this beautiful place home for a little while, and now, for the week at least, Elm Creek Manor is your home, too. Now your stories will join those that are already here, and all of us will be richer for it.”
Carol explained the ceremony and handed the candle to the first woman in the circle.
The first week was the most difficult. Gwen had never realized how much Sylvia and Sarah did behind the scenes to keep the quilt camp running. The Elm Creek Quilters divided up Sylvia’s classes and other managerial duties, but they felt as if they were running day and night, just barely keeping on top of all the work. How had Sarah and Sylvia made it look so easy?
Gwen had asked Sarah that same question, but Sarah just shrugged and made no reply, as if she hadn’t really been listening. Gwen wasn’t surprised; all week long, Sarah had shown little reaction to the events around her, including her work. Summer had all but taken over her role in the company.
“I’m worried about her,” Summer confided late one night when she and Gwen finally went home after a long, exhausting day. “I’m trying to get her involved in camp to take her mind off things, but it’s like she’s on another planet.”
Gwen worried about Sarah, too. She had withdrawn from her friends ever since Sylvia’s attack, and the few times she did join them, she had a stricken, haunted look in her eyes. Inexplicably, she had not yet visited Sylvia in the hospital, even though the rest of them had done so several times each, and Sylvia asked for her frequently.
“Sarah will be all right,” Gwen said, because she knew Summer needed to hear it. “She just needs some time. This has been a shock for her.”
“For all of us.” Suddenly, Summer threw her arms around her mother. “I don’t ever want anything like this to happen to you, okay? You have to get regular checkups, and if there’s even the slightest warning sign of anything, you have to get help, understand?”
Gwen hugged her and patted her on the back. “I hear and obey, kiddo.”
She stroked Summer’s hair and told her everything was going to be all right, that Sylvia would be fine, and so would Sarah. As she said the words aloud, she began to believe them.
Late Thursday afternoon, Bonnie drove home from Elm Creek Manor exhausted and drained. All of the Elm Creek Quilters were worn to a frazzle, their nerves shot. There was so much to do and never enough time to get it all done. Bonnie felt as if she had been running a marathon barefoot, with the finish line still far off in the distance at the top of a steep hill. If they could just get through this week of camp, they would have Saturday afternoon to rest and recover. Surely next week would go more smoothly, once they worked out some of the bumps.
Bonnie was now teaching four classes a week, in addition to running Grandma’s Attic. Even with Summer’s help, it was too much. She felt as if she were being pulled in three different directions at once. All she wanted to do was rest, go to sleep and not wake up until Sylvia was better.
She stopped by the shop to help Summer close for the day. It took them longer than usual, for they could no longer put off organizing the fabric bolts and tidying the shelves. When Bonnie finally did drag herself upstairs, she decided that they’d have to get take-out for supper. She was too weary to make even something as simple as pasta. It would be the fourth time this week they’d ordered out. She hoped Craig wouldn’t mind.
When she opened the door, the delicious smells of cooking floated on the air, momentarily confusing her. Had she started dinner already and forgotten? She went to the kitchen, only to find Craig peering into the oven. The kitchen counter was littered with pans and Styrofoam meat trays and spice jars.
“What on earth?” Bonnie exclaimed, taking in the scene.
Craig jumped, startled, and shut the oven. “Hi, honey,” he said, coming forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Dinner will be another fifteen minutes or so. I think. The recipe on the back of the soup can called it ‘Easy Twenty-Minute Chicken,’ but I think that’s a typo. It’s taken me forty minutes already.” He shrugged and smiled. “Of course, I haven’t done this in a while, so maybe it’s me. The table’s already set, so why don’t you go change out of your work clothes and lie down for a while? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Bonnie promptly burst into tears.
Craig looked alarmed. “What is it?” Then he glanced over his shoulder at the mess. “Oh. Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll clean it up after we eat.”
“It’s not that,” she managed to say. She hugged him and cried, feeling foolish and unexpectedly relieved. She had held it together throughout that difficult week, and now here she was, weeping like a crazy woman in the middle of her filthy kitchen, and all because her husband had made supper.
Sylvia was getting bet
ter—that was the one bright spot of the week. She could sit up in bed now, and she was awake and alert. There was some lingering paralysis on the left side of her body, and it was difficult for her to speak clearly. Judy had visited her earlier in the day, but had left feeling frustrated and upset. She could not understand a word Sylvia spoke, and it rattled her. Andrew understood everything and had translated Sylvia’s muffled, slurred speech for her, but that only made Judy feel worse, ashamed, as if she had failed Sylvia somehow. By failing to understand Sylvia’s speech, Judy had made it impossible to pretend that Sylvia was just fine. She hated herself for it.
“You’ll understand more when you get used to it,” Andrew had told her privately. “Sylvia’s getting better every day. She’s not upset with you, so don’t you be upset with yourself, okay?”
She nodded, but she couldn’t change her feelings like switching off a light.
She was so tired. They all were, worn out from work and from worry. Once Sylvia came home, everything would be so much easier. Even if she couldn’t resume her normal activities, her presence would bring the Elm Creek Quilters much-needed comfort and reassurance.
When Judy got home, she heard voices coming from the kitchen—Steve and someone else, a woman. As she walked down the hall, Judy thought the second voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
When she reached the kitchen, she immediately recognized the blond woman sitting across the table from Steve. “Kirsten?”
The conversation broke off as Kirsten and Steve looked up. “Hi, Judy,” Kirsten said, rising. She came over and embraced her.
Judy returned the hug, her thoughts in a whirl. “Hi. What are—what are you doing here?” Her utter bewilderment kept her words from sounding rude.
“Steve called and told me about your friend. I have a couple of weeks off before summer session begins at UW, so I decided to come and see if I could help.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 55
