The Goodbye Quilt

by Susan Wiggs

  It was a powerful dream—maybe too powerful, because to someone raised the way I was, it seemed more like a fantasy. Particularly when I tallied up the cost of living without income for four years. Particularly when reality came crashing down on me, first semester. For monetary reasons, I had to live at home and quickly found the commute in my second-hand Gremlin to be almost unbearable. Later, I shared an apartment near campus with some friends, returning home each weekend with a sack of laundry. Worse, my classes were boring, keeping my grades decent was a struggle and dealing with a couple of bad professors nearly broke me.

  Then Dan came along, Dan Davis with his incredible eyes, strong craftsman’s hands, his sturdy work ethic and air of assuredness. In his arms, I realized the true meaning of happiness. My dreams of some nebulous someday stopped making sense in the face of such overwhelming happiness.

  I once read in a book somewhere that the way you spend your day is the way you spend your life. Did I want a life of days filled with rushing back and forth on a commute, juggling coursework and having barely enough time for Dan? Or a life nurturing the love I’d found with him?

  A no-brainer. We got married, Dan worked harder than ever so we could buy a house, and I got a job working retail. Don’t ask me where. There are too many places to count. I put off returning to college; the plan kept being pushed back by the unending forward march of bills, and the sheer bliss of spending my time loving Dan, making a home, creating our life together.

  After Dan and I married, I didn’t exactly drop out of school, I just stopped going. There were a hundred rationalizations for this. Tuition was costly, and we wanted to save up for a house. The commute to campus took too much time and gas money. It seemed self-indulgent to spend our hard-earned money on classes like “Special Topics in Esoteric Cubism.”

  And then one day, after we’d been married a few years, the idea of getting a degree was taken off the table. We did use contraception, I swear we did, but mother nature and youthful zeal overrode the precautions. Along came Molly, the ultimate—and only truly valid—excuse for interrupting my education.

  I always meant to go back. Early on, I told my friends and family I planned to finish my degree once Molly was in grade school. Of course, by then I knew what all mothers learn when their kids go to school. Those hours are spoken for, too. They’re filled with everything else you put off when your child is young and at home, with that part-time job to give the bank account a much-needed boost. With Brownie projects and volunteer service. With taking care of that little female problem that’s had you so worried for so long. With adding on an extra bathroom to the house—she’s going to need that once she hits her teens, after all. Throwing in college-level courses simply seems impossible.

  Nobody was surprised when I dropped the idea. My parents were simple, honest people who expected their kids to live a good life. I hope I didn’t disappoint them.

  My departure from the nest was not the dramatic, long-distance leap Molly is taking. My first home with Dan was only eight miles from my parents.

  I wonder if they dreamed of a bigger life for me, if they wanted me to go further, do more. Probably not, I think, watching my needle flash through the fabric. I suspect they were perfectly content for their daughter to live close by.

  My friend Erin wears her hard-earned law degree like a badge of pride. I used to envy her—the big career, the big house, the big car, the big life. It all came at a price, though. There was a divorce; though she’s remarried now and loving her empty nest, there were hard years when she’d come over and cry from the sheer exhaustion of juggling everything. I came to understand that there is no such thing as a perfect life, just a constant shifting, like the wind on the lake. You adjust your sails to catch the wind, not the other way around.

  I often wonder, if I’d stuck with my degree program, would I have found my passion? That first semester, I floundered, unable make up my mind. I had friends who were so clear-eyed, wanting to be a kindergarten teacher. Or a CPA. Or a landscape designer. Not me. I never quite found the right fit. Skipping college, setting aside the thought of a professional career, turned out well for me. Life is good enough. We wanted more kids, but because of that female problem, which turned out to be not so little, it was not to be.

  As each mile brings Molly and me closer to goodbye, I realize how little I know about this rarefied world she is about to enter. I wonder if it will drive a wedge between us, turn her into a stranger to me, a sophisticated stranger with a big vocabulary and bigger dreams. There won’t be any three o’clock bell to start my world turning again. No swing to push in the backyard, no cookies to bake.

  What there will be is time. So much of it. All the time in the world to figure out what to do with my life, now that I can do anything I want. This should not feel so fraught with uncertainty. Parents have done this since time immemorial. Fretting about it is silly.

  I’m not fretting, that’s the thing. I’m afraid.

  We argue about where to spend the night. Should we stop on the west side of Omaha, or try to make it to the east side by nightfall, thus avoiding tomorrow’s morning rush of inbound traffic?

  “I’d just as soon stop now,” I declare, checking the dashboard clock. “We’re making good enough time.”

  Molly wants to keep driving. She has an adolescent’s inexhaustible supply of late-night energy combined with an eagerness to get there. “Forget it,” she says. “I’m going past the city for sure. No need to cut the day short.”

  “Come on, Moll—”

  “I’m driving, Mom. You said I could. That means I get to pick where we stop. Find a stopping place in the Triple-A guide and pick a motel.”

  For a moment, I feel disoriented. Who is this person in the driver’s seat, telling me what to do? A small laugh erupts from me.

  “What’s funny?” asks Molly.

  “You sound like your mother.”

  “And that surprises you?”

  “Yes. A little. I guess.” Bemused, I take out the Triple-A guide. It is something I recall from my own childhood. We used to go on grim road trips each summer, with me and my three siblings fighting in the back seat, our dad hunched doggedly over the steering wheel and our mom flipping pages in the triptych while reciting facts and figures from the guidebook.

  “Grady, Nebraska. Population 4,500,” I tell Molly now. “There are four possible motels, two with two-diamond ratings and two with three.”

  “Go for the three.”

  Finally, something we agree on.

  Chapter Four

  We make our way to the Star Lite Motor Court and Coffee Shop. I’m not sure what the three diamonds in the auto guide signify. There’s a pool, but a suspicious-looking green tinge stains the tiles, so Molly and I decide against taking a swim. The coffee shop looks promising; it’s open late, and features a grill hissing with frying burgers, and a revolving glass case displaying pies of mythic proportions.

  We let ourselves into our room, wondering what three-diamond amenities we’ll find there. The carpet smells faintly of mildew and ancient cigarettes, so we open a window to let in fresh air. Ugh, I think with a twinge of disappointment. Given the nature of this journey, I’d hoped for better accommodations. I’d pictured the two of us sharing a charming suite in a B&B, or working out in the fitness room of a modern hotel. As usual, there’s a gap between expectation and reality.

  Molly flings herself on one of the beds, bouncing happily. “I love road trips,” she crows. “I love staying in motels.”

  And with that, the disappointment is gone, lifted away by the grin on her face. I am forced to notice this small but significant shift. Molly’s mood has the power to determine my own. This was never apparent when she was at home, but once she’s gone, where will the happiness come from? I need to make sure I remember how to find it.

  “What’s this?” She indicates the metal Magic Fingers box on the nightstand.

  “You’ve never heard of Magic Fingers?”

  “What?�
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  “Move over.” I dig some quarters out of my jeans pocket, drop them in the slot and lie down next to Molly. “Your education’s not complete until you’ve experienced Magic Fingers.”

  Nothing happens. “I guess it’s broken,” I say. “The thing is probably thirty years old if it’s a day.”

  “Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s broken.” Determined, Molly reaches across me and gives the box a shake. Still nothing. She messes with the cord. And then: “Whoa. Did you feel that?”

  I lie very still. There is a mechanical hum, then a faint vibration buzzes upward, penetrating through me and increasing in strength. Molly relaxes next to me, supine.

  “Okay,” she says. “This is weird.”

  “It’ll stop in a few minutes.”

  “Weird in a good way,” she amends.

  “I can’t believe you never tried this before.” Through the years, we’ve stayed in dozens of motels together but this is the first time we’ve found Magic Fingers. “I guess they’re a thing of the past,” I tell her.

  “Good thing we decided to stop here, huh?” She sighs with contentment.

  A kinder way of saying “I told you so.” We lie side by side, the bed humming beneath us for long minutes. When the vibrations stop, I am startled to feel more relaxed, the rigors of the long driving day eased from my muscles.

  “What are you thinking about?” Molly asks.

  The question catches me off guard. “You, I suppose. I’ve always liked doing new things with you, even little things.”

  “Like Magic Fingers.”

  “Exactly. Everything was new with you. That’s what was so much fun about raising a child. I’d be in the middle of doing something—whipping egg whites into meringue or riding my bike with no hands or graphing a parabola—and you’d think I was amazing. A magician or something.”

  “You were amazing,” Molly says quietly, turning on her side and tucking her hand under her cheek.

  I must be hearing things. I consider asking her to say that again, but I doubt she will repeat it. “Who will I amaze now that you’re leaving?”

  Molly laughs. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m losing my audience.”

  “You should have had more kids,” she observes.

  I hesitate, caught off-guard by her words. Yet not off-guard at all. It’s an opening to a difficult conversation. I know this before either of us speaks again.

  “Mom?”

  I turn to her. “I couldn’t have any more babies after…”

  Her eyes widen. “After you had me?”

  I gaze into her face, seeing maturity and wisdom there, trusting the compassion in her expression. When I first conceived of this cross-country adventure, I knew things would come up between us, difficult matters. And I knew this matter was the most difficult of all. Through the years, I had protected Molly from the most painful episode of my life. It wasn’t fair to reveal a wound she didn’t cause and couldn’t heal. What would be the point of that?

  Things are different now. She’s a young woman. Another person’s pain won’t confuse or destroy her. Isn’t that, after all, the essence of maturity?

  Deep breath, I tell myself, gazing into her doe-soft eyes. “I had a baby boy named Bruce.” Even after so much time has passed, I still feel the piercing loss. I was bleeding, drugged half out of my mind, but I can feel him even now, his slight, unmoving weight in my arms. Weeks premature, he was as pale and beautiful and silent as a fallen angel, having never drawn breath in this world.

  Molly’s eyes instantly fill with tears. “Mom, really? What happened? When?”

  Pulling in a deep breath, I explain in a shaky voice. “You were just two years old at the time. He came too early, and I was bleeding. There was a tear in my uterus.”

  “Oh, Mom. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  I feel a tear slide over the bridge of my nose. Such an old, old wound, made fresh again by indelible memories. When it happened, it changed me in ways I am still discovering, even now. That kind of loss has the power to stop the world. My baby boy’s tiny, other-worldly face will always haunt me. He looked so very much like my other newborn, Molly. “It was just so sad, honey.”

  She reaches for me and we’re quiet together for a long time, the moments slipping by, measured by our breathing.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she whispers.

  “You don’t have to say anything.” There are some things that simply can’t be made better, not by talking or weeping or praying or pretending they didn’t happen. Yet her reaction is exactly as I’d hoped it would be—compassionate without being pitying or obsessive.

  “I wish…” Her voice trails off, but I understand exactly what she’s saying.

  “So do I.”

  More quiet moments. We turn on the Magic Fingers again to shake us out of the somber mood. “You’re all the kid I need,” I tell her. She’s heard that from me before. Now she understands the hidden meaning behind the words.

  “Well, I hope you know, I’m the one losing my audience,” Molly insists. “When I’m away at college, who will I perform for?”

  This surprises me. I know there are things she worries about, being so far from home in a strange world where no one knows her. Still, I thought her eagerness to go out and find her life had banished all her fears. Now I realize she’s well aware of what she’s leaving behind. And it’s not just Travis Spellman. From her first smile to her last day of high school, and all the lost teeth, soccer trophies, piano recitals and Brownie badges in between, I’ve been there for her, cheering her on.

  “I’ll still be your number-one fan,” I assure her.

  “Sure, but it won’t be the same.” Then she smiles and bounces up off the bed.

  I sit up and link my arms around my drawn-up knees. “You seem pretty okay with that.”

  “It’s hard work, being your daughter.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Now it’s her turn to hesitate. “Right. Let’s go check out the game room. I think I saw a ping-pong table.”

  Late at night, long after our dinner of iceberg lettuce salads and oyster crackers, Molly steals away to sit on the stoop in front of the motel room and call Travis on her cell phone. Although college beckons like a mysterious garden of rare delights, she has formed a deep bond with this boy, with his funny grin and Adam’s apple, his appealing combination of cluelessness and charm.

  A hometown boy at heart, he is causing her to have second thoughts about going to school so far away. For that, I could throttle him. At the same time, I feel an unexpected beat of empathy. I, too, would love to keep her close.

  On their final night at home, Molly and Travis went out with a group of their friends, some college-bound, others already immersed in jobs and responsibilities. They stayed out late, visiting all the places they knew they’d miss after dispersing like seeds to the wind. There were stops at the rusty-screened drive-in movie theater, the empty stadium, the all-night diner, the parking lot at the spillway below the lake. I don’t doubt there were other stops as well, which were not revealed to me.

  I can’t be certain, but I suspect that Molly surrendered her virginity at the spillway at some point during the summer, in the secret place known to revved-up teenagers everywhere, tucked into the shadows of the sloping man-made bank. She didn’t tell me so, but there have been subtle signs. I’ve watched her and Travis grow closer, their bond tightened by a private and impenetrable intimacy that is both invisible and obvious.

  Sexually active. It’s a clinical-sounding term. It’s nothing a mother wants to think about with regard to her own child, but at some point, you have to take the blinders off. Or not, I suppose, thinking of Dan. Whenever I try to bring the subject up with him, he says, “They’re good kids. They won’t do anything stupid.”

  Pointing out that good kids who are not stupid get in trouble all the time doesn’t seem to advance the conversation. I have given up on discussing it with Dan. Now and then, I t
ry to broach the topic with Molly.

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry,” she said when I got up the nerve to ask her.

  It doesn’t matter what century we’re in. Parents and children were not meant to talk together in detail about sex. Nor should we pretend to be all-knowing experts on love, even if we are. I understand exactly what love feels like in a young girl’s heart because I was that girl once, long ago. That’s why the Travis situation worries me, because I understand. It has a power like the pull of the moon on the tides, overwhelming and inevitable. There is no antidote for the passion and certainty a girl feels for the boy she loves, and no end to the fantasies she spins about their future together.

  I can explain convincingly that the emotions engulfing her and Travis are not likely to last. I can tell her they’ll both grow and change, heading off in different directions. But then I would have to talk about my own choices, my own regrets, the many times I spent wondering about the life I would have had if I’d taken a different path.

  For a brief moment, I consider telling Molly about Preston Warner, my first and, as far as I was concerned at the time, my only, forever and ever. Senior prom was the kind of magic-filled night every girl dreams about and, in my case, the dream came true. I wore something blue and silky; Preston was slicked-down, tux-clad and nervous. Not only did we consummate our relationship that night, we pledged to stay true forever, even though Preston was going far away to college.

  That night, I surrendered not just my virginity but all my hopes and dreams, handing them over to a boy who—though I didn’t realize it at the time—had no idea what to do with them. So he did what guys his age generally do. Three months into his first semester at a trendy private school a day’s drive away, he started dating other people. When I found out, I wanted to die. I walked around like a zombie, every bit of happiness having bled from my broken heart.