“What?” Elixchel exclaimed, and laughed. “Why would she bite you?”
“Because the little girl who lived next to us was a biter, and she bit me three times—even drew blood--until I finally bit back.”
I drifted again. Into my inner thoughts. Until Abigail’s voice snatched me back again.
“You know, Geraldine and Marshall have an even bigger house than Victoria’s, Rachel. How many bedrooms do you have Gerri?” the child-quilter said, and then continued on as if the answer wasn’t important. “You should see her house! It’s a mansion in Rancho Santa Fe. Now that’s rich!” Where was this young girl getting her energy? Chocolate bars? Teens ate chocolate bars, right? I definitely needed to find her stash. I was beginning to fade. I glanced at the food table.
We fell to sewing again. I wanted to hear more about Gerri’s billionaire life, but the silence was comforting. For a few minutes. And then the talk began again.
“When’s you’re next fund raiser? I want to be sure to be there,” Andrea quipped.
Without skipping a beat, Gerry replied, “Next month. We’re working with the heads of the three major sports organizations to raise money for ALS. It’s a terrible disease.”
Victoria pushed back from her place at the quilt and stood. “I’m taking a break. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” It took her almost five minutes to travel to the door, this time without assistance from Elixchel.
“Do you need anything?” Elixchel called after her as she disappeared down the hallway. Then to me she said, “It’s really hard for her now. Being so old. Burying her husband and best friend…”
But the rest of Elixchel’s revelation was cut off rather loudly by Andrea.
“So who’s coming to the gala fund raiser? Anyone I know?”
They prattled on, but my head was still back on the comment about Victoria’s husband and best friend, thinking it must have been her best friend whose place I’d taken at the quilt.
But once more, I’d gotten lost in my own thoughts and stitches again, and the conversation had moved on without me.
Hannah was saying, “My children are my whole life. They are what I live for and why I do everything I do. There is nothing more important than having children.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Children are what life is about,” Andrea said earnestly.
I was surprised. Andrea didn’t seem the type to be thinking about having children. But then I wasn’t certain what type Andrea was yet, was I? And I couldn’t tell her age, either. Pixies were like that. Hard to age. And hard to typecast.
More stitching. More aimless chatter. Until Ruth said, “Let’s expand the quilt.”
Victoria was retrieved, and we widened the exposed part of the quilt again, and consequently the space between us grew more comfortable.
Not that this kept Andrea and Abigail from arguing, this time over Abigail’s last name, Pustovoytenko.
“You and Elixchel are driving us crazy with the name changes. What’s wrong with Beardsley, Abigail? That’s your father’s name, remember?” Andrea said.
Abigail said, “My mother changed her name back to Pustovoytenko and I live with her, that’s what’s wrong with Beardsley.”
As in Tom Beardsley, Gerry’s brother?
“You’re breaking the connection.”
What connection? I wanted to interrupt and force a full explanation, but knew I should be patient. I would understand everything about them in due course. But there were seven women in the room whose secrets I still couldn’t follow.
“Am not.”
“Are. And I get that you’re mad at your dad, but it takes two to divorce, Abby. Your mom isn’t an innocent in this thing,” Andrea said.
“Okay, that’s unnecessary,” Elixchel said. “You know the blood issues the family is dealing with.” She glanced at me nervously, and quickly resumed her sewing.
Blood issues? Whose family? Elixchel’s? Abigail’s? Were they related to Victoria? And Gerry? Was she also related to Victoria?
“Part of the family, not all of the family. Only half!” Abigail shot back defensively. “He could get a transplant! He’s just…he’s… a coward!”
“Listen to yourself, Abigail. He’s a Stowall. Stowalls have…”
“Enough,” Victoria barked. I marveled at the strength in her voice.
Chapter 6: Detours
We sewed…until I ran into something on her quilt that halted my hands. I had no idea how to proceed. I glanced to either side of me and found no hints there. Finally I asked.
“Victoria, there’s a bit of embroidery on the door I’m about to sew across. Do you want me to sew around it?”
“Use an echo stitch.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks that I knew what echo stitches were. Like ripples on a pond they were rows of stitching one quarter-inch apart that surrounded and highlighted something on a quilt. Three rows were the usual amount. And since I was the first to highlight the threaded shapes and Victoria wasn’t clarifying, I went with what I knew.
Then, as if forgetting Victoria’s admonition, Elixchel continued the conversation from half an hour before.
“He’s afraid, not a coward. And his fear is justified. With all the blood problems in the family, removing what’s left of his kidneys is a gamble he’s just not willing to make until it’s absolutely necessary.”
So it was a kidney transplant that her father needed, definitely doable with today’s medical advancements—unless a tissue match can’t be found. I continued to wonder if Abigail was in some way related to Elixchel as the comments grew more and more personal. And…just what kind of “blood problems” the “family” had?
“He’s on dialysis. How much more necessary can you get?” Abigail’s young girl’s voice sounded on the verge of crying.
Then she looked directly at me and said, “That’s my childhood secret, Rachel. I hate my father. He’s weak and useless.” She ran from the room sobbing.
“No way! That can’t count as your secret. Come back here and tell us more,” Andrea yelled after her.
“Oh,” I found myself saying. “Way harsh.”
Andrea eyed me a moment, then sighed. “Yeah I guess.” She followed after Abigail and I heard her mumbling at the nearby bathroom door, apologizing and soothing. Something about them sharing father problems.
A few minutes later they were both back. We sewed. And I wondered what I was doing in the midst of this apparent family affair.
It was Abigail who started us talking again—with the rest of her childhood story.
“My dad has been sick all my life.”
I looked up at her. She was tearing up again, and I worried that she might not be able to make it through the night either, poor girl. Found myself wondering who would leave us first, Abigail or Victoria?
“I can’t remember a time he hasn’t been rushing to hospitals or worse, sitting around yellowy and depressed. His eyes especially. They look like…like a sick cat’s eyes. Dry…unfocused.”
“Once…one terrible day…my mom was on weekend duty.” Her voice caught in her throat. Finally she continued. “I was nine.”
“You don’t have to do this, Abigail,” I said.
“Yes…I do. I was painting upstairs. I’d moved from chalk and pencil to using paint just that year because mom said I needed to make my art more permanent. My dad was downstairs watching his favorites…Fox news, CNN, all of those news stations. He loves to yell at the screen, get all excited over politics--as if this constitutes having a life.” She paused, probably to gain control of her story.
“When I paint I lose track of time. I can work for hours on a canvas before feeling tired or getting hungry. Painting just pulls me in and keeps me in for hours and hours at a time.”
I smiled at her. She was so young, yet.…
“I forgot to give him his meds. My mother called late to remind me, she’d been working an emergency case at the hospital. I ran downstairs but it was too late. He was…he was…dead!”
“But…” Andrea.
“No.” Elixchel.
“Abigail! You never told us this,” Hannah said.
Abigail sobbed then caught herself. I saw a look of strength not common to teens pass across her face. “The ambulance arrived on time to revive him—I’d dropped the phone. My mother had heard my screaming. But for whole minutes I breathed for him. I pounded his chest and forced air into his mouth. The worst…the worst of it was…I kept thinking how foul his breath was. No, no. That wasn’t what I was thinking, I was thinking…how I should just let it happen. How we’d be so much better off if he was gone.” She dropped her head into her hands and cried uncontrollably.
‘Oh Abby,” Hannah soothed, and rounded the quilt to pull her out of her chair and into a hug. “It’s okay. Those were normal thoughts, hon. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Of course not,” Victoria said, reaching up to place an ancient hand on Abigail’s back. “We get to practice dying in thousands of ways during our lives, including wishing others dead.”
I had to stop sewing. My vision had blurred.
Chapter 7: Eddie 2
…a long summer
More than a month passed. Eddie’s mind began to clear. His father wasn’t as careful with his medicines as his mother had been.
After his father killed his mother, he’d disappeared, for maybe three or four days. Eddie had thought he was going to die of starvation. Then the beast had returned.
It went like that for weeks, the monster growing more and more erratic.
In a moment of extreme bravery, Eddie convinced his father to leave him extra food, so he wouldn’t have to worry about his son. Eddie had carefully made his appeal. And it had worked.
Then things changed again when Eddie asked him for some clean towels. He knew from the look on his father’s face that he was pushing his luck. He waited for the expected beating to begin.
If pure evil had a face from which to peer out at the world it was Luke’s.
But the beating never came because Eddie quickly offered to be of help, suggesting that if the cage door was left open he could do the washes for them both. And he could still be locked in the basement, securely, by the wooden door at the top of the stairs.
After staring wonderingly at Eddie for horrifying moments more Luke had just turned and walked away.
It wasn’t until the next day that Eddie thought to try the door to his cell. His father…Luke…had actually left it unlocked!
He stepped out, into the greater space of the basement. A wave of fear washed over him. He stood for many minutes, not moving, listening for the beast.
He was so filled with terror he finally retreated to his cage. Exhausted.
Another day went by. Eddie prayed for Luke to return. The summer heat was so intense. Eddie mostly slept, dreamt. He had water from the little bathroom. But he was starving and he knew it.
Finally he began calling. He tried opening the small basement window, the one he’d seen his dead mother’s face through. The window wouldn’t budge. He banged on it, trying to loosen it from its rusty frame, until it broke!
A new terror raced through Eddie. His father would be enraged at the damage. But a wave of clean air washed over him, and he relished it.
He stopped calling out for help. He kept thinking his father—Luke--was waiting, right outside.
On the fourth day of fasting Eddie climbed up to the kitchen door.
He’d stood, listening for any sign that this was a trick. Finally he reached for the knob. Held it, his heart racing. Pulled. It didn’t move.
A wave of dizziness made him sway, and he leaned into the door, pushing forward.
It opened!
He watched as it slid, listened, searched the widening space of light. It stopped, opened four inches.
The kitchen clock struck ten times.
The kitchen clock struck eleven times. He picked up his right leg, placed it up onto the linoleum, pushed the door further open. He had to eat. The full light from the kitchen windows streamed in on him for the first time in…years.
It had to have been years. Maybe even decades.
His heart seemed to lift into the air on the sheer strength of its fluttering beats, carrying him with it, elevating him off the final step, up into the kitchen.
Into the room where his mother used to make the good smells—when he was a small boy. When she was still lovely.
He whimpered, a sound that forced another step from him, sideways away from the landing. He pressed his back against the wall and felt his eyes doing a fear jig in his head—searching for the beast.
The refrigerator hummed to life—jolting his body with another dose of adrenaline. Finally his purposeful stomach prodded him from his spot on the wall toward the food. He was famished!
He was certain if he didn’t eat soon he would lose the ability to make it all the way across the kitchen.
At first he’d eaten ravenously, raiding the cabinets for dry foods as well. Then realizing he was standing exposed in the forbidden upstairs space, he loaded up his arms and quickly snuck back down. He made three trips all told, so he didn’t have to be brave again for a few more days. He would wait in his basement for his…Luke’s return, fortified and praying the beast wouldn’t notice the missing food. He hid the purloined food behind some old furniture outside his cage and waited. And waited.
Eddie even dared to pray Luke wouldn’t return at all.
He almost got his wish. Luke only returned to fill the refrigerator and cupboards one more time in August, but it was enough for Eddie to make it through. Never in August did the crazy man think to make him swallow the altering drugs.
Eddie even began to make plans for what he would do when he stopped coming back altogether. Where he would go. How he would get there. To his grandma’s.
He was remembering things. He was remembering that his parents’ home was only a few blocks from his grandma Vicky’s.
When the monster came back, he brought a woman with him.
Eddie crept up the basement stairs to listen at the kitchen door, his heart pounding in a mixture of excitement and dread. Excitement that there’d be fresh food. Dread because his father…Luke…didn’t really like women.
She had an ugly voice as if her vocal cords had been scalded with acid. She spoke in filth.
They left the kitchen and stumbled drunkenly up the stairs to his parent’s bedroom. A sudden disgust filled him. He retreated to his small bed, listening as always.
Bang! Thump! Thump!
The bad woman’s screams mocked his memory of his mother.
“You pig! You think you can treat me like that. You crazy pig!”
She was coming back down the stairs, stumbling and cursing all the way. “I’ll tell the cops, you disgusting sot.”
Then silence. A very long silence. A silence of days and weeks. Once again his father retreated from the house. He hadn’t actually seen the man for a long time.
Chapter 8: Angry Whispers
Later Hannah rose from her seat and placed her hands on my shoulders. Startled, I shrugged up close to my ears—an anti-tickle reflex.
“Relax your shoulders, Rachel. You’ll go home with a wicked neck ache if you don’t. You need to remove your glasses so my hands don’t get tangled in the chain. Rest your hands in your lap and close your eyes as I help you. You’ll catch up with the others later. Everyone gets neck and shoulder work on our first break.” She began firmly kneading my shoulders and neck. It was glorious. Just what I needed.
“Hannah, you work magic,” I moaned after a few minutes. Her hands lifted slightly, then resumed.
“I’m a massage therapist, have been for a couple of years. I think that’s why I’m here, as a matter of fact.”
Strange comment. I almost asked where here, thinking she was making an existential remark. Thinking…she had children, weren’t they her reason for being here? As Gerry had said? And then I thought maybe she meant here here, at this Quilted Secr
ets bee.
I was definitely ready for a rest. We’d been sewing for almost three hours and I was cramping up all over—including my brain. Maybe a nap.
Then Ruth said, “Nonsense. You’re here to have babies and take care of your old parents. Oh, and to keep that man of yours happy. Someone in the Stowall family has to have babies. You and your sister are elected. I’ll get fresh tea and the fruit. We have red grapes Rachel, the kind that lowers your triglycerides. God knows, we’ll need sustenance to make it through this.” Make it through what? Life? Didn’t high triglycerides shorten your life?
And then I caught the central part of her comments…that someone in the Stowall family has to have babies. And then I lost it again. Flit, gone.
Okay, I was definitely in need of a nap.
A still-teary Abigail trailed after Ruth toward the kitchen. Finally I took Hannah’s advice and closed my eyes and slipped down into the pure enjoyment of tactile sensation. A little portion of paradise. I slept.
Hannah moved on to Gerry. I sighed and stayed in my relaxed position for a few more moments, wishing I could call her soothing hands back.
“You need to get up and move around now, Rachel, get the blood flowing. And switch to herbal tea,” Hannah said. “Eventually all the caffeine is counterproductive.”
She was right. So I rose and moved about the room for a few minutes, staring out at the constant rain, not really seeing anything in the dark. I was floating on a magic carpet of inner peace unleashed by Hannah’s healing hands. The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it. It was the question I’d been wrestling with since Hannah had called a week ago.
“Well, if you’re here for your massages, Hannah, why am I here?” A few minutes passed. It was as if I hadn’t even spoken. Hannah seemed entranced with her work.
Victoria finally answered me in a tremulous voice, “Because you are a retired research librarian and some of us think we have secrets we need you to explore.”
Ada Unraveled Page 5
