Mom and I sat at the table after supper, laughing and talking and remembering those times. She remembers so much. She told me about buying this house soon after she and Dad were married, how she was sure they’d never be able to make the payments and how, trying to think of every way she could save money, she’d served variations of cheese or tuna and noodle casseroles every night for almost two weeks until one evening Dad came home from work in a huff, slapped a paper-wrapped packet containing a five-pound rump roast on the counter, and said, “Virginia, I don’t want to see another noodle on my dinner plate until the spring thaw.”
He didn’t, and they managed to make the mortgage payments just the same.
Mom told me all about those happy, early days in this house she was sure they couldn’t afford. She told me how Snowball, the first in a series of rescue cats, just walked in the back door one day, settled herself into the sunny kitchen window, looked at Mom as if to say, “Well? Are you going to just stand there or get me a saucer of cream?” and never left. Mom was a firm believer that cats adopted their people, not the other way around. Mom’s current feline resident was a very regal, very fluffy, and very spoiled tortoiseshell tomcat. Apparently, when Mom brought Petunia home from the rescue shelter, the paperwork listing gender had been in error. By the time the vet pointed this out, it was too late to change; Petunia was already used to his name. At least that’s what Mom says.
With Petunia sitting on her lap, sleeping, Mom told me how she’d gone about making the old place into a home and how, in the days before strippable wallpaper, she’d spent hours and hours steaming and scraping dark, flocked papers off the walls, then repainting them herself.
“Oh, there was miles of that stuff,” Mom said, shuddering at the memory. “Once I got it off, I vowed I’d never have another inch of wallpaper in my house. And I didn’t, until you were born. I saw that Bo Peep paper at the hardware store and just couldn’t resist.”
“That’s right! I’d almost forgotten about that!” I exclaimed, pouring a stream of honest-to-heaven cream into my coffee and stirring it. “The sheep were all hiding behind fences or under bushes, and there was poor Bo Peep standing there in her big pink skirt and looking confused.”
Mom smiled. “You loved that paper—right until the day you turned nine and decided you were too big to have animals on your walls. So I pulled out the steamer again and took it all off.”
“You spoiled me.”
“A little,” she said, and patted my hand affectionately. “But you turned out all right.”
We sat up reminiscing for hours. When I finally climbed into bed in my now sheepless and Peepless childhood bedroom, I slept well, sure that I’d been worrying over nothing and that Mom was as capable as she’d ever been.
But when I got up the next day I started to notice things, little things, that concerned me.
Mom has always been a meticulous housekeeper. The house was still clean; there wasn’t the least sign of clutter anywhere. Her collection of Hummel figurines was lined up neatly in the china hutch in exactly the same order it’d stood in since I was a girl. But there was a layer of dust on the glass shelf of the hutch. In the bathroom, I noticed that the grout between the bathroom tiles was chipping. That kind of thing would have never escaped her notice in the past. The lenses of her glasses were a little thicker than they’d been when I last saw her. I wondered if she could still see the dusty corners and neglected repairs in the old house. And, in spite of the sumptuous repast she’d cooked for me the night before, when I opened the refrigerator in the morning, the pickings inside were surprisingly thin.
The freezer held a half-eaten pint of vanilla ice cream, left over from the previous night, two microwavable chicken and rice entrees, and a package of English muffins. I pulled out two of the muffins to toast for breakfast, spreading them with homemade raspberry jam because I couldn’t find any butter. After that, I checked out the cupboards. They weren’t much better stocked than the refrigerator, containing only a box of wheat crackers, a half dozen cans of condensed soup, and some tomato paste.
What had she been eating?
“Oh, I just haven’t been to the market,” she said when I asked her later. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat, so I decided to hold off until we could go together.”
And I guess that could be true, but when I took another look and saw how loose her pants were around the waist, I wondered.
It took a good half hour to locate the car keys. Mom finally found them in the pocket of her other coat. When we were halfway to the store she remembered that she’d left the shopping list on the kitchen counter. She wanted to go back home and get it, but I assured her that we’d be fine without it and so, like a pair of speeding turtles, we continued on our journey. We finally pulled into the parking lot of Aldi’s grocery a good hour and a half after we’d decided to make the trip.
Inside the store, I was pleased to see that so many people knew Mom and were happy to see her—and me. Mr. Segers, the butcher, stood behind the meat counter in his spotless white apron and cap, just as he had when I was a teenager.
“Evelyn! Haven’t seen you in a long time! How are you? How’s your boy?”
“Garrett’s fine. He lives in Connecticut now. Does all the computer work for my quilt shop.”
“Does he? Well, isn’t that something. Time sure flies, doesn’t it? Last time I saw him he was just so high.” He held his hand flat at a spot a little above his waist. “That was back when you and your husband came out to visit your folks in the summer. I gave him a slice of braunschweiger to try. He didn’t like that at all.”
The old man laughed, remembering the look on Garrett’s face when he took a bite of the unknown delicacy and realized that braunschweiger had liver in it.
“It’s good to see you, Evelyn. You, too, Mrs. Wade. Where’ve you been lately?”
“Oh, I came in just a couple of days ago,” Mom said airily. “Picked up two nice T-bones. You must have been on a break.”
“Must have been,” he said with a nod and then clapped his hands together. “Now, what can I get for you today? We’ve got some nice, thick pork chops on special.”
We took two pork chops, two chicken breasts, and a half pound of sliced turkey for sandwiches before heading over to the produce and dairy departments, where the various clerks expressed delight over seeing Mom, echoing the butcher’s comment about how long it had been. Mom had answers for them all, explanations as to how they might have missed her, but I wasn’t buying it. She obviously wasn’t getting to the store as often as she used to. Maybe because the driving had become too hard for her, or maybe because cooking for one seemed like a lot of bother for nothing, but whatever the reason, she clearly wasn’t eating as well as she should.
By the time we got home and unpacked the groceries, with Petunia winding hopefully around our legs until Mom opened the packet of deli meat and fed him some turkey, it was almost noon. I told Mom I wanted to take her out for lunch.
“Well, that’s silly. We just bought some perfectly good lunch meat. It won’t take me two shakes to make sandwiches. Why spend money going out to eat?”
“Because your only daughter’s in town and she wants to spoil you a little, that’s why. Come on. Get your purse. We’ll make sandwiches tomorrow.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, reaching up to pat her hair. “I’m not dressed to go out to lunch. I look just awful.”
“What are you talking about? You look great. You always look great.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said, shooing the compliment away with her hand. “My face looks like fifty miles of bad road. Well”—she shrugged—“if you’re set on going out…. But at least let me go fix myself up a little first. I’m not going anywhere without lipstick and earrings.”
A new restaurant had opened near the college. Mom said she’d heard it was good, so that’s where we went. After a little resistance, she let me drive. I ordered a bowl of butternut apple soup and a green salad. M
om got the Southwestern chicken salad.
“What’s this?” she asked suspiciously, poking at a white sliver of vegetable with her fork.
“Jicama. It’s from Mexico—tastes kind of like a potato, but sweeter. Try it.”
She took a tentative nibble. “Mmm. It’s good. Crunchy.”
I tasted my soup, which was delicious, and made a mental note to ask the waitress for the recipe. Some men want a present when their girlfriend goes on a trip, but Charlie is just as happy with a new soup recipe.
“It’s so nice to see you, Mom. I wish you lived closer so we could get together more often. You know, now that you’re living alone, the house must be an awful—”
Mom put down her salad fork. “Evelyn, don’t say another word. I knew you’d come out here with ulterior motives. But you listen to me, young lady, and listen well. I was born in Wisconsin and I will die in Wisconsin! I am not moving and that is all there is to it!”
I held up my hands, warding off this verbal attack. “Okay! All right. I’m just concerned about you. I hate being so far away from you.”
“Well, who says you have to be? If somebody has to move, then why not you? Go right ahead. But I’m not pulling up stakes and leaving behind eighty years of memories just because you’re a worry-wart. Honestly, I don’t know what you’ve got to be concerned about. I’m perfectly fine.”
The time had come to lay my cards on the table.
“Mom, that’s not entirely true and you know it. You’re nervous about driving. Admit it,” I said, stopping her before she could contradict me. “Driving is getting to be hard for you. So hard that you don’t even want to go to the store anymore. Other than the incredible meal you made for me last night, the ingredients of which I’m pretty sure you asked a neighbor to pick up for you…”
She didn’t say anything to this, just pressed her lips into a thin line of irritation.
“…I bet you haven’t been to the market in weeks, have you? There is hardly any food in the house. Everybody at the store was so surprised to see you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I get to the store as often as I ever have. I can’t help it if people are too busy to notice me when I am there. Who notices an old lady, anyway? The only reason they were so friendly this morning is because you were with me.”
I decided to let this pass. I love my mother. I didn’t want to accuse her of lying to me, even though I knew she was.
“But you have lost weight, Mom. Those pants are hanging off you.”
“Oh, they are not,” she said dismissively. “Yes, I’ve lost a little weight. Big deal. Two or three pounds, but what’s wrong with that? I just started getting some exercise is all. The doctor’s been after me to do more walking, so I finally listened to him. Last month I started taking a walk every afternoon before supper—three times around the block.”
She started a walking regimen? In Wisconsin? In January, when the average temperature is sixteen degrees and the snow is three feet deep? I didn’t think so.
“What about your fall? You could have really gotten hurt, broken a hip or something.”
“For goodness’ sakes, Evelyn, it was just a fall! I slipped on the ice. Could have happened to anyone. Haven’t you ever fallen on ice?”
“Sure, of course—”
“Well, there you go,” she interrupted. “One little fall doesn’t mean I’m doddering. Not yet anyway.” She bent her head over her salad and stabbed a chunk of chicken with her fork.
This was hard for me, but it was ten times harder for Mom, I could tell. She knew exactly what I was talking about. She simply wasn’t able to do things the way she had once, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it for fear that, if she did, she’d have to give up her independence.
But what could I do? I couldn’t just fly blithely back to New Bern and hope that everything would magically turn out for the best, that the next time she fell she’d be as lucky as she had been this time. She was my mother. When I was little, she’d taken care of me. Now it was my turn to do the same for her, but she wasn’t making it easy.
“Mom, what if we looked into getting you some help? Some kind of companion who could help with cooking and driving? Might be good company for you.”
Mom’s head snapped up like it was on a spring. “I am not lacking for company, Evelyn! No! I mean it. I am not going to have some stranger in my house. And I am not moving to Connecticut and that is that.”
Her eyes were blazing. If she still could, she’d probably have docked my allowance or sent me to my room. But she can’t do that anymore. She can’t do a lot of things anymore. The balance of power between us is beginning to shift. Our roles are starting to reverse and we both know it. I don’t like it any more than she does, but there it is.
I had to do something. The direct approach had failed miserably, so I took another tack.
“Well, what if you just came out to visit me for a while? Just for a couple of weeks? New Bern is so nice. You’d love it. I know you would.”
Mom made a face. “Oh, don’t be silly. What would I do with myself? You’ve got a business to run. The last thing you need is some useless old woman getting in your way.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re not useless. In fact, you’d probably be a big help to me.”
“How?”
“You could teach some of my classes.” I’d blurted this out almost without thinking, but as soon as I spoke, I realized it was true. Mom is a wonderful quilter. Machine piecing, hand piecing, needle turn appliqué—you name it and she can do it.
Mom gave me my first quilting lessons back when I was a little girl, and even after all my years of study, practice, and teaching, I still think she is the better quilter.
If I have any skill with a needle, it’s because of her. Or, as Charlie might say, “You don’t just lick it up off the rocks.” Meaning that a lot of the talents we think of as belonging to us alone are actually inherited from those who’ve come before.
Charlie made his first banoffee pie in the warmth of his mother’s kitchen. I stitched together my first nine-patch block in Virginia’s sewing room. And so it goes and the torch is passed.
No, indeed, you don’t lick it up off the rocks.
“Yes!” I said enthusiastically, realizing that it really was a good idea. “Why not? I don’t have another skilled teacher in the shop. If you could come visit for a few weeks and take over a couple of my classes, it would be a huge help to me.”
Mom looked at me carefully, gauging my sincerity. I could see the idea intrigued her, so I plunged ahead, a little too quickly.
“And if you liked it, you might want to stay. New Bern is such a nice little town—”
“Stop, Evelyn! Stop right there! I know what you’re up to and I’m not having any of it. I told you before.” She pointed her fork at me like an admonishing finger. “And if you bring it up again, I am going to get up from this table and leave the restaurant and I don’t care if I have to walk home. Do you hear me?”
I took another bite of soup and changed the subject.
No matter what Mom said, we weren’t done with this. I realized that. But round one went to Virginia Wade.
10
Evelyn Dixon
Charlie phoned me on Monday night and, as usual, he got straight to the point.
“When are you coming home? I miss you.”
I smiled. Charlie sounded cranky. I had no problem envisioning the scowl on his face, but it was nice to be missed. Hearing his voice, I realized I missed him, too, and for some reason, this pleased me.
“I know. I want to come home but I can’t. Not yet.”
“Things not going well with Virginia? Is she all right?”
“Yes. More or less. She’s not ill or anything. For her age, she’s actually pretty healthy. Certainly as feisty as ever,” I said, recalling the imperious tone she’d used with me in the restaurant. “But she really shouldn’t be driving. And she won’t admit it, but I think she’s lonely. In the three days since
I’ve been here, the phone hasn’t rung once and no one has stopped by. So many of her friends have passed or retired and moved. I don’t think she has many contacts left in town. And she needs to eat better. She’s losing weight. I don’t know how much, but more than she should.”
“She’s not eating?” Charlie was horrified. “That’s terrible! She should come out here for a while. Bring her to the restaurant. I’ll work up a few special dishes for her. A week at my table, maybe two, and we’ll have her back at fighting weight.”
I laughed. “Fighting weight isn’t a problem, my love. Mom can still spar with the best of them, at least verbally. Seems we’ve done nothing but fight since I arrived. We’re either arguing or trying to bite our tongues and not argue, which makes for a lot of uncomfortable silences. She just refuses to admit she shouldn’t be living alone. At this point in her life, she needs a little support. It wouldn’t take much. She’s as sharp as ever. But she refuses to let me find someone to come in and help her and she refuses to come to Connecticut, even just for a visit.”
I sighed. “The bottom line is, she doesn’t want anything to change. But things have changed. Deep down, she knows it.”
“You must feel like you’re banging your head against a wall.”
One of the things I love about Charlie is his ability to speak plainly. He didn’t tell me everything would be fine, or offer me advice, or, like so many men, grab a toolbox and sledgehammer and try to fix things. Not that the urge to play Mr. Fixit is necessarily a bad one, but there is a time to jump in and take charge and a time to listen. Charlie Donnelly knows the difference.
“Yes. I just keep putting forth the same arguments and getting nowhere. Thank heaven for quilting! That’s the one thing we can talk about without it blowing up into a fight. I suggested we go on our own little shop hop. We visited all the quilt shops in Green Bay and we had a great time. I’ve been a quilt shop owner for so long that I’d almost forgotten how nice it is just to be a customer.”
A Thread So Thin Page 8
