Ties That Bind

by Marie Bostwick

  “Arnie! Olivia can’t go to foster care, not after all she’s been through. Do something!”

  But before the words were even out of my mouth, I knew his hands were tied. The judge had ruled. There was nothing he could do to help Olivia. That was up to me.

  I pushed my chair away from the table and rose to my feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor. I have something to say.”

  55

  Margot

  That night looked like any other meeting of our quilt circle. All my friends were in the workroom. And everyone except Ivy, who was perched on one of the windowsills, and Abigail, who was fingering a strand of pearls as she paced from one end of the room to the other, was sitting in her usual spot. The sewing machines were set up, the irons were plugged in, and there were piles of fabric, batting, and quilts in various stages of completion lying about. A big platter of Madelyn’s Bourbon Street brownies sat on the table.

  However, there was one telling difference between this Friday night and the scores of others I had spent in the room with these women—no one was quilting. I couldn’t ever remember that happening before, no matter how bad things were. But then again, it was possible things had never been quite this bad before.

  Everyone was shocked when I stood up in the courtroom and announced I was relinquishing my claim for custody, even the judge.

  “Are you sure of this, Miss Matthews?”

  It was the hardest question I’ve ever had to answer.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’m sure. I don’t want Olivia to go into foster care.” I turned toward my parents. My mother’s eyes were filled with tears, and for the first time in weeks, my father’s eyes met mine. “I would like to request visitation rights, if that would be all right.”

  The judge glanced at my dad, who gave a single nod.

  “I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  Abigail, utterly unaccustomed to losing, stopped pacing and threw up her hands. “I can’t believe you’re going to lie down for this. Geoff Bench is a lying, double-crossing, lecherous leech. He’s besmirched your reputation! You mustn’t allow him to get away with it, Margot. It’s not right! It’s not fair!”

  Madelyn let out a contemptuous little laugh. “Well, whoever said life was fair?”

  Having spent a lot of her life among the highest of New York’s high financial circles—swimming with the sharks, as she would say—Madelyn is more than a little cynical. But she has a point. I believe in fairness and justice, I just don’t believe we always find them here on earth. Geoff Bench will get what’s coming to him—eventually. In the meantime, I’ve got something more important to worry about than my “besmirched reputation.”

  “Abigail, it’d be a case of Bench’s word against mine. Who do you think the judge is going to believe? You saw the way he looked at me.”

  Abigail started pacing again. She was pulling on her necklace so hard that I expected it to snap at any moment, sending a shower of pearls rolling across the floor.

  “What’s happened to you, Margot? You used to be a regular Pollyanna. Sometimes I’ve found it quite annoying, but not nearly as annoying as discovering that you’ve lost your optimism just when it might do you some actual good.”

  “Abigail, I’m not going to let them put Olivia in foster care.”

  “Yes, yes. So you’ve said. But … four months! What’s four months? It’s barely more than a season.”

  I was so tired of arguing with Abigail. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t already gone through all of this in my mind. I knew what was right in this situation, and I knew what I had to do.

  “If you’re six years old and dealing with grief, loss, and abandonment, four months is an eternity. If Olivia was placed with the wrong sort of family, it might turn out to be the four months that scar her beyond the possibility of healing. I can’t do that to her, Abbie. I love her too much.”

  “Of course you do,” Abigail protested. “But don’t you see? That’s exactly why Olivia should be with you.”

  “I’m not the only person who loves her, Abbie. Do I think that Olivia would be better off being raised by me than my parents? Yes. But they aren’t monsters. After all, they raised me, and I turned out all right.”

  Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw. “And your sister? How did they do raising her?”

  She was treading on sensitive ground now. If someone I liked less than Abigail had asked me such a personal question, I’d have told them to mind their own business. But I know Abigail; once she asks a question, she won’t give up until she gets an answer.

  “Maybe not as well as they could have, but they loved Mari and they love Olivia too. That’s the most important thing. That’s what Olivia needs more than anything right now, love and stability. By giving up my claim for custody, I can give her that.”

  “But what about your feelings—”

  “No!” I snapped. “This isn’t about me. Please, don’t make this any harder for me than it already is.”

  Abigail, looking slightly abashed, said, “Of course. I’m not trying to be difficult, I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

  “I know.”

  “What does Paul say about all this?” Evelyn asked.

  By now, everyone knew about Paul and me. Funny how quickly the people who loved and knew me best assumed that Paul would naturally have a voice in any of my major decisions. They’d never thought about Arnie that way, but neither had I. And their assumptions were right on target. Paul was the first person I’d called after leaving the courtroom. He said he’d come right over, but I told him not to. He had to go to youth group. Philippa wouldn’t be able to handle it on her own, and tonight of all nights, I needed to be with my quilting sisters.

  “He understands I’m trying to do what’s best for Olivia. But there was a lot of talk about inflicting bodily harm on Geoff Bench—pistols at fifty paces or something.”

  Abigail exclaimed, “Hear! Hear!” and the others clapped their hands. Ivy whistled through her teeth and said, “Forget fifty paces. Let’s try rotary cutters at close range.”

  There was an idea. But as much as I appreciated the support of my girlfriends, it was nice to have a champion of my own at last.

  “Paul seems like a very good man,” Virginia said.

  He is. None better.

  When I came home after quilt circle, Paul was sitting on the stoop.

  “How long have you been here?”

  He put his arm around me as he walked me toward the front door. “Half hour or so.” Anticipating my next question, he said, “James is fine. Philippa came over and brought Clementine. He’s beating them at Rummikub.”

  “Hope she’s not playing him for money.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and turned my body toward his. “Are you all right?”

  Isn’t it funny how that question, asked by someone you love, someone who truly wants to know, can summon the tears you’ve managed to keep back all day?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, lifting my head from his chest.

  “For what?”

  “I got your shirt all wet.”

  He pushed open the front door and we went inside. “I’ve got other shirts.”

  56

  Margot

  I didn’t set the alarm, but I got up before dawn just the same. I’d never really fallen asleep to begin with, knowing what the new day would bring. Today, I had to tell Olivia that she’d be leaving the hospital and going home with her grandparents. It was a conversation I dreaded.

  I dawdled in the shower, drank three cups of coffee, and took an extra-long time at my prayers, hoping God would give me just the right words to say to Olivia and that I’d be able to say them without falling apart. No wise words came to mind, however, and just before nine, I decided to quit putting off the inevitable.

  My purse was on my shoulder and my car keys in hand when I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. When I pulled back the curtain, I saw Paul and my parents climbing out of Paul’s car
.

  What was going on? Paul had never even met my parents. And why were the three of them standing on my front porch?

  Between my parents, Dad was always the bigger talker, but today, Mom was the one with the answers. Dad sat silently at one end of the sofa looking small and weathered, like a balloon beginning to deflate and sink toward the floor. All his bluster was gone.

  “We never wanted things to turn out like this,” Mom said, glancing toward my father, speaking for him. Dad bobbed his head in agreement, but didn’t look at me.

  If I’d been an observer of the family drama that had played out in the last few weeks instead of a participant, I might have found Mom’s statement hard to swallow, but I’d gotten caught up in the craziness too. Shock, grief, the festering of unresolved anger, and the need to gain and hold the upper hand had combined into a poisonous brew.

  Arnie had told me that a court case is a competition, and he was right about that, but he was wrong too. There were no winners in this. We’d all been sucked into a game that left us sadder, lonelier, and poorer in spirit than we would have been if we’d never played in the first place.

  “We were so tired when we got back to the hotel, but neither of us could sleep. We got up and started reading the Bible, the story of the two women who claimed to be the mother of the same child and came before King Solomon, asking him to settle the matter. When the king said he couldn’t and that the only fair thing to do was to cut the baby in half, giving a piece of the dead child to each, one of the women relinquished her claim. She was the true mother. She proved that by being willing to sacrifice her rights and her happiness to protect her child from harm.

  “When we finished reading the passage,” my mother continued, looking at my father again, whose head was bowed so low that it was impossible to read his expression, “we realized that in this whole thing, you were the only one who had behaved like a true parent. Just about that time, the front desk rang our room and said there was someone in the lobby who wanted to see us. It was Paul. He called every hotel in town to track us down.”

  “There aren’t that many hotels in the area,” Paul replied with a shrug, indicating it was no big deal. “Werner and Lillian had already decided what they wanted to do.”

  “But you convinced us to come over here and talk to Margot,” Mom said. “Margot, I know that saying I’m sorry can’t even begin to make things right, but … I don’t know how else to begin. I am sorry. We both are.” Her gaze flickered toward my father and she paused just long enough to give him a chance to jump in and affirm her statement. When he didn’t, she continued. “We feel awful, Margot. We didn’t mean the things we said, you know, about the protest march and your medical records. It’s just that—”

  Head still hanging low, Dad lifted his hand, cutting off my mother’s explanation.

  “Stop, Lil. Don’t. You were the one who pulled out the Bible and found that story. You were the one who read it to me and made me see sense. You were the one who stood up for Margot and Olivia. Don’t give me credit I don’t deserve. And don’t apologize for me. I’ve made you do that too many times over the years.”

  I’d have argued with him if I could, but Dad was right. In our family, when it came to wounds, apologies, and forgiveness—it was Dad who inflicted the wounds, Mom who offered the apologies, and my sister and I who were expected to extend forgiveness. That was the way it worked. Every careless word or thoughtless gesture on Dad’s part was always swept under the rug, out of sight but never completely out of mind, all of us complicit in the cover-up.

  Dad opened his big hands, laid them flat against his thighs as if he were preparing to push off and get to his feet, but he sat still for a long moment before finally raising his head, revealing red-rimmed eyes.

  “I can’t think of any reason in the world you could or should forgive me, but even so, I want you to know I’m sorry. Everything that’s gone wrong since Mari died, and for a long time before, was my fault.”

  “Dad. It wasn’t just you. I should have called you, tried harder to work out some kind of solution ….”

  He held up his hand. “Don’t let me off the hook, Margot. I didn’t listen, not to you and not to your sister. Everything always has to be my way. That’s what drove Mari away. I think part of me knew it even before the accident, but it took Mari dying before I was willing to admit it. Since it was too late to make things right with Mari, I got it in my head to undo all my mistakes by raising Olivia. But I just made it worse, didn’t I? I made it all about me. Again.

  “I never gave you credit for all you’ve accomplished, never told you how proud I am of you, Margot. I was afraid to let you grow up, afraid you’d know more and do more than your old man, then wouldn’t need me anymore. I treated you like a child, but you’re a woman, a fine one. And you’ll be a fine mother to Olivia. Mari knew what she was doing when she picked you. I’m going to go over to the courthouse and tell the judge that before we go back to Buffalo.”

  Avoiding my gaze, he got to his feet and walked toward the door. My mother followed him, but not before casting an imploring glance at me. She didn’t need to. Everything I said and did after that was my own idea and came from the heart.

  I reached out as Dad passed by, clasping hold of his heavy hand, freckled with age, calloused by work and the commitment to provide for his family, the hand that spanked me when I was bad, applauded me when I was good, embraced me when I was both, the hand of a man who had made mistakes but done the best he could, the hand of experience, the hand of a father.

  “Daddy? Mom? Hang on a minute. Let’s talk.”

  57

  Philippa

  April

  It was raining hard, but that hadn’t prevented people from coming to church. Word had gotten around that Reverend Tucker was home for a visit and would be preaching at Sunday services. They came in droves to hear him and wish him well.

  I won’t say the idea that people might compare Bob’s preaching with mine and find me wanting never crossed my mind, but I was too interested in his sermon to think about it much.

  He spoke about the early church as presented in the book of Acts. I couldn’t help but notice and feel a bit proud of how our little church had moved closer to that model in the last couple of weeks. No, we weren’t holding all our goods in common, or eating all our meals together, but we were behaving more like a community than we had when I arrived.

  Attendance was up, and not just when Bob was preaching. We had more visitors every week, and greater numbers in children’s and adult Sunday school classes. And we had more people serving, a lot more. Summer was months away and the roster of teachers and support staff for Vacation Bible School was filled. People were volunteering who’d never offered to help before. Adam Kingsbury, our former treasurer, who after serving four years in that job had certainly earned a break, had teamed up with Jake Kaminski, who owns the hardware store, to start a new ministry called “Helping Hands.” Their idea was to devote one Saturday a month to home repair and maintenance for anyone in town who needed help.

  Yesterday had been the first Saturday work session, and twenty-six volunteers had shown up to paint a kitchen, install smoke alarms, patch a leaky roof, haul away trash, and put in a new handrail on a staircase. They’d also installed a wheelchair ramp in the home of a family whose son had been injured in Afghanistan. Though the Grizzards weren’t members of our church, they’d come to the service. Dennis and Jean were sitting at the left end of the front pew and Blake was right next to them, sitting in his wheelchair.

  During the offertory hymn, I noticed Margot in the back, far from her usual spot. Her parents were there too, sitting to her left. Olivia, James, and Paul sat to her right. Margot was beaming, as were her parents. They looked right together, the six of them, all of a piece, like a family, a happy one. What an amazing change.

  As the organist rolled into the final, triumphant chords of “How Great Thou Art” and I walked to the center aisle to receive the offering, I could not
help but think, “How great. How great indeed.”

  I wanted to talk to Margot during the coffee hour, but I got caught up with the Grizzards. When I finished speaking to them, I spotted Margot at the fringes of Reverend Tucker’s circle of admirers, but before I could join the group, Ted Carney, Miranda Wyatt, and Abigail Spaulding came looking for me. When they ushered me off into an empty Sunday school classroom, saying there was something they needed to discuss with me in private, my heart sank.

  It occurred to me that maybe I should have been more worried about people comparing me with Reverend Tucker that morning. He looked healthy, energetic, and completely recovered. Maybe he had decided to cut his sabbatical short. Surely the church would be only too happy to have him back early. Who could blame them? If I’d had to choose between Bob Tucker and me, I’d have gone with Bob too. But, oh … I was going to miss New Bern.

  As Ted closed the door, shutting out the sound of chatter and laughter coming from the fellowship hall, I decided to beat them to the punch. It would be easier for them and less humiliating for me.

  Perching my pregnant body on a chair designed to fit an eight-year-old wasn’t easy, but I did my best. “Listen, Ted,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and businesslike, “I think I know what you want to talk about.”

  “Excellent!” Abigail said briskly. “Then this shouldn’t take long. Franklin and I have a two o’clock tee time. Assuming the weather clears up. April is such an unpredictable month.” She sighed and I nodded. It certainly was.