An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  “But I thought you were in pediatrics,” Judy said. “How can you help take care of Sylvia?”

  Kirsten smiled, her face full of understanding and sympathy. “I didn’t come to take care of Sylvia. I came to take care of you.”

  At that moment, Judy realized that she truly did have a sister.

  On Wednesday of the third week, Sylvia came home. Andrew had worried about getting her up those stairs, so he was relieved when Carol suggested they make the west sitting room into a bedroom for her. “Temporarily, of course,” Carol added. “She’ll be up and around in no time.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Matt said. “This way Sylvia won’t feel like she’s shut away in a sickroom. She’ll be able to be in the center of things.”

  Carol didn’t reply, but Andrew caught something unexpected in her gaze when she looked at Matt—surprise, or maybe even respect. This was quite a change from what Andrew had observed between them since his arrival at Elm Creek Manor. Usually, Carol pretended Matt wasn’t in the room.

  Matt and Andrew removed one of the sofas and replaced it with a twin bed from one of the second-floor suites. Carol took care of arranging everything else, so when they finally brought Sylvia home, the pleasant, cheery room right off the kitchen was ready for her. She seemed pleased by the surprise, but said she was tired and wanted to rest.

  Andrew left the room while Carol helped Sylvia into bed. When Carol went to the kitchen to help Diane prepare lunch, Andrew returned and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Sylvia seemed agitated, and Andrew thought he knew why. “Don’t get too comfortable in here,” he said. “You’ll be back upstairs in your old room soon.” He knew he had guessed correctly when her shoulders relaxed and the strain around her eyes eased.

  She wanted to sit up in bed, so he helped her arrange her pillows. She asked for something, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. She patted the bedcovers, exasperated. “Quilt. Quilt.” After a few more exchanges, he understood. She wanted a different quilt, one that was in her bedroom.

  He went upstairs to Sylvia’s room, took the quilt off the bed, and brought it back down to her. “This one?”

  She shook her head. “No. Scrap quilt.”

  “But this is a scrap quilt.” He studied it. “Isn’t it?”

  “Wrong one.”

  Andrew made two more trips up and down the stairs before he found the quilt Sylvia wanted. It was an older quilt, and it had been wrapped in a clean white sheet and tucked away in the back of her closet. “Why do I suspect you hid this quilt ahead of time just so you could enjoy watching me hunt around for it?’ he said as he spread the quilt over her. He had never seen the pattern before, not that he had seen many quilts before his return to Elm Creek Manor. The design almost resembled a star, but the sewing lacked the precision he usually saw in Sylvia’s work. The pieces of fabric looked like they had come from old clothing. He even thought he saw a few velvets and corduroys in there.

  Sylvia stroked the quilt and sighed, comfortable at last. She thanked him with a look, then gave him another command: “Quilt scraps.”

  For a moment he felt a sharp sting of worry. “You have the quilt already, Sylvia. This is the last scrap quilt in your room. You know that.”

  The exasperation in her expression told him he was the one who was confused. “Not scrap quilt. Quilt scraps.” She jerked her head toward the corner of the room, where he spotted the tackle box she used to store her sewing tools. He brought it to her and helped her open the latch. She took out a plastic bag of quilt pieces, diamonds in different shades of blue, purple, and green.

  “Need any help?” Andrew asked, watching her fumble to open the bag.

  She shook her head and waved him off.

  “Okay then.” He went to the kitchen for the newspaper and brought it back into the sitting room, where he settled into a chair near the window. As he read, he kept an eye on Sylvia. Several slow minutes passed as she struggled to pin two diamonds together using only her right hand. He felt a pang, realizing that before the attack she would have completed the task in seconds without a thought.

  Finally she finished. She sat back against her pillow before moving on to the next task. She didn’t complain, but he could sense her frustration as she tried to thread the needle. She had stuck the point of the needle into her bedcovers and was trying to jab the end of thread into the eye. Her left arm hung by her side, forgotten. That didn’t seem right. He had seen boys in the war whose paralyzed limbs grew thin and wasted from disuse. Sylvia needed to work that arm if she ever wanted to use it again.

  He’d have to ask her physical therapist for advice so he didn’t make things worse, but for now, he had to do something. He set the paper on the floor and stood up. Sylvia looked up at him as he returned to his seat on the edge of her bed.

  “Take the end of the thread in your left hand,” he instructed.

  She held up the thread defiantly, firmly clasped between her right thumb and forefinger.

  “What are you, a wise guy? Your other left.” Andrew took the spool of thread from her and placed it on her lap, giving her a teasing smile. “Don’t tell me you’re chicken.”

  She let out a scoffing laugh and reached for the thread with her left hand. It took an effort, but before long she was holding it.

  “Good.” Andrew found a pair of scissors in the tackle box and snipped off the frayed end of the thread. “Now, pick up the needle in your right hand.”

  She did so, and by force of habit brought the end of the thread toward her lips to wet it.

  “Not the thread,” Andrew said. “Wet the eye of the needle.” She eyed him, dubious. “Trust me.” She did so. “Now, hold the thread upright and move the eye of the needle over it.”

  Concentrating, hands trembling, Sylvia followed his instructions. After several attempts, she slid the needle onto the thread. He was so pleased for her he thought he might shout for joy.

  She looked up and caught his eye, grinning. “Men don’t sew.”

  “That’s true. And women don’t run businesses.”

  Sylvia burst into laughter. The sound brought Carol and Diane running. “What happened? What is it?” Diane asked. The two women hovered in the doorway, concerned and anxious.

  “Nothing,” Sylvia said. “Go make lunch.”

  After a long pause, they reluctantly withdrew, whispering questions to each other as Sylvia and Andrew returned to their work.

  The physical therapist agreed that quilting could be an important part of Sylvia’s therapy, so she added it to the routine. As the weeks passed, Sylvia slowly pieced her quilt top, and even more slowly regained the abilities the stroke had stolen from her. At least that’s how it seemed to Diane, but she was impatient. She wanted to see Sylvia walking briskly around the manor again, helping the students, running the camp, bossing them all around. It couldn’t happen soon enough to suit her, and she knew Sylvia felt the same.

  Eventually, Sylvia progressed from a slow shuffle around the sitting room to a careful walk around the first floor of the manor. Once she confided to Diane that as soon as she was able, she was going to run up those stairs and corner Sarah in the library, where the young woman spent virtually every waking moment these days. “She’s been avoiding me,” Sylvia said, with only a trace of a slur in her voice.

  “Some people don’t deal well with this kind of thing,” Diane said, but Sylvia made a scoffing sound and shook her head. Sylvia was right; Sarah had been behaving oddly. It was one thing not to visit Sylvia in the hospital; many people had an aversion to those places. But Sarah wouldn’t even come to the west sitting room, and she made the most unbelievable excuses to dodge Sylvia at mealtimes and other occasions. Each of the Elm Creek Quilters had asked her to go talk to Sylvia, and Diane had come right out and ordered her to, but Sarah refused, and she wouldn’t explain why. Diane didn’t understand it.

  She also didn’t understand why no one else was alarmed by the news that Sylvia planned to hang her Broken Star
quilt in the foyer. “But that’s where we planned to hang the round robin quilt,” she told Bonnie as they prepared for a workshop. “All our work will go to waste if she wants to hang some other quilt there instead.”

  “We’ll sort it out later,” Bonnie assured her, smiling. “What counts is that Sylvia is quilting again.”

  Diane thought about it and decided Bonnie was right. What mattered was that Sylvia was persevering despite the obstacles she faced.

  That Broken Star quilt might just be the most important one ever made at Elm Creek Manor.

  Matt wished he knew how to comfort Sarah, but how could he when she wouldn’t tell him what was wrong? “I’m fine,” she insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary, as she shut herself away in the library or set off on another solitary walk along Elm Creek. Matt longed to run after her, to take her by the hand and plead with her until she told him what was troubling her. Once there had been no secrets between them, but now it seemed that with each passing day, Sylvia grew stronger and Sarah drifted farther away from him.

  Finally he couldn’t bear it anymore. One evening after supper, he was standing in the kitchen when Sarah passed on her way to the back door. He followed and called to her from the back steps. She froze, but didn’t turn around.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice hollow and so soft he barely heard her.

  “We need to talk.” He joined her on the gravel road leading to the bridge, but she wouldn’t look up at him. “Can you come back inside?”

  “I don’t feel like talking.” She looked off toward the barn. “I need to be alone.”

  “You’re alone too much.” He reached out and stroked her back. “Please. It’ll only take a minute. I—I miss you.”

  She inhaled shakily, but said nothing.

  “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?” Gently, carefully, he took her in his arms. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She seemed so small and fragile as he held her that he wished he could hold her like that forever and never let anything hurt her.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Sarah, I know you too well to believe that.” He kissed her on the top of the head and stroked her hair. “If nothing’s wrong, why won’t you go see Sylvia? She asks for you every day.”

  Sarah pulled away from him. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Instead of answering, she turned away and began to walk toward the bridge.

  “Come on, Sarah.” He took a few steps after her. “Don’t leave. Talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said over her shoulder as she broke into a run.

  He was tempted to pursue her, but helplessness and worry rooted him in place. He watched as she disappeared into the trees on the other side of Elm Creek, wishing he knew what to do. He had never seen her like this before, so despairing, so alone.

  As he returned to the manor, a small brown shape at the foot of the steps caught his eye. A faint memory tickled in the back of his mind as he nudged it with his foot. It was a soggy mess of brown paper and cardboard—and suddenly he recognized it. It was the carton of ice cream he had bought for Sylvia weeks ago. He had forgotten it there after the fight with Sarah.

  Guilt stung him as he remembered what he had said to her. No wonder she wouldn’t confide in him now. Sarah deserved better than what he’d given her that night—and not just that night. All spring he had been sulky and irritable, snapping at her and stalking off whenever things didn’t go his way. Why should she trust him now, when he had let her down so many times in the past few months? Why should she ever forgive him?

  Sarah deserved better.

  Self-loathing and anger flooded him as he cleaned up the mess.

  On a rainy Saturday afternoon in mid-June, Carol sat in her room writing a letter to her supervisor at Allegheny Presbyterian to explain that she planned to use the entire four months of her leave after all. She was tempted to ask for even more time, but she didn’t want to push her luck.

  She looked up at the sound of a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, hoping it was Sarah. To her surprise, Matt opened the door.

  “May I speak with you?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She set down her pen and gestured to a nearby chair.

  “I’m worried about Sarah,” Matt said as he sat down. “She hasn’t been sleeping well, she’s lost weight, she talks about Sylvia all the time but never goes to see her. Do you think something’s wrong, something serious?”

  He looked so distressed that Carol’s heart went out to him. “She loves Sylvia very much,” she said gently. “This ordeal has upset her.”

  “If that’s all it is, shouldn’t Sarah be getting better now that Sylvia’s made so much progress? There’s something else wrong, I just know it.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I want to help, but she won’t tell me what’s wrong. I thought since you’re her mom, she might be willing to talk to you.”

  Carol felt a flicker of pride beneath her worry. Matt actually thought she and Sarah were close enough to have heart-to-heart talks, that Sarah would confide in her mother what she wouldn’t tell her husband. “I’ll talk to her,” she promised, and watched as relief came over her son-in-law’s face.

  Matt thanked her and left. For a long while Carol sat in silence, her gaze fixed on the doorway. The past weeks had shown her a man she had not seen before. Without fail, Matt had treated Sarah with compassion and gentleness despite her inexplicable behavior. There were no orders for her to cheer up, no bitter reminders that he had been right to worry about their dependence upon an elderly woman, no complaints about the additional duties he had been forced to assume. He was so unlike Kevin that Carol wondered how she ever could have seen any similarity between the two men. Instead of manipulating the recent events to his own advantage, to score points in the battle of wills, Matt had set aside the old disagreements for the sake of his wife. His behavior was all Carol could have hoped for.

  She had misjudged him.

  She sighed and left the room. Someday soon she would make it up to him, to both of them, but for now, she had to see to Sarah.

  The library was the most logical place to begin the search. Sarah spent nearly all her time there these days, staring at the computer or at the cold, dark fireplace. Sometimes she left the manor without telling anyone and disappeared for hours. Carol had watched from the window once and saw her daughter cross Elm Creek and vanish into the woods, but where she went from there, no one knew. Everyone needed private time, but Sarah had been spending far too much time alone. Matt was right. It was long past time someone spoke to her about it.

  When Carol opened the library door, she saw that the lights were off and the draperies were pulled over the windows. The only illumination came from the computer. Sarah sat motionless before it, leaning toward the screen, her hands flat on the desktop, as if they alone held her upright.

  Carol softly closed the door behind her. “Sarah?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Sarah, honey?” Carol said, raising her voice slightly.

  Sarah looked up slowly, and the sight of her wrenched at Carol’s heart. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten or slept for days, and her face was drawn and haunted. “Oh, sweetie,” Carol said, stricken. She swallowed and forced her voice into a nurse’s brisk tone. “You’re going straight to bed, and when you get up, I’m going to fix you something to eat. What would you like, soup and a sandwich, maybe?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Sarah said distantly, returning her gaze to the computer screen. “I can’t rest. I have work to do.”

  “Surely it can wait. Nothing is so urgent that it can’t wait an hour or two.” Or five or six, if Carol had her way.

  “This can’t wait,” Sarah whispered. “This is important. This is urgent.”

  Carol came closer, near enough to see that Sarah was running an internet search. “What are you looking for?”

  “Information about stroke.”

  “Oh.” Carol hesitated, watc
hing as Sarah highlighted some text on the screen and clicked the mouse. “Are you trying to find something to help Sylvia?”

  “Yes.” Sarah’s voice shook. “I’m also looking for the causes, to see if stress, or a fight—to see if being upset can do it, if it can make someone—”

  “Oh, Sarah.” Carol ached to see her daughter in such pain. “You didn’t make Sylvia have that stroke.”

  Sarah took a shallow, quavering breath. “I think maybe I did.”

  “You didn’t.” Carol put herself between Sarah and the computer screen, shaking her head. “You didn’t. That’s not how it works. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.”

  Sarah looked up at her mother for a long, silent moment before she began to sob. Carol bent down and embraced her, and Sarah clung to her as she hadn’t since she was a child. Carol brought her away from the computer over to the sofa, where she held her and rocked her back and forth, and told her that everything was going to be all right. Everything would be fine.

  Sarah felt better after her mother described Sylvia’s progress. Sarah had noted some of these improvements from a distance, but she had been too ashamed to visit Sylvia and talk to her about them. That needed to change.

  When she felt strong enough, she dried her tears, washed her face, and went downstairs to find Sylvia. She was out on the veranda with Andrew. The rain, though just a gentle shower, had been enough to keep them under shelter. When Andrew saw Sarah hesitate some distance away, he offered to get Sylvia a cup of tea. As he passed Sarah on his way into the manor, he paused long enough to clasp her shoulder and smile encouragingly.

  Sylvia’s gaze followed Andrew as he went inside, and her eyebrows rose when she spotted Sarah. “Well,” she said, straightening in her chair. “Look who it is.”

  Sarah took a hesitant step forward. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.” Sylvia returned her attention to the Broken Star quilt pieces in her lap.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, just fine, thank you.” She gave Sarah a sidelong glance. “You can come closer. It’s not contagious.”