A Single Thread (Cobbled Court)

by Marie Bostwick

“You don’t understand,” Abigail protested. “Liza can’t leave my home. Not without the judge’s permission. If she does, she could end up in jail.”

  Margot’s eye grew wide. “Jail? You mean Liza’s on parole? I didn’t know that.” Neither did I.

  Abigail bit her lower lip. I could see she was struggling inside herself, wondering how much she should tell us and regretting what she’d already blurted out. Finally, she said slowly, “No. She’s not quite on parole. It’s just that…well…a few months after her mother died, she made a terrible mistake. And I said I’d be responsible for her. That is, the judge said I had to be responsible for her. I didn’t want to at first. I’d barely laid eyes on her before I saw her in Judge Gulden’s chambers that day. If I could have figured out a way to get out of it, I would have, but now…everything’s changed. Do you see?”

  Margot and I looked at each other. We didn’t see. Margot pulled up a chair and sat down. “Maybe you’d better start from the beginning,” she said gently.

  Abigail swallowed hard before speaking. I could see how hard this was for her. Abigail was used to relying on her own resources and, until this moment, had been more than equal to the challenge. There was so much to admire about Abigail. She was so competent—intelligent, well-read, well-dressed, socially capable, and quick to find the most direct solution to any number of problems. And in the last months I’d seen her grow in ways I would never have imagined. She was more giving, more sensitive to the needs of others, and, it seemed to me, happier because of it. But for all this, she was still lacking one important skill: the ability to trust. It obviously did not come easily to her. What had happened to make her so wary of others? Why, whenever I made even the most innocent inquiries about her past, did she so quickly and deftly change the subject? Even after all these months of working together and quilting side by side every week, she was obviously hesitant to open up to Margot or me.

  Normally she was able to keep her feelings carefully concealed, but today her emotions were battling inside her. Could she trust us? Should she? She still wasn’t sure.

  I leaned closer and took her hands in mine. “It’s all right,” I said softly. “You can tell us. After all, we’re friends. Aren’t we?”

  Her eyes shifted and locked with mine. For one long moment, she searched my face, and then, after taking a breath, she began. “Yes,” she said tentatively and then with more conviction. “Yes. I believe we are.”

  Winter days in northern Connecticut are short, and by the time Abigail finished talking, the shadows of evening were beginning to fall.

  When she’d started speaking, I had determined to show as little emotional reaction as possible so Abigail would feel safe in opening up, but it hadn’t been easy. Though she refrained from explaining what caused the rift between them, she told us about her estranged relationship with her deceased sister and, by extension, with Liza. No wonder Liza was so hostile toward her aunt. Then she went on to share the truth about Susan’s death from breast cancer. It had been hard to hear, frightening. As soon as she’d said the words, Abigail looked at me anxiously, concerned about my reaction to this revelation. With effort, I urged her to continue. After all, I told myself, this wasn’t about me. Not that day. It was about Liza and Abigail.

  In a strange way, this realization was something of a relief. For so many weeks and months, everyone had been trying to help me, worrying about my needs, my health, my fears, that it felt…well, not exactly good, but right somehow to be worrying about someone else. “Go on,” I said in response to Abigail’s worried glance. “It’s all right. Then what happened?”

  She told us about how Liza had come to be remanded into her custody, about the tension that had been building between them ever since the day I’d told them about my upcoming mastectomy, and finally about the fight they’d had. Awful. Actually, awful didn’t even begin to describe it. It broke my heart to hear the hurtful things Liza had said to her aunt.

  Liza wasn’t always pleasant to be around—in fact, she could be a real pain—but she wasn’t an intentionally cruel person. I’d always known that the death of her mother had been a terrible blow, but I’d had no understanding of the depth of her suffering. How hard it must have been for her, knowing that I was facing the same disease that had so recently claimed her own mother. A lot of people having been through what she had would have immediately backed away, but Liza hadn’t. She’d tried to help me in every way she knew how, but it couldn’t have been easy. Especially when Abigail had used her influence to help me get access to the kind of medical care Liza felt might have saved her mother. Abigail shared that Susan hadn’t found out about the cancer until the disease was in its latter stages and had progressed beyond the reach of medical intervention. But you couldn’t blame Liza for clutching at straws, looking for a miracle that could have saved her mother, and someone to blame when that miracle hadn’t come. Abigail made for an easy target.

  Poor girl. She was so much kinder than I’d ever imagined and so much stronger. Still, even a strong person can only shoulder the secret burden of tragedy for so long. When she’d learned that my first treatment hadn’t been successful, that cancer was threatening to take someone else close to her, it had unearthed the grief and anguish she was trying so hard to keep buried. God alone knew the depths of pain Liza was going through.

  Abigail wasn’t faring much better. As I said, there was a lot I admired about Abigail, but I wasn’t blind to her faults. Or at least, I hadn’t thought I was. Listening to her story, the broken relationship with her sister, the tearful admission that she’d never come to her aid, not even after she’d learned about Susan’s breast cancer, I was in shock. Of course, she had taken care of Susan’s medical bills, had kept tabs on Susan and Liza via the reports she received from her attorney, Franklin Spaulding, and taken financial and, eventually, physical responsibility for Liza, but still!

  For someone like Abigail, writing a check was the easiest thing in the world, the equivalent of the average person tossing a quarter to a homeless person without ever bothering to look them in the eye, done more to assuage their own guilt than as an act of any real compassion. How could she have been so completely clueless when it came to the emotional needs of her own niece? How could she, knowing Liza’s background, have been so cold?

  Part of me wanted to reach across the table and slap her. But when I saw her crying openly, bowed down by shame and remorse as she did what was, for her, the most difficult thing in the world, admit her faults to others, my anger subsided. It was true. The Abigail Burgess Wynne who had been dragged into my shop so many months ago wasn’t the same woman who was sitting next to me now. Somewhere along the way, she’d changed. Or at least she’d begun to. I’d always thought that somewhere, trapped underneath that hard, proud shell, there was a finer Abigail trying to get out. It seemed she had. As painful as it was, maybe this crisis with Liza and being forced to hear how much grief she had caused was the only hammer strong enough to break that shell and finally set Abigail, and Liza, free. Only time would tell.

  “I ran as fast as I could,” Abigail sniffed plaintively, “but she was gone. That’s when I decided to call Margot, but I didn’t mean to bother you, Evelyn. You’ve got so much on your plate already.”

  Margot broke in and said what I was already thinking. “Well, of course, I had to call Evelyn. She cares about you just as much as I do. And we all care about Liza.”

  “I know,” Abigail nodded her head and whispered. “I do. I haven’t been very good to her up until now, but I do care. If she’ll only come home, I know I can figure out a way to make her believe it.”

  I was pleased to hear a little of Abigail’s old determination return to her voice. If Abigail decided to do something, then she’d do it. Of course, that didn’t solve our immediate problem, as Abigail knew full well.

  “But what if she doesn’t come home? I’m so worried about her. If Judge Gulden calls to check on her, or if she does something crazy again and the police pick her
up, she’ll end up in jail. I was able to pull some strings to help her last time, but I don’t think the judge would be lenient if it happened again. It’s getting dark outside, and it’s so cold. She ran off so fast, she didn’t even take her pocketbook with her. I’m sure she doesn’t have any money.” Abigail buried her head in her hands.

  “This is all my fault,” she said for the tenth time that afternoon. “I’ve behaved despicably. If only I’d taken the time to try to talk to her, to explain things. When she ran out of here, she was completely overwrought. I’m afraid for her. What if she does something crazy?” Abigail asked, and I knew she wasn’t talking about something as relatively innocuous as shoplifting a sweater in an unconscious cry for help. Abigail was worried that Liza might give in to her despair in a much more dangerous and permanent way. “What if she tries to—”

  “No,” I insisted, pushing back my chair and getting to my feet. “Liza would never do something like that. Never.”

  I grabbed my pocketbook and car keys off the counter where I’d left them. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” Abigail asked. Her eyes grew wide as she watched me put on my jacket. “Evelyn, we can’t go to the police and tell them Liza is gone! I told you, she’ll go to jail if they find out.”

  “I know that,” I said. “We’re going to have to find her ourselves. She was on foot, and she didn’t have any money. She can’t have gone far.”

  I zipped up my jacket and started giving instructions. “Margot, you and Abigail go together. Start on the east side of town. I’ll take the west. We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

  26

  Abigail Burgess Wynne

  As Evelyn suggested, Margot and I started on the east side of town. Her Volkswagen was cramped, but I was glad Margot was driving. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found it hard to drive at dusk. Also, distressed as I was, I really wasn’t sure I’d be able to focus on driving. It was probably for the best. Margot hadn’t lived in New Bern for long and needed me to navigate. Together, we made a good team.

  Margot was very encouraging, echoing Evelyn’s assertion that since Liza had run off so quickly with no car, no money, and probably no plan, we’d surely find her very soon. After all, only a few hours had passed since she’d bolted. The cold weather and the blanket of snow covering the ground would have made it difficult to walk very quickly. Chances were she was still within a five-mile radius of New Bern. I sat up straight and peered out the window, eagerly searching the sidewalks and roadsides for any glimpse of Liza, giving Margot directions when she needed them, and keeping one ear tuned for the ring of Margot’s cellular telephone. Evelyn and Margot had agreed to call each other the minute they spotted Liza.

  But as minutes and then an hour passed and dusk became night without any sign of her, or any message from Evelyn, my despair deepened.

  “It’s so dark. She was wearing that black jacket she likes and, of course, her black jeans and those awful black boots. We could be driving right past her and still not see her.”

  “We’d see her in the headlights,” Margot assured me. “With all this drifted snow, she’ll have to stay close to the road. Come on, Abigail. You’ve got to think positively. We’re going to find her. Soon. And if we don’t, Evelyn will. You’ll see.”

  Margot was saying all the right words, but I wasn’t convinced she entirely believed them. We drove in silence for a long time. My stomach rumbled. It was well past dinnertime, and I remembered now that I hadn’t had any lunch, but I didn’t say anything about being hungry. The only thing I cared about now was finding Liza. I looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.

  “Where can she be? Oh, Margot. This is my fault. Everything. We’re not going to find her. And even if we do, I know she’ll never, ever be able to forgive me.”

  Margot glanced away from the road briefly, quickly turning her head to look at me. Her eyes were full of compassion, and somehow that only made me feel worse. I didn’t deserve her pity.

  “Abigail, don’t say that. Yes, it’s true. You’ve made some terrible mistakes, but you’re only human. If you tell Liza how truly sorry you are and try to explain why you’ve acted the way you have, she’ll forgive you.”

  “How could she? I abandoned her, and, what’s worse, I abandoned Susan. My own sister.” I sighed. “How can I expect Liza to forgive me? I was never able to forgive her mother. Susan hurt me so badly, and I was never, ever able to forgive her for what she’d done.

  “Margot, you go to church a lot, don’t you? Since you were a little girl?” She nodded. “I’ve always been a church member, written checks and showed up at services every once in a while, but I never attended regularly. Not until recently. A couple of weeks ago, the minister was preaching on the Lord’s Prayer, the part about asking God to forgive our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” I paused, waiting for Margot to say something, to give some verse or judgment on the subject, but she just kept her eyes on the road and listened.

  “When you hear something like that, that you can only be forgiven if you’ve been willing to forgive….” I didn’t have a handkerchief or tissue with me, so I wiped my eyes on the edge of my sleeve as I thought of Susan on that day when I told her that I could never forgive her and I never wanted to see her again.

  “It’s too late now,” I whispered to myself. “She’s gone. It’s too late.”

  “No, it’s not,” Margot said. “It’s never too late to forgive someone else, just as it’s never too late to ask for forgiveness.”

  I looked at her skeptically. Margot was sweet and well-intentioned, and I’d come to admire the genuineness of her faith. In fact, the strength of her faith was part of why I’d gone back to church. She seemed so happy and at peace even when things weren’t going well. I hoped that a little of what she’d found there would rub off on me. But I was beginning to think she’d spent too much time watching those Sunday morning television programs hosted by those preachers with the blow-dried hair and southern accents. My problems couldn’t be solved by repeating the Lord’s Prayer and promising to try harder next time.

  “Margot, that’s easy to say, but you don’t understand. What went on between my sister and me was just so incredibly awful. It was beyond awful. What Susan did to me was unforgivable. And I gave it right back to her, kept my promise never to have anything to do with her, not even after I knew she was dying of cancer. And that was worse than unforgivable.”

  “Abigail, my mother always said that there is no pit so deep that the love and forgiveness of God is not deeper still.”

  Margot was trying to help, but inwardly I was rolling my eyes at this platitude. Sure, it was easy for someone like Margot or her mother, people who’d probably thought of jaywalking as a form of civil rebellion. They couldn’t possibly understand what I was dealing with, years and years of selfishness, betrayal, and deceit—and I wasn’t just talking about me. Lies and duplicity were part of the Burgess family legacy. By comparison, Margot’s family probably looked like the Brady Bunch. I sighed, and as if reading my unspoken thoughts, Margot went on.

  “Abigail, I don’t know all the details of what happened between you and your sister. I don’t need to. Sure. Maybe if I knew the whole story, I would feel that both of you were beyond the possibility of pardon, but fortunately I’m not in charge of forgiving anyone anything. This is between you and God. Not you and me, and not even you and Susan. When we sin against someone else, yes, we are wronging them, but we are also wronging God, and that’s even worse. Susan may have deserved some of your anger, but God never did.”

  She pulled up at a four-way stop and looked both ways before crossing through the intersection. Her eyes were still on the road as she continued talking.

  “The thing is, we’re all in the pit at some point in our lives. Some people are able to climb out and some never do. The ones who climb out are the ones who recognize their need for help, have the humility to grab hold of the rope, and faith to believe that rope is strong en
ough to lift them up.”

  I was quiet for a moment, thinking. When I’d first met Margot, she was so happy and smiling all the time that I’d honestly thought she wasn’t all that bright. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true. Most smart people I knew, the intellectuals, were brooding and miserable and forever bemoaning the deplorable state of the world and the dumbing-down of our national standards in everything from political discourse to musical theater. They had all kinds of opinions on all kinds of subjects, but I’d very rarely seen any of them do anything besides complain. As far as they were concerned, the world was bad and getting worse, and anyone who thought there was anything to be done about it was a fool.

  Margot, on the other hand, was the kind of person who, once she recognized a problem, immediately started searching for solutions. And I’d noticed that, very often, she found them. Sweet temper and girlish giggles notwithstanding, Margot was clearly a very intelligent woman. My brooding philosopher friends, that Greek chorus of hopelessness, would have scoffed at the simplicity of her illustration, but I also knew if I’d asked them how to get out of the pit, they’d have nothing more to offer than conferring nods and the brilliant observation that it was certainly a complicated issue. Margot was an intelligent woman, and it was clear that, somehow or other, she’d found a peace I hadn’t. But still. It was a complicated issue.

  “Margot, I know you mean well, but you make it sound easy, and it’s not. This whole thing started before Liza was born, even before you were born. There’s been so much water under the bridge. So much went wrong. At this point, I wouldn’t even know how to begin to make it right.”

  “Sure you do, Abigail. Your minister told you exactly how to begin—with forgiveness. Even though she is gone, you can choose to forgive Susan. Once you have done that, you can ask God to forgive you.” She turned her eyes away from the darkened road to give me a quick smile. “And He will, Abigail.”