“I assumed you need them to walk.”
“Well, yes, but …” Sylvia’s dry matter-of-factness flustered her. “But don’t you wonder why?”
“Of course I do. I imagine it must be something serious if you’d go to so much trouble to conceal it from your friends. I also assume it must have been afflicting you for some time, including when you visited Elm Creek Manor, which would account for your odd behavior there. On the other hand, I also realize it’s none of my business, and if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”
“I have MS,” Grace heard herself say.
Sylvia’s expression became grave. “Oh, dear. Grace, I’m so sorry.”
Grace felt tears spring into her eyes. “Don’t pity me. I hate pity.”
“Grace, dear, it’s not pity I feel.” Sylvia’s voice was warm with compassion, and she placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Let’s find somewhere to sit down, shall we?”
Sylvia nodded toward a bench several yards away, and as they made their way to it, Grace composed herself. Grace marveled at how easily the truth had slipped from her when she had tried so hard for so long to conceal it. “Are you angry that I didn’t tell you in August?” she asked as they sat down.
“Of course not. You’re under no obligation to share your secrets with the world, or even with your friends.” Sylvia looked at her appraisingly. “I do wonder how it’s been for you, though, keeping this particular secret, having no one to talk to about it.”
“It’s been awful,” Grace blurted out. “It’s bad enough knowing I have this disease, knowing its prognosis, but seeing how other people react to me, how they change—sometimes I think that’s worse.”
“People deal with illness and disability in odd ways sometimes,” Sylvia remarked. “After I had my stroke, Sarah—she’s the young woman who runs Elm Creek Quilts—she’s like a daughter to me, but she was so shaken up that she couldn’t even visit me in the hospital. She avoided me after I returned home to recuperate, too.”
“I don’t want people to treat me any differently than they did before.”
“Are you different?”
Grace’s instinct was to say no, but Sylvia’s bluntness forced her to think before responding. “Yes,” she said, realizing that truth for the first time. “I have a sense of my own mortality. I have limitations I didn’t have before. I see the world differently; I see other people differently. I’d be lying if I said my MS has left me unchanged.”
“People probably see those changes in you, and they need time to get to know you as you are now.”
“No, that’s not it,” Grace shot back. “They see the crutches; they see the wheelchair. They see the tremors and the clumsiness. They don’t see Grace adjusting to a disease; they see the disease.”
“I’m sure some of them do exactly that,” Sylvia admitted. “But others would not. It seems unfair not to let them show you. It seems wrong to deny yourself the comfort their friendship could bring you.” Sylvia paused. “Especially since, as I’m guessing, your quilting brings you little comfort these days. Your MS is the root of your quilter’s block, isn’t it?”
“It is my quilter’s block,” Grace said bitterly. “It’s stolen my creativity along with everything else.”
“A disease can’t take your art from you unless you let it.”
“You don’t understand. If you could see my studio, you’d find it littered with dozens of sketches, as shaky as if my grandson had drawn them. You’d see appliqués cut awkwardly and sewn with haphazard stitches.” She held out her hands, the hands that had once created so much beauty and now betrayed her every time she held pen or needle. “My mind knows what to do—how to draw, how to cut, how to sew—but my hands can’t do it.”
Grace struggled to hold back the tears, but one slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away angrily. The blood was rushing in her head, all the anger and helplessness that had plagued her for months, fighting to be let out. “I would give up walking forever,” she choked out, “if I could just have my art back.”
“It never left you,” Sylvia said gently. “You tell me you can’t do what you used to do. Very well; so be it. Accept that and move on.”
“Move on to what?”
“Move on to what you can do now. Grace, you think your creativity is in your hands. It isn’t. It’s in your heart, your mind, your soul, and until you lose those three, you can never lose your art.” Sylvia placed a hand on her shoulder. “You must find some other way to create.”
“What other way?”
“I don’t know. Only you can discover that for yourself.”
“I don’t know how. I don’t know where to start.”
“I know where. You admitted you’re not the same person you were before this disease afflicted you, so stop trying to create the quilts that quilter would have created. Art is supposed to tell the truth. Don’t use your quilts to hide your MS; use your quilts to expose it. Let us see your pain and frustration in every stitch. Let us see how you struggle to make beauty out of your grief. Tell the truth.”
Tell the truth. The words rang in Grace’s ears and resonated in her heart. She had been lying for too long, to herself, to her friends, and she knew suddenly that it was time to stop. It was time to tell the truth and accept the consequences both certain and unpredictable, to let come whatever pain, rejection, or unhappiness must, and as an artist would, embrace it, and find the meaning in it.
It was Sunday morning, and Adam had been listening to Natalie gripe about work for nearly fifteen minutes when his call-waiting clicked. “Hold on a minute. I have another call,” he said, grateful for the momentary escape. He was trying to be a concerned friend, but Natalie taxed his patience. He hadn’t seen her for weeks, not since his mother’s birthday party and their argument in the car afterward, but every so often she would phone him to vent about the latest Lindsor’s upheaval or indignity. He wondered if Natalie realized she knew nothing of what was going on in his life, both because she never asked and because she never gave him an opportunity to volunteer the information.
“Wait—” Natalie said, but he quickly switched to the other line before she could complain.
“Hello?” he asked.
“Before you say it’s none of my business, just listen. I’ve had days to think about this, and I need to get something off my chest.”
“Nana?”
“I know you care about Megan, and I know you aren’t a scoundrel,” Nana said. “But somehow you’ve done something to convince her otherwise. I don’t know what you did, I don’t know what happened, and frankly, I don’t want to know. All I want is for you to talk to her and get this nonsense straightened out.”
“Megan doesn’t want to talk to me. She’s made that perfectly clear.”
“And you’re going to leave it at that? She doesn’t want to talk to you because she thinks you deceived her. Now, unless you did—”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Then nothing’s stopping you from patching things up.”
Nothing except Megan’s refusal to return his phone calls, her unwillingness to answer his email, and her suspicions, which he understood but in another sense resented, because he had done nothing to earn her mistrust. He had never lied to her, but the first time she doubted his word, instead of giving him an opportunity to explain, she shut him out of her life—and Robby’s life—forever. He loved her and he missed her, but he was angry, too, angry and hurt.
But he didn’t think he could explain this to his grandmother. “It’s not that simple,” he said instead.
“I never claimed it would be simple. Nothing worthwhile usually is. But because it’s worthwhile, you owe it to yourself to try.”
“Nana—”
“I don’t want to argue. I just wanted to speak my piece,” Nana said. “And now I’ve done that, so the rest is up to you. I love you, Adam, but you can be a stubborn fool sometimes.”
“I’m not stubborn,” Adam protested, but he was talking to
a dial tone. He sighed and switched back to Natalie.
“What was all that about?” Natalie asked, irritated.
“It was my grandmother.”
“Still pestering you about coming to that Mother’s Day thing?”
Suddenly he pictured Valentine’s Day, and the way Natalie had acted the gracious hostess in his home when Megan came over. “No, she’s not pestering me,” he said, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “She doesn’t need to. I already said I’m going.”
“She isn’t your mother.”
“I know she isn’t, but my mother will be there, too. The Mother’s Day brunch is a family tradition.”
“I swear to God, you and your family have a tradition for everything,” Natalie groused. “What about the luncheon?”
“What about it?”
“I asked you a week ago if you’d come with me.”
“And I told you then I couldn’t.”
“But I need you there,” she protested. “I can’t show up without an escort.”
“Why not?”
“It just isn’t done. Forget the brunch. Your family won’t disown you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point? The CEO of the corporation that’s buying Lindsor’s is going to be there. This might be my only chance to impress him, and you want me to go alone?”
He struggled to maintain his patience. “Natalie, I’m sorry, but I can’t take you to the luncheon.”
“This is your last chance, Adam.” Her voice was like ice. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll find someone else who will, someone unselfish, someone who is willing to support my career.”
“I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding him,” Adam said. “You’ve always been able to get what you want.”
In response, she slammed down the phone. For the first time in the history of their relationship, she had let Adam have the last word.
It was late afternoon by the time Megan reached her parents’ house to pick up Robby, so she gratefully accepted her mother’s invitation to stay for supper. To her relief, Robby seemed glad to see her; lately his behavior toward her ranged in a wearying, unpredictable arc from loving to resentful. She had feared her trip to Paducah would set off a bad phase, or worse yet, frighten him as her trip to Elm Creek Quilt Camp had, but he was cheerful as he told her about his visit with his grandparents, and even remembered to ask her how her weekend had gone.
They drove home, stopping across the street to pick up the mail and newspapers their neighbor had collected for them in their absence. Most of the mail was advertisements and bills, but there was also something for Robby, a small card with his father’s return address.
Robby sat down at the table as Megan sorted the rest of the mail on the counter. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he opened the envelope, took out a card, and read it. His expression changed from the hopeful gladness any communication from his father elicited to confusion, and he sat, brow furrowed, studying the card in silence.
She didn’t want to pry; she knew he was entitled to privacy in his relationship with Keith, as much as she might long to monitor every detail. Just as she thought she couldn’t hold out another moment, Robby said, “I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get, honey?”
“Is this a birthday card?” he asked, still studying it. “My birthday isn’t March twenty-second. Must be from Gina. She got my middle name wrong, too.”
“Mind if I take a look?” With a shrug Robby held out the card, so she sat beside him and took it. “Oh. It’s a birth announcement,” she said, noting the baby bunnies and chicks pictured on the front. “Gina must have had her baby.”
Then she opened the card, and disbelief flooded her with the numbing force of cold water.
“It’s a boy!” the card declared, a boy seven pounds four ounces in weight and twenty inches long, a boy born March twenty-second to proud parents Gina and Keith Donohue. A boy named Robert Keith Donohue.
Megan couldn’t believe it. She prayed she had read the card wrong; she desperately wanted to have read the card wrong. She felt ill. She looked from the card to Robby, speechless, and tried too late to disguise her expression.
“They named the baby Robert?” Robby asked, his voice disbelieving, but his expression oddly blank.
Megan glanced at the card. “It seems so.”
Robby looked away, silent. She had never seen him so stunned before, and his stillness frightened her. “Maybe it’s a mistake,” she said, groping foolishly for something, anything, to reassure him. “Maybe Gina was thinking of you when she filled out the card, and—”
“It’s not a mistake.” He slid off his chair and left the kitchen. A moment later, she heard the door to his bedroom close.
Megan’s heart pounded as she reached for the phone and dialed Keith’s number. She couldn’t believe he would do such a thing, not even after everything else he had done and had neglected to do. It had to be a mistake.
The phone rang twice before a woman answered, her voice weary and young. “Hello?”
“This is Megan Donohue,” she said, stiff with formality. “May I speak with Keith, please?”
“Oh, Megan. Hi.” Gina sounded startled. “Hi. Um, well, yes, Keith is here, but he’s taking a nap. Can he call you back?”
Megan’s anger became too much for her. “I suppose he can, but he probably won’t. Would you put him on the line, please?”
A baby began crying in the background. “I really hate to wake him. He’s been so tired lately—”
“Gina, I remember what it’s like to have a new baby in the house, and if anyone should be taking a nap, it’s you. I need to speak to Keith, and if he doesn’t talk to me now, I’m going to keep calling back until he does.”
Gina hesitated, and the baby’s wails grew louder. “Okay, I’ll get him.” The phone clattered as if she had dropped it.
Megan waited, and heard the baby’s cries subside. Long after she began to suspect Keith wouldn’t answer, he did. “What is it?”
“Keith, this is Megan.”
“I know. What do you want?”
“Robby just received the birth announcement.” Megan took a deep breath. “I’m hoping there’s been a mistake. Robby’s card says you named the child Robert.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Robert Keith.”
Anger made her words distinct and hard. “You already have a son named Robert.”
“I know that.”
“Isn’t there enough danger that an older child will feel replaced by a younger sibling without giving that sibling the older child’s name?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I didn’t give the baby Robby’s name. Robby’s Robert Michael, not Robert Keith. So we won’t call the baby Robby. We’ll call him—I don’t know, Bob or Rob or something.”
“Why?” Megan managed to ask. “Why would you do this?”
“Ask Gina. Robert is her father’s name, and her grandfather’s, and so on and so on. Do you think this was my idea? I wanted to name him Keith, but
I had to settle for the middle name.”
“Robby is very hurt.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It is.”
“Well, he’s a tough kid. He’ll get over it.”
“He isn’t as tough as you think, and if he were, it would be because of the calluses he’s had to develop because of how you treat him.”
“Oh, don’t start—”
“You’re going to have to explain this to him, because I don’t think I can when I don’t understand it myself.”
“Thanks, Megan,” Keith snapped. “This is just what I need. I have a baby crying day and night, Gina moaning over every little thing, and now I have to listen to you. I don’t have time for this.” He hung up.
Slowly Megan replaced the receiver, wondering what she should do, how she would comfort her son. She went down the hallway to Robby’s bedroom and knocked softly o
n the door. “Robby?” she called. “May I come in?”
“No.”
Megan touched the door with her fingertips. “Honey, none of this is your fault.”
Suddenly the door flew open. “I know it isn’t,” Robby shouted. His face was streaked with angry tears. “It’s your fault. You made Dad go away and marry her, just like you made Adam go away. You won’t even let him be my friend anymore. You ruin everything. Just leave me alone. I hate you!” He slammed the door shut with all his strength.
Tears sprang into Megan’s eyes. He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. Robby didn’t really hate her; he was angry at his father and Gina—and, she admitted, at her, too, because of Adam—but she was the only one of the three he could confront. Her heart ached with the knowledge, but she decided to leave him alone. Tomorrow his rage would be mostly spent, and she could try again.
But in the morning, he averted his eyes and shoveled down his breakfast without even the smallest response to her attempts at normal conversation. He went out to the car without waiting to be reminded of the time, as if he couldn’t get away from her quickly enough. When she dropped him off in front of his school, he pulled away when she tried to kiss him good-bye and jumped out of the car without a backward glance.
At work, she tried to lose herself in her research, but Robby’s bitterness and accusations were always there, nagging at the back of her thoughts. She told herself not to take Robby’s anger personally, because that would only interfere with helping him. Her resolution changed nothing, but somehow she felt a bit better. She was engrossed in the analysis of the burning rates of a new synthetic rocket fuel when her phone rang.
“Megan, honey?” her mother said.
“Mom?” Megan glanced at the clock. It was nearly four. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but did you make some other arrangements for Robby today?”
Fingers of cold dread crept around her heart. “What do you mean?”
“When your father went to pick Robby up from school, he wasn’t there. We hoped … we thought maybe he stayed home sick, and you forgot to tell us.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 90