The Calico Heart

by Patricia Kiyono

  "Dave, when I tutored you in high school and always had to rush away afterwards, it wasn’t because I had a hot date or because I wanted to meet friends. I had to rush home so I could take care of my mother. I did all the errands, all the stops to the dry cleaners or the hardware store, all the grocery shopping. Mom... Mom didn't like to go out."

  "I’d hardly call running errands going out," Dave dismissed. "Those are necessities. We might not like them, but we have to do them."

  "Mom couldn't."

  "Couldn't?"

  Sylvia nodded. "It started when I was still in grade school. Mom suddenly stopped going to church and to her various club meetings. Then she stopped even going outside to visit her friends. It got so she never left the house." Sylvia stopped and stared off in space for a moment, collecting herself. She’d buried that part of her past so deeply, she wasn’t sure she could talk about it even to Dave. Would he think her mother had been crazy, or worse, wonder if his wife was?

  "Mom didn’t go to my school plays or to parent-teacher conferences. She didn’t even go to my eighth grade graduation. At first, Dad made excuses, but after a while, he just seemed to accept it and relied on me to fill in for her."

  "But she was sick, wasn’t she?" Dave pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. "I remember you said she’d died when you were in high school. Before you started classes at Grand Valley."

  Sylvia nodded. "Mom was agoraphobic – or at least I assume she was. No doctor ever diagnosed her. That would have meant she’d have to leave the house, and she wouldn’t do that. Dad and I begged her to get help. He even made an appointment for her once, but she refused to keep it. The mere thought of going out the door gave her horrible anxiety attacks."

  "What did she do all day? Did she have hobbies? Read? Sew? Watch TV?"

  Sylvia shook her head. "Mom cleaned. And then she’d clean again. There was never a speck of dust in our house. Everything had a specific spot, and heaven help you if you moved something. Thinking about it, I guess Mom probably was OCD, too."

  "My grandmother – my mom’s mother – was kind of like that before she died. She always complained about the way my mother kept our house. I was really young, but I remember Mom would clean for days before one of Grandma’s visits, trying to make sure the house and yard were perfect. But Grandma always found something wrong, a dust bunny in the far corner of the linen closet or a wilted carrot in the garden. Something she could disapprove of. The much anticipated visits always seemed to end with Mom in tears."

  "Your poor mom," Sylvia said. Since Dave’s parents had been killed in a plane crash just a few months before his tenth birthday, she knew his grandmother’s behavior had to have been pretty awful to make such lasting impression on him.

  "Luckily, Dad was there to make light of the situation," Dave responded, dredging up a little smile. "Grandma died a year or so before my folks, so I don’t know if she actually was OCD, but I think it’s pretty likely."

  He leaned toward his wife, his curiosity aroused. "Back to your mom, honey. She never went outside? Not ever, not at all?"

  "At first, she did. Mom would go into our yard to work in her garden. It was always the nicest one in the neighborhood. You would have liked it," Sylvia said, referring to his fondness for gardening. "Mom spent hours out there planting, weeding, cultivating. She had a huge plot of vegetables. What we didn’t use for the table, she canned. That’s how I learned to do it."

  "Then what happened?"

  Sylvia clenched her hands together to hide their trembling. "The anxiety and agoraphobia got worse. By the time I was a junior, it had reached the point where she was terrified to even answer the door – or the phone. One day, in my senior year, I came home late from school and found her on the kitchen floor, unconscious. She’d had a major heart attack. The EMTs rushed her to the hospital, but she didn’t make it.

  Choking back the lump that had formed in her throat, she continued. "My dad was devastated. I think he’d always pretended to himself that Mom was just tired, that she’d wake up one day and be better again. When she died, he had to face the fact of how sick she’d been. He blamed himself for not insisting she see a doctor. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. About a month after Mom’s death, he was driving home late one night and apparently fell asleep at the wheel. His car veered into the other lane and..."

  "Oh, Syl! You poor baby. That must have been horrible for you," Dave said. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her over to his lap. “Honey, why did you never tell me?”

  Sylvia bit her bottom lip. "I’ve always blamed myself for not coming home on time, Dave. If I’d been there when she had the heart attack and had called the EMTs sooner, maybe she and Dad both might—"

  "Shh," he soothed, kissing the top of her head. "Don’t think that way, honey. You were just a kid. Their deaths weren’t your fault. What happened to your mom was tragic. There are treatments and medicines that could have helped her. It wasn’t your fault."

  "But what if it happens to me?” she whispered. “What if I start acting like my mother?”

  “Honey, that isn’t going to happen. If you started feeling those fears, you’d go to a doctor. We’d get you help, and we’d get through it together.”

  Sylvia wasn’t sure it was as simple as that, but she leaned against his chest and let the comforting sound of his heartbeat fill her head. With his strong arms wrapped around her, she felt protected and loved. She dismissed her earlier irritation with him and leaned up to kiss the familiar curve of his jaw.

  This was her strong and caring Dave.

  Chapter Five

  "And it can follow even the most complicated quilting templates," Anne said excitedly. The young clerk’s eyes sparkled as she demonstrated the new Ansley long arm machine to The Stitching Post’s quilting group.

  "Look how beautiful that pattern is." Sue pointed to the elaborate scroll pattern Anne had made on a length of scrap material. "The stitches are so tiny and uniform."

  Myra flipped up the free edge of the material and pointed to the circular pattern on the back side. "Just as pretty underneath, too," the shop owner said. "And the high-speed stitch regulator can do it all at a top speed of 3000 stitches a minute."

  "Whoa, that’s fast!" Theresa Donovan exclaimed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Think how much time this baby could save you. I’ll bet I can easily finish Ethan’s bedspread with it in plenty of time for Christmas, as well as do the one for Kait."

  Sylvia and Ellen exchanged an amused glance. Everything was always about saving time with their friend, Theresa. Tee operated a thriving one-woman real estate agency in town, headed the PTA at her children’s school, baked cookies for their soccer teams, and sang in her church choir. Sylvia often felt tired just listening to the busy, single mother’s schedule. But somehow, Tee always managed to fit in time for the quilt group on Tuesdays. Even if she did arrive late more often than not.

  "Can you imagine how many quilts you could have finished in your lifetime using a machine like this, Lila?" the attractive business woman asked, turning to the older woman seated beside her. "You could have whipped up a quilt for your pastor years ago."

  "What? And deprived him of all those opportunities to complain? Oh, I think not, my dear." The older woman scoffed, but her blue eyes twinkled merrily.

  "I’ve been wondering," Sue said from her spot beside Sylvia. "Won’t it spoil your pastor’s fun, anyway... I mean when you give him the table runner?"

  "Sure it will," the older woman conceded. "Until he realizes a table runner isn’t the same as an actual quilt. Then, he’ll start back up. I give him about two weeks."

  After they shared a laugh, Ellen and Sue dug into their tote bags and pulled out fabric for the quilt blocks they were making. The calico squares Sylvia had cut for the first block of her travel quilt were in her tote bag, but she had little enthusiasm for piecing them together. Instead, she wandered over to join Anne, who was still seated at the long-arm quilting machine.

>   "You want to try it?" the young woman asked.

  "Sure."

  The two women switched places then Anne explained the various buttons on the twin control handles. The clerk helped Sylvia pick out a floral stitching template on the attached computer display then nodded for her to start. As soon as Sylvia pressed the throttle, the machine purred into action. Anne had made the operation look pretty effortless, but it took a good deal of concentration for Sylvia to get the knack and move the fabric through the machine at a steady pace. However, she quickly caught on and soon was operating the controls nearly as easily as Anne had done.

  "That was fun," Sylvia said as she reached the end of the fabric remnant. "If no one else wants to try it, can I do another design pattern?"

  Anne pointed to the rest of the quilters. "Everyone else is working on their projects, so go ahead. Which one do you want to try next?"

  "You pick something," Sylvia said. "Nothing too complicated though."

  "These looped hearts are nice," Anne said. "Wouldn’t they be pretty for your Calico Heart wall hanging?"

  Sylvia looked away and mumbled something noncommittal as she keyed in the heart template.

  "How’s it coming?"

  "Fine. This computer pad is really easy to work."

  The clerk chuckled. "Yes it is, but I meant your travel quilt. I haven’t seen you working on it lately."

  "Oh, that. Not so good."

  "What’s up? Is the design off?"

  Sylvia shrugged then started the machine again. But this time, she couldn’t seem to find the right rhythm. Her pattern ended up resembling a string of deflated balloons rather than a row of looped hearts. Frustrated, she released the throttle. "It’s not the design. It’s Dave."

  Anne snagged the nearest empty chair and pulled it closer. Sitting down, she leaned toward Sylvia and pretended to fiddle with the quilter’s computer screen. In a soft voice that wouldn’t carry, she asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Thanks, but I don’t think so." Sylvia sighed. "I just can’t believe him lately. He’s behaving like a totally different person than the man I married."

  "Nobody stays the same for twenty-six years."

  "Thirty if you count the four years we dated, too."

  "There you go!" Anne chuckled. "I’m sure Dave sometimes wonders what happened to the girl he married, too."

  Sylvia frowned, considering that.

  She didn’t think she’d changed that much. Sure there were physical differences. Bearing three children did things to a woman’s body – and she’d never been too diligent about exercise — but she’d only gone up a single dress size since her high school days. However, she had noticed a few more strands of gray in her hair recently, and the fine lines around her eyes had gotten a good deal deeper. It was different with men. Sean Connery and Richard Gere were perfect examples. Gray hair made them look more handsome and distinguished. Women, on the other hand, just looked old when they got gray. Was Dave embarrassed by the changes in her as she’d aged? Was that why he didn’t want to travel with her?

  "Are you okay?" Sue asked.

  Sylvia blinked and realized some of the others had noticed her sitting motionless by the quilting machine. She forced a smile, not wanting her friends to worry.

  "I’m fine. Just daydreaming of all the things I could make with a machine like this."

  She returned to her seat in the quilt circle and picked up her bag. It had been a gift from Dave, the Christmas she’d first begun quilting. From the outside it looked almost like a small overnight suitcase, but inside, there were compartments for her tools: scissors, thread, needles, quilt patterns, fabric cutter, and cutting mat. There was also plenty of room to carry the fabric and supplies for several projects. She started to reach for the plastic bag holding the red and cranberry calico squares she’d cut for the center of her travel quilt then stopped. Instead, she pulled out the fabric for the scrapbook cover she was making Lynne and Ron for Christmas.

  "Not working on your travel quilt?" Sue tilted her head and looked curiously at the project in Sylvia’s lap.

  "I just don’t feel like it tonight. I thought I’d work on the cover for Lynne’s photo album."

  Her friend pushed back a strand of hair that had worked its way loose from her ponytail. She anchored the dishwater brown strand behind her ear before continuing. "That happens sometime to me, too. It’s why I always have several projects going at once. It drives Frank nuts."

  "I imagine so," Sylvia remarked as she threaded a needle with a strand of sturdy thread.

  Free-spirited Sue often bickered with her more regimented husband. They seemed to disagree on everything from her housekeeping to how they disciplined their three children. It was wonder the two opposites had remained married all these years. Sylvia lowered her hands to her lap as a sudden thought struck her. Are Dave and I any different than Sue and Frank? Sure, she and her husband seldom argued, but they certainly looked at life differently.

  She jabbed her needle into the scrapbook cover with a bit more force than necessary. His recent refusal to go on the bus trip was a perfect example. Who on earth would possibly believe watching a travelogue is just as good as visiting somewhere in person? She jabbed the needle into the material again. Nobody, that’s who!

  "Is Dave still being difficult about going on your bus trip?" Ellen asked, pointing at Sylvia’s needle.

  "Or a car trip or plane or train."

  "Maybe he has other ideas for your retirement," Tee suggested. The thirty-something dynamo looked up from the dinosaur she was tracing for her son’s quilt. "Maybe he’s planning a second career. Or maybe he’s decided he doesn’t want to retire at all. Lots of folks change their minds in these tough times."

  Several of the others agreed, and the conversation turned to people they knew who’d lost their jobs or found new ones in Michigan’s weakened economy. Sylvia breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing worse than having problems aired in public, as her father used to say. Besides, she was certain this was just a passing phase with Dave. Surely, her dear husband would soon change his tune. After all, they’d been planning on taking early retirements for ages, and he knew how she’d collected all those brochures on places she wanted to see. Destinations in Michigan as well as fascinating places much farther away. Like the Smithsonian, Mt. Rushmore, the Texas Quilt Museum. Even Disney World.

  But what if Dave no longer wanted to retire? She frowned. If he kept working, there wouldn’t be any fun destinations for her to embroider on a travel quilt. Nor any quilt for that matter.

  What would she do with her time? She’d already retired from Grand Valley, and the university had hired a professor to replace her. Fall classes would start in just a few weeks, so it was much too late to apply for another position or put in resumes at other local colleges.

  She sighed. Oh well, she’d always wished she’d had more time to do the things she liked: reading, quilting, canning. It looked like she’d have plenty of time to do all of them now.

  Especially since travel doesn’t look like it will be an option any longer.

  At nine-thirty, the women started to pack their projects to take home. Myra stood at the cash register, ringing up last minute items some of the quilters needed. Anne helped a few of the others with their last minute fabric purchases. Sylvia carefully stowed her own supplies in her case then called good-bye to her friends.

  She had almost reached the door when she heard a quiet voice calling her name. She turned to find Lila behind her.

  "Walk me out to the car, will you?" the older woman asked.

  "Of course," Sylvia agreed quickly, noticing the odd expression on her friend’s normally animated features. "Are you okay? Let me carry your bag for you."

  "I’m fine dear," Lila assured her, adjusting her shoulder tote. She didn’t say anything more until they left the shop, then she turned to Sylvia.

  "I couldn’t help but hear you talking to Ellen and Sue earlier. I know you’re upset with Dave, my
dear, but you know, there are a lot worse things in a husband than not wanting to travel. Dave is faithful to you, and he’s never lifted a hand to you or the kids. He’s been a good husband and father. I’m sure the two of you can work out any other differences."

  "You’re right, and I agree." Sylvia sighed. "It’s just that we’ve looked forward to this time for so long. We’ve made so many plans over the years. Or at least I thought we had. Now, Dave says it was all my planning not his."

  A sad expression clouded the older woman’s face. "Men can be so obtuse. I used to rant and rave when my Marvin didn’t want to go anywhere. I called him an old stick in the mud. But, now, I’d give almost anything to see him sitting in his recliner, just smoking his pipe and reading his paper."

  Sylvia felt her face burn. Lila hadn’t been criticizing her, but the woman’s gentle reminder still hit home. "I’m sorry. I probably sounded pretty selfish this evening. I love Dave, and I know I’m lucky to be married to him.

  She reached in her pocket and pulled out the pouch with the small wooden heart she always carried. She handed it to her friend. "Dave made this for me a long time ago."

  "Why, it’s a carved Calico Heart."

  Sylvia nodded, rubbing her thumb over the pattern carved into the heart’s face. "We saw a quilt made like this at the show where I first met you, and I fell in love with the design. We were newlyweds and couldn’t afford to buy the quilt — I doubt we could afford it even now — so Dave carved this pendant for me. I wore it every day until the bale finally wore through a few years ago. Since then, I always have it in my pocket or purse."