Round Robin

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Panic flashed through her. “I can’t.” She tore free from her mother’s embrace. “I can’t.”

  Andrew studied her, concerned. “Sylvia will want to see you most of all.”

  Sarah shook her head as hot tears began to streak her face. “I can’t.”

  Andrew began to speak, but Carol shook her head at him. “Later, maybe,” she said. “You three go ahead.”

  “I’ll be right back, Sarah,” Matt said as he followed Andrew and Agnes after the doctor. “I’ll let you know how she is.”

  Sarah nodded and wrapped the twisted hem of her T-shirt around her right hand. This was her fault. It was all her fault.

  When Matt and Sarah dropped Agnes off at home later that day, she felt as if she had aged a hundred years. Sylvia had looked so still and small in that bed that Agnes had hardly recognized her. And the way Andrew held her hand and spoke to her so gently—it was enough to break Agnes’s heart.

  They would not know for some time how much of Sylvia would return to them. It was too soon to tell, the doctor had said.

  Agnes hadn’t eaten all day, and her stomach growled with hunger. It didn’t seem right that the normal processes of life should continue as if nothing had happened. Somehow, Sylvia’s stroke should have brought everything to a standstill as the world waited, holding its breath, to see what would become of her.

  Sylvia would not deal well with incapacity. If she could not walk, if she could not speak, if she could not quilt again, she might hate the doctors for saving her life. She might hate her friends for letting them. As long as Agnes had known her, Sylvia had hidden her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities. She had always found her identity in being the strong one of the family. Now she would have to acknowledge her weakness and let others be strong for her. Would she be able to? Would she let her doctors and her friends help her? Or would she let this stroke win?

  No. That didn’t sound like the Sylvia Agnes knew. Sylvia hated to lose. So often Sylvia’s stubborn streak had been her undoing. This time it could be her salvation.

  Agnes heated a can of vegetable soup, made some toast, and ate her supper as she read the morning headlines. More bombings, more political nonsense, more children suffering all over the world. She sighed and pushed the paper away.

  She cleared away the dishes, put the leftover soup in the refrigerator, and wondered what to do next. In her heart, she longed to be at Sylvia’s side. She should have stayed there with Andrew, but Carol had insisted she go home and rest. Agnes was tired, but she could not rest. She wanted to do something; she wanted to help. She should have gone to Elm Creek Manor to welcome the new campers. There would be so much work to do now, what with covering Sylvia’s classes, leading the Candlelight—who would lead the Candlelight that evening? Surely not Sarah. She was so distraught she ought to be in a hospital bed herself. Thank God Carol was there to look after her.

  Agnes felt the knot between her shoulder blades release for the first time all day. Yes, Carol was there. So were Matt, and Summer, and Gwen, and Judy, and Diane. She needn’t worry. The Elm Creek Quilters would take care of everything. They could manage without her that night. Tomorrow she would join them and contribute whatever she could, but tonight she could rest.

  She carried her sewing box out to the front porch and sat on the swing Joe had hung there so many years before. For a long while she pushed herself gently back and forth and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood. She had rocked her babies to sleep on that swing more times than she could count. After the children had been put to bed, she and Joe would return to the swing and hold hands as they talked about the day, their children, the future. It had been a good life with him, and she was grateful for it.

  She took the round robin center from her sewing kit and finished piecing the last tree. She had chosen the colors of Elm Creek Manor—blues and greens, gold for sunlight, brown for earth and the strong trunks of the elms that had given the creek its name. The gray stone walls of the manor had taken shape beneath her fingers; the cotton was so much softer than the stone it represented, and yet it could endure so much.

  It was an act of courage to take the scraps life provided and stitch them together, wrestling the chaos into order, taking what had been cast off and creating something from it, something useful, beautiful, and strong, something whose true value was known only to the heart of the woman who made it.

  As twilight fell, the women formed a circle on the cornerstone patio. A few who had visited the manor before knew what was coming, but most waited, unknowing, anticipating, whispering questions to the women beside them, enjoying the stillness and peace of the night.

  She lit a candle, placed it in a small crystal votive holder, and held it in silence for a moment, remembering how Sylvia had held that same light at the beginning of the summer. So much had happened since then. So much had yet to happen.

  She sent up a quick prayer for Sylvia, inhaled deeply to calm herself, and looked around at the faces of the newest guests of Elm Creek Manor. The dancing flame cast light and shadow over them as they watched her and waited for her to speak.

  “Elm Creek Manor is full of stories,” she told them. “Some of these stories are joyful; some are full of regret; all are important. I have been lucky enough to call this beautiful place home for a little while, and now, for the week at least, Elm Creek Manor is your home, too. Now your stories will join those that are already here, and all of us will be richer for it.”

  Carol explained the ceremony and handed the candle to the first woman in the circle.

  The first week was the most difficult. Gwen had never realized how much Sylvia and Sarah did behind the scenes to keep the quilt camp running. The Elm Creek Quilters divided up Sylvia’s classes and other managerial duties, but they felt as if they were running day and night, just barely keeping on top of all the work. How had Sarah and Sylvia made it look so easy?

  Gwen had asked Sarah that same question, but Sarah just shrugged and made no reply, as if she hadn’t really been listening. Gwen wasn’t surprised; all week long, Sarah had shown little reaction to the events around her, including her work. Summer had all but taken over her role in the company.

  “I’m worried about her,” Summer confided late one night when she and Gwen finally went home after a long, exhausting day. “I’m trying to get her involved in camp to take her mind off things, but it’s like she’s on another planet.”

  Gwen worried about Sarah, too. She had withdrawn from her friends ever since Sylvia’s attack, and the few times she did join them, she had a stricken, haunted look in her eyes. Inexplicably, she had not yet visited Sylvia in the hospital, even though the rest of them had done so several times each, and Sylvia asked for her frequently.

  “Sarah will be all right,” Gwen said, because she knew Summer needed to hear it. “She just needs some time. This has been a shock for her.”

  “For all of us.” Suddenly, Summer threw her arms around her mother. “I don’t ever want anything like this to happen to you, okay? You have to get regular checkups, and if there’s even the slightest warning sign of anything, you have to get help, understand?”

  Gwen hugged her and patted her on the back. “I hear and obey, kiddo.”

  She stroked Summer’s hair and told her everything was going to be all right, that Sylvia would be fine, and so would Sarah. As she said the words aloud, she began to believe them.

  Late Thursday afternoon, Bonnie drove home from Elm Creek Manor exhausted and drained. All of the Elm Creek Quilters were worn to a frazzle, their nerves shot. There was so much to do and never enough time to get it all done. Bonnie felt as if she had been running a marathon barefoot, with the finish line still far off in the distance at the top of a steep hill. If they could just get through this week of camp, they would have Saturday afternoon to rest and recover. Surely next week would go more smoothly, once they worked out some of the bumps.

  Bonnie was now teaching four classes a week, in addition to running Grandma’s Attic. Even wi
th Summer’s help, it was too much. She felt as if she were being pulled in three different directions at once. All she wanted to do was rest, go to sleep and not wake up until Sylvia was better.

  She stopped by the shop to help Summer close for the day. It took them longer than usual, for they could no longer put off organizing the fabric bolts and tidying the shelves. When Bonnie finally did drag herself upstairs, she decided that they’d have to get take-out for supper. She was too weary to make even something as simple as pasta. It would be the fourth time this week they’d ordered out. She hoped Craig wouldn’t mind.

  When she opened the door, the delicious smells of cooking floated on the air, momentarily confusing her. Had she started dinner already and forgotten? She went to the kitchen, only to find Craig peering into the oven. The kitchen counter was littered with pans and Styrofoam meat trays and spice jars.

  “What on earth?” Bonnie exclaimed, taking in the scene.

  Craig jumped, startled, and shut the oven. “Hi, honey,” he said, coming forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Dinner will be another fifteen minutes or so. I think. The recipe on the back of the soup can called it ‘Easy Twenty-Minute Chicken,’ but I think that’s a typo. It’s taken me forty minutes already.” He shrugged and smiled. “Of course, I haven’t done this in a while, so maybe it’s me. The table’s already set, so why don’t you go change out of your work clothes and lie down for a while? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  Bonnie promptly burst into tears.

  Craig looked alarmed. “What is it?” Then he glanced over his shoulder at the mess. “Oh. Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll clean it up after we eat.”

  “It’s not that,” she managed to say. She hugged him and cried, feeling foolish and unexpectedly relieved. She had held it together throughout that difficult week, and now here she was, weeping like a crazy woman in the middle of her filthy kitchen, and all because her husband had made supper.

  Sylvia was getting better—that was the one bright spot of the week. She could sit up in bed now, and she was awake and alert. There was some lingering paralysis on the left side of her body, and it was difficult for her to speak clearly. Judy had visited her earlier in the day, but had left feeling frustrated and upset. She could not understand a word Sylvia spoke, and it rattled her. Andrew understood everything and had translated Sylvia’s muffled, slurred speech for her, but that only made Judy feel worse, ashamed, as if she had failed Sylvia somehow. By failing to understand Sylvia’s speech, Judy had made it impossible to pretend that Sylvia was just fine. She hated herself for it.

  “You’ll understand more when you get used to it,” Andrew had told her privately. “Sylvia’s getting better every day. She’s not upset with you, so don’t you be upset with yourself, okay?”

  She nodded, but she couldn’t change her feelings like switching off a light.

  She was so tired. They all were, worn out from work and from worry. Once Sylvia came home, everything would be so much easier. Even if she couldn’t resume her normal activities, her presence would bring the Elm Creek Quilters much-needed comfort and reassurance.

  When Judy got home, she heard voices coming from the kitchen—Steve and someone else, a woman. As she walked down the hall, Judy thought the second voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  When she reached the kitchen, she immediately recognized the blond woman sitting across the table from Steve. “Kirsten?”

  The conversation broke off as Kirsten and Steve looked up. “Hi, Judy,” Kirsten said, rising. She came over and embraced her.

  Judy returned the hug, her thoughts in a whirl. “Hi. What are—what are you doing here?” Her utter bewilderment kept her words from sounding rude.

  “Steve called and told me about your friend. I have a couple of weeks off before summer session begins at UW, so I decided to come and see if I could help.”

  “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.r />
  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.”