Knot My Sister's Keeper

by Mary Marks

Quincy reached up and caressed the pearls. “Oh, Mom, I know how much these mean to you. Wearing my great-grandmother’s pearls makes the baby and me feel connected to you and all the women who came before us.”

  “You should also consider this to be your something borrowed,” I joked. “I’m not ready to part with them quite yet.”

  Giselle and Lucy had been watching us quietly from a velvet settee in the corner of the room.

  Giselle stepped forward with a black fuzzy box of her own and handed it to the bride. “Something new.”

  Quincy gasped when she opened the small square box. Inside was a pair of diamond stud earrings, each two carats. She gaped at my sister. “Don’t you mean something borrowed?”

  Giselle chuckled. “These are yours, sweetie. I hope you like them.” She led Quincy to a huge, gilded mirror hanging opposite the canopied bed and helped her secure them into her earlobes.

  Quincy beamed. “I love them! You’ve already done too much, Auntie G. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Just be happy, sweetie.”

  “And here’s something blue, hon. It’s from me and your aunt Birdie. She wishes she could be here.” Lucy came forward and handed Quincy a heavy gold bracelet with a white cloisonné amulet in the shape of an eye. A deep blue sapphire winked from the middle. “Your mom tells me this charm will protect you against the evil eye.”

  Quincy held out her left wrist. Lucy fastened the bracelet and my daughter cooed. “I love it, Aunt Lucy.”

  “That just leaves this to put in your shoe.” I handed her a copper penny I’d cleaned and polished the night before. “I didn’t know where to find a sixpence, so this will have to do.”

  Jazz knocked softly on the door. “Incoming!” He strode inside the room, carrying a long garment bag and stopped when he saw Quincy all dressed up. “God, I’m good! That dress is fabulous. You look like redheaded angel.”

  He seemed a little startled when he saw me in my black Rachel Zoe dress from New York and my hair and makeup professionally done. “I swear to God, I didn’t recognize you. Are you wearing Spanx? You could be beautiful if you’d only let me throw out everything you own. Except that dress, of course. You look gorgeous.”

  He hooked the bag over the top of a door and unzipped it. Inside hung a long, diaphanous veil of delicate netting embellished with pearls and sequins around the crown. He carried the gossamer confection over to Quincy. “If you’ll allow me?”

  She dipped her head slightly forward while he fastened it to her curls with tiny white translucent combs. He finished, stood back, and fanned the air in front of his face. “Tears to the eyes.”

  Another knock on the door. Aaron Rose, my ex-husband, stood in a perfectly tailored black wool tuxedo with narrow, black satin trim and not a speck of lint. His face was clean-shaven and his gray hair closely cropped. He strutted over to me and gave me a tight little smile and a peck on the cheek. “Do you think I could have a moment with my daughter before we take her downstairs?”

  What is it about his attitude I always want to slap off his face? “Sure.” I gestured for the others to leave with me. “I’ll wait for you outside in the hallway.”

  Ten minutes later, Quincy walked between Aaron and me, tightly clutching a bouquet of white roses. A live string quartet played Mozart in the distance. We headed toward the music and the grand ballroom of the Eagan mansion. With all the plus-ones and a few small concessions to Eli Kaplan and Aaron Rose, the guest list had expanded to over one hundred souls.

  Giselle’s “people” had transformed the ballroom into a dazzling fantasy. The air was filled with a sweet fragrance from thousands of white roses massed with white ginger flown in from Hawaii and countless gardenias floating in crystal bowls alongside flickering tea lights. Silver ribbons and more flowers festooned the walls, reflecting light from a dozen crystal chandeliers. Off to one side, round tables and chairs covered in white linen and dressed with white floral centerpieces waited for the party to follow.

  The wedding ceremony would take place at one end of the spacious hall. Guests chatted noisily in their seats, which had been arranged in a more intimate semicircle around a bima, or raised platform. After the ceremony, the chairs would be relocated, the platform removed, and the area transformed into a dance floor.

  As soon as we entered the room, the quartet switched to Pachelbel’s Canon. Everyone stood and focused on us as Aaron and I escorted our daughter to the chuppa, the wedding canopy. Eli Kaplan had wanted a traditional man’s prayer shawl to form the top, but Quincy insisted on using the one sewn of white satin, velvet, and lace I’d carefully appliquéd and quilted years ago in anticipation of this day. Over the past few weeks I’d used white thread to embroider their initials, N KQ in a space I’d left blank for that purpose.

  Uncle Isaac stood next to the rabbi and watched our approach. Noah wore a kittel, a snow-white robe, over his clothes and a large prayer shawl draped like a blanket over his shoulders. A white Bukharin yarmulke embellished with embroidery and sequins sat like a square pillbox on top of his dark curls.

  Once Quincy took her place next to Noah, I joined Crusher already standing on her side of the bima. Aaron’s third wife also waited for him there. Eli and Bernice Kaplan stood on the other side of the bima near their son.

  Standing beside Noah was his best man and partner, LAPD Detective Arlo Beavers. My ex-boyfriend. Who now stared at me. With those incredible dark eyes. And an unhappy look on his face. Crusher must’ve seen it, too, because he reached over and grabbed my hand.

  Oy vey. Who else in the history of Jewish weddings ever had to stand with their fiancé next to her arrogant ex-husband and sexy ex-boyfriend on the happiest day of her daughter’s life?

  But I soon forgot about my own personal discomfort when Quincy began to walk in a circle around Noah seven times. According to tradition, just as Joshua circled the walls of Jericho seven times until they fell, so would the bride conquer the groom’s heart.

  When she returned to his side, Noah opened his prayer shawl and drew her to his side. From that point forward, they would become each other’s shelter and home.

  The rabbi blessed a cup of wine and gave a sip to the bride and groom. At a signal, Beavers reached into his pocket and pulled out two gold rings. Noah recited in Aramaic the declaration, “Behold you are consecrated to me, with this ring, according to the laws of Moses and Israel.”

  As he placed the ring on her finger a great sobbing broke out nearby. I turned to see Jazz melting into his handkerchief. Lucy patted his back and whispered something in his ear. Quincy looked over her shoulder, smiled at him, and blew him a little kiss.

  I love you, he mouthed.

  Lucy rolled her eyes.

  Quincy turned back around and recited her part of the ring exchange. Then the rabbi stepped aside and invited Uncle Isaac to sing the traditional sheva brachot, the seven blessings. The old man’s reedy voice sweetly rendered the Hebrew words as he closed his eyes and swayed. The last blessing was lifted straight from the Bible:

  “‘Once again will be heard in the cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem, the sound of joy and the sound of happiness; the voice of the groom and the voice of the bride.’”

  When he finished, warm tears coursed down my cheeks. My heart filled with the moment and, for the next ten minutes, my uncle spoke with love and wisdom to the bride, his “Quincy girl,” and her groom.

  At last Noah stomped on a goblet, and the sound of glass breaking beneath his heel marked the completion of the ceremony. A loud shout of Mazel tov! filled the room as my new son-in-law lifted Quincy’s veil and gave my little girl the most tender kiss the universe had ever witnessed.

  Crusher raised my hand to his lips and whispered, “That could be us.”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “That thought also crossed my mind.”

  The string quartet had been replaced by a klezmer band playing “Siman Tov,” and the guests were invited to find their tables for the seudat, the celebratory meal. Quincy
and Noah shared an intimate table by themselves in the center of the room for all to see. My expanded family filled our table for eight: Uncle Isaac, Crusher, Giselle and Harold, my nephew, Nicholas Cole, and Carlos Gomez with his current plus-one.

  As the celebration started, the three waiters assigned to us kept our champagne glasses filled with cold Cristal.

  Uncle Isaac looked around our table at each of our faces and raised his glass. Everyone stopped their conversations and listened. “Family is a funny thing,” he said. “Two months ago, you three were strangers who found each other under the most difficult circumstances.” He looked at Carlos. “Your tsuris was the worst, I think.”

  Carlos seemed to hang on every word the old man spoke. He leaned toward me. “What’s that word?”

  “It means ‘trouble.’”

  “But instead of letting jealousy and hatred get in your way,” Isaac said, “you treated each other with love and generosity, keinehore.”

  Again, a blank look from Carlos.

  “He means the evil eye shouldn’t steal the good in us.”

  Giselle grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. “I knew that.”

  Uncle Isaac’s kind face seemed to take on an almost saintly aura. “The three of you may have been Quinn’s children, but you are all my children now.”

  Through a blur of tears, I watched him bring his glass to his lips.

  “L’chaim.”

  To life.

  Please turn the page for a quilting tip

  from MARY MARKS!

  QUILTING THROUGH THE GENERATIONS

  For tens of thousands of years, all sewing was done by hand. The oldest needles (28,000 BCE) were made of bone. They didn’t have an eye, just a slit to insert strips of gut or sinew to sew fur and skins. After the dawn of the metal age (7,000 BCE) needles with eyes were made of copper, bronze, or iron. This style of needle, refined over thousands of years, was used to construct everything from clothing to tapestries, to bedding.

  In many cultures, sewing by hand was an essential skill taught to every girl in preparation for her life as wife and mother. Beginning as young as the age of four, little girls practiced their stitches. (Even girls from upper-class families, who were not expected to sew their own clothes or household items, were taught the fine art of embroidery.) In Colonial times until the late twentieth century, sewing was a mandatory part of the school curriculum for girls.

  Our American foremothers raised sewing to an art form with their beautiful quilts. They managed to create striking designs using up scraps of material saved from dressmaking, often trading scraps with other women to collect a variety of colors and patterns. Traditional quilting persisted as an art form—one of the few ways women could express their creativity. With the introduction of precision steel needles, women were able to refine their quilting stitches. A skillful quilter could produce at least ten stitches per inch.

  The popularity of quilting reached a zenith in America during the Depression era. With the prosperity following World War II, quilts were considered “old-fashioned” and a symbol of poverty. Quilt making experienced a slow decline until the latter part of the twentieth century when a revival took place. The 1976 bicentennial of our country’s independence spurred a renewed interest in American history and folk arts.

  A whole new generation of women became fascinated with quilting. This renewed interest created a demand for fabric and tools which gave birth to a multibillion-dollar industry. A 2010 survey by Quilters Newsletter magazine estimated that there were more than twenty million quilters in America.

  My granddaughters love to sew. So does my grandson. I fervently hope that all the quilters out there are teaching their children and grandchildren not only how to use a sewing machine, but how to lay down even stitches by hand using just a thimble and a needle and thread. Those girls and boys are the future of the art of quilting.