The Healing Quilt

by Lauraine Snelling

  She studied the gray clouds scudding past the bedroom window. So many gray days here in western Washington. Would she ever get used to the gray? She, an Arizona girl who thrived on sunshine, loved the green of Washington state, until the rains came and came. She could hear Garths voice but not the words.

  Feeling the urge, she tossed back the covers and headed for the bathroom. If she hurried she could get her teeth brushed, apply a spritz of scent that he loved, and be back in bed for him.

  One look at her swollen eyes and rat's nest hair killed her desire.

  She went back to bed and curled up under the covers. Although she tried to hold them back, the tears escaped, drenching her neck and the pillow.

  Worthless, you can't do anything right. The silent words added to the freshet.

  “Sorry, honey, I have to leave.” He crossed the room and leaned over her to drop a kiss on her forehead. “Sleep for a while and perhaps you'll feel better.”

  She nodded, holding in a sniff until he turned away. “God bless.” When she heard the door close, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders. Why not stay in bed? There was no one who needed her, no one who would call or drop by. Even though the women of the congregation greeted her warmly on Sundays, she'd not been invited to much. When she'd mentioned the lack of social get-togethers, Garth had reassured her that they were giving her time to settle in. He hadn't needed to suggest she should make the first move. She'd declined an invitation to a baby shower without telling him. Baby showers were just too hard for her to handle.

  Her conscience screamed it at her every chance it got. After all, when she agreed to be a pastor's wife, she knew the expectations that would be placed on her.

  With one more glance at the gray outdoors, Beth pulled the covers over her head and drifted back into oblivion.

  The ringing phone pulled her back to reality. She swallowed to clear her throat as she reached for the receiver. “Good morning, Donnelly residence.” She knew she'd failed again. She sounded as if she just woke up.

  “Ms. Donnelly, how are you today?” a cheery male voice asked.

  “Fine. Who is this?” She knew before she asked. A telemarketer. She pushed herself up on the pillows, glancing at the clock at the same time. Well, at least most of another morning had passed. She politely declined a credit card offer and hung up. Staggering into the kitchen, pushing the hair out of her eyes, she dove for the coffeepot, the red eye winking at her. By now the coffee would be pure sludge, but the extra caffeine was probably just what she needed.

  She took her full mug to the table and sank into a chair, resting her elbows on the open paper. A headline caught her eye. “High Incidences of Breast Cancer in County.” Beth continued to read:

  “Recent studies have shown that women in Jefferson County have a higher rate of breast cancer than other regions of the nation. Not only is the rate of diagnosis higher, but more cases are terminal, according to studies done by the University of Washington.

  “Our studies raise serious questions for the residents of Jefferson County,” said Dr. Adam Ramirez, head of the oncology unit. “While high voltage power lines transverse the county, various studies show that this may be a contributing factor, but there is no solid proof at this time.”

  When asked about cancer clusters, Dr. Ramirez refused to comment.

  Further investigation is promised by Dr. Jason Heath, head of the State Health Commission. “We promise to get to the bottom of this,” said Kyle Winthrop, elected representative assigned to the commission. “As far as I understand it, women must be encouraged to seek annual mammograms to detect this culprit in the early stages when treatment is more effective.”

  Breast cancer strikes one in eight women, mostly over the age of forty. The first line of defense is regular self-examination and yearly mammograms for those over the age of forty or who have a history of breast cancer in their family.

  When caught in time, this cancer is amenable to treatment and should no longer cast a death sentence on the patients. The American Cancer Society has materials available by contacting the local chapter.

  After finishing the article Beth was grateful she'd had her mammogram before they moved. After all, with her family history of breast cancer, she was taking no chances.

  Beth sipped her cream-laced coffee and thought about the article. Why would this area have a higher rate than any other? And what was being done about it?

  FOUR

  The calendar never lies.

  “Oh, my gosh, her mammogram is today.” Kit charged up the stairs and down the hall to change her clothes. If she really hustled, they could still make it, though why Teza couldn't take herself to her appointment was beyond Kits comprehension. Teza got herself to everything else.

  She needed clean pants. Mud from kneeling to weed the iris bed caked her jeans. She stopped with that and grabbed the phone to dial Teza's number. Four rings and the answering machine clicked in. Phone clamped to her shoulder, Kit waited through the message and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals. “Teza, Fm on my way. In case you've forgotten, your mammogram is today. Please be ready and we can still make it.”

  Kit grabbed a blue shirt off a hanger and stuffed her arms in, buttoning it as she descended the stairs. She paused long enough at the mirror to pull her hair back into a club at the base of her neck, smoothing errant strands several times before digging a coated rubber band out of her pocket and wrapping it three times around the club, pulling her hair carefully through each time. She'd apply lipstick as she drove, normal modus operandi. She loved the sound of words like modus operandi, and while she usually saw it in the murder mysteries she read, it certainly applied today.

  She wheeled into the pink hawthorn-lined lane to the Bit of Heaven Farm. The lane ran past the house and yard on the left and back to the red hip-roofed barn that now housed the fruit stand. The sight of Teza still out in the strawberry patch made Kit beep the horn.

  Stubborn didn't begin to describe Aunt Teza.

  Kit sucked in a deep breath, counted to ten, and reminded her fingernails that they weren't to be doing imprint surgery on her palms. Keeping a smile of sorts on a mouth that wanted to scream, she started again and counted to twenty, nodded, and deliberately released each finger. When her last pinkie hung limp, she started again.

  “But I made that appointment for you today since you said that was the only time you had.”

  “I'm sorry, dear, but something came up.”

  “Something came up—like weeds or too many ripe strawberries?”

  “Oh no. Vinnie Lambert needed to go visit her mother in the hospital, and her car wouldn't start.” Aunt Teza looked up from the row of strawberries that were indeed in need of picking. The patch spread around their feet in dense rows of deep green leaves hiding their fruit from those who would snatch them away, be they birds or humans. The sweet fragrance of strawberries and rich dirt warmed by a welcome June sun rose as palpable as the frustration coloring Kit's rejoinder.

  She leaned over and began picking, knowing she and Teza always were able to talk more freely when their hands were busy. “And?”

  “And so I took her in. Her mother doesn't have long to live, you know.” Teza sat back on her heels, the knees of her jeans wearing traces of the mulch she spread between the rows. “It about breaks your heart, watching someone you love die bit by bit like that, even though you know that one day you will be back together again.” She shook her head and returned to picking. Teza's fingers had a will of their own, sorting through the dark green leaves in search of succulent fruit while she glanced up from under the wide brim of her straw hat. “You'd have done the same.”

  Kit knew she'd been nailed again. There was really no sense arguing. She never won. “Don't you ever listen to your messages?”

  “I haven't been back up to the house.” Berries continued to fill Teza's crate at a speed to be revered by most other berry pickers.

  “That's why I called to remind you last night, too. You know you are
supposed to have a mammogram every year.” Kit plopped a handful of berries in Teza's narrow wooden box, built to fit between the rows. A sturdy wooden handle enabled Teza to move it along easily. The fragrance of sun-warmed strawberries reminded her she was inhaling summer.

  “I know that, but my year isn't over—yet.” Teza moved the box forward and continued brushing the leaves from side to side to find the ripe red berries among the green. Strawberries could hide better than small children. “Besides, with only one breast, I should only have to go in every other year.”

  “Teza!” Leave it to her aunt to come up with that. “How much more do you have to go?”

  “On the berries or my year?” Teza stopped to pop a perfect berry into her mouth, closing her eyes as the flavor exploded over her tongue.

  Kit groaned and followed suit. Some berries pleaded to be eaten immediately. The season had been perfect for strawberries, just enough moisture and plenty of sun. She was convinced that nowhere else in the world would strawberries grow with more flavor than in the Pacific Northwest. As with other plants, the soil had a lot to do with it, but unlike large growers who planted varieties that could be shipped without so much loss, Teza insisted on planting the more flavorful Ogallala.

  “Do you think there are strawberries in heaven?” Teza pushed her crate forward. “You know how Amber always loved strawberries.”

  Kit swallowed the tears that hit the backs of her eyes and blinked to keep them inside. No fair, Teza, I've been doing fine up to today, up until now. Why after all this time, do I fight the tears? God, shouldn't I be over them by now? “I…” She swallowed again and willed her throat to unclog so she could speak normally. “I don't know.” What she did know was that it was a rhetorical question.

  Or was it like so many other things in her life for which there were no answers?

  “She'd come out here to help me weed, and we'd have a contest to see who found the first ripe strawberry. In August our hunt was for the first ripe peach, and in the fall—ah, how she loved apples. I never trusted her to tell me when they were ripe. Amber loved them green.”

  “Just like Ryan and Mark. You always said they'd get a stomachache from too many green apples, but they never did.”

  “Speaking of which…” Teza stood at the end of the row and handed Kit the crate mounded halfway up the handles with berries. “Make him strawberry shortcake for dinner and he'll love you forever.”

  Apparently Teza didn't realize Mark hadn't been home lately either. Good. Kit had decided to keep this as her secret. “You sure you don't need these?” Kit ate the biggest one before it could roll off its perch, ignoring the clutch in her stomach.

  “No, there's plenty more where those came from. Make Mark some freezer jam.” She kneaded her middle back with strong knuckles. “By the way, remind him he promised to build me some more of those planters, would you? I need to get the flowers out of the greenhouse before they take it over.” Teza lifted her face to the sky, her straw hat falling over her shoulders, dangling by the rawhide string. “I sold every planter he made last year. People went nuts over them.”

  Kit let her aunt talk on. Who knew when Mark would be home? Even more, where in thunder was he? Six months he'd been gone, a record. Surely she was worrying unduly. Surely he was just busy. Surely she knew better.

  The two women headed for the house, walking shoulder to shoulder, looking more like sisters than aunt and niece. Both with shoulder-length hair worn pulled back in a rubber band, Tezas more salt and Kit's still pepper. Tall at five nine, Teza had long legs that still looked good in jeans and a stride that covered the ground with unconscious grace. They'd inherited their strong facial bones from a Sioux warrior generations earlier and their wide smiles from a Norwegian grandmother. Tezas gray eyes could be turbulent like a storm-tossed sea or, more usually, quiet and gentle as a garden pond. Kit inherited her father's hazel eyes with flecks of green, the only one of her siblings to do so. Hands with long fingers and nails clipped short were equally adept with needle as trowel—they both had the quilts to prove it—and both were imbued with a sensitivity that brought comfort to whomever they touched.

  As if strung by the same puppeteer, they stopped at the Calypso rosebush near the garden gate and leaned to sniff its spicy fragrance. Kit brushed an aphid off the stem. “If you're leaving these for the birds, those Bushtits better get busy.”

  “I know. I hate to use the systemic, but I might have to.” Teza pulled the clippers out of her back pocket and snipped two stems, the floribunda habit of many blossoms on a stalk giving a full bouquet with one or two stalks. “I'll put these in water, and you can take them home too. I can't keep ahead of this one, need to pick from it every day it seems.”

  “Are you bragging or complaining?” Kit teased. She started to sniff the flowers and pulled back to let a honeybee escape. “One of these days I'm going to take a cutting from this one. Looks like a sunset gone berserk.” She set the berries in her car keeping cool under the shade of a maple tree and followed Teza up the steps to the back door of the two-story farmhouse. A pillared porch skirted the house on three sides, with hanging baskets of rioting fuchsias already dropping blossoms on the wide board topping the railing.

  While all the Aarsgards inherited greens thumbs, Teza had ten of them.

  Kit sniffed as strawberry scent intensified by cooking wafted out the open door. “You have preserves cooking?” She followed Teza into the sunny kitchen.

  “Yep, in that new copper kettle you gave me for Christmas. Makes the best jam I've ever tasted.” Teza filled a glass pitcher with water and stuck the rose stems in it up to the blossoms. “Sold the first batch almost before I got it bottled. Folks drove up for berries and smelled that aroma… Why, some of them waited until I poured it in the jars. All I do is put whole berries and sugar in the kettle and remember to stir it once in a while.” While she talked, she set the red enamel tea kettle to heating and reached for the tea boxes above the stove. “You want licorice or Red Zinger?”

  Kit knew there was no chance of leaving before sharing a cup of tea, so she retrieved the bone China cups from the glass-fronted cupboard. “Zinger, I guess.”

  “There are ginger cookies in the cookie jar. Made ‘em fresh just this morning.” Teza took the lid off the copper kettle and stirred the contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. “Recipe book says this makes great apple butter too. I can't wait to try the blueberries.”

  “How about I pour while you get your calendar?” Kit took a matching China plate over to the apple cookie jar on the blue-and-white-tiled counter. “In case you haven't figured it out, there is no way you are getting out ofthat mammogram. I lost mother and Amber to cancer, and I won't lose you, too.”

  “Yes, ma'am.” Teza had the grace to look sheepish. “But I know you would have taken Vinnie in too.”

  Kit sighed and shook her head. So, let Teza have the last word. Kit would reschedule the appointment and hogtie her aunt to get her there if need be. ‘Bout time you did your own, too, reminded her inner critic, only not the same day as Tezas.

  FIVE

  Following church on Sunday, which she'd attended alone again, Elaine idly flipped through the Sunday paper without much hope of discovering something of interest. Doodlebug lay curled in her lap, but every time he yawned, his pink tongue curling out and in, he slipped around on the silk of her lounging outfit. She'd changed from her white silk suit into something more comfortable as soon as she walked in the door.

  After reading the society column, where she wasn't mentioned for a change, she read the Parade section. The health columnist made another diatribe against unnecessary surgeries, face-lifts at the top of his list of horrors. But then, men could age gracefully while women had to fight tooth and toenail to stay young enough to hold their place. Just think of all the lovely young beauties coming up, each seeking a wealthy husband, who would be future trophy wives for those who could afford them.

  And George could. But did he dabble? The question plag
ued her more nights than she cared to count. Especially nights when the phone had rung and he'd flung on clothes for an emergency surgery, the price of being the best general surgeon in a hundred-mile radius.

  She stroked Doodlebug's sleek head with one hand and turned the pages of Parade with the other. A recipe for barbecued turkey breast caught her attention. That might be a tasty alternative. George insisted on low-cholesterol meals, said his heart had to stay strong. She ripped out the recipe, the sound loud in the stillness.

  Until the roar of a motorcycle, pipes rattling, came down the street.

  “So much for peace and quiet. Those hooligans ought to be locked up.” Motorcycles were prohibited by the homeowners covenants. Another restriction they'd not bothered to enforce.

  “Why me, Bug? Why does every decision in running this house have to rest on my shoulders?” At the shift in her legs, he slid off to the seat of the leather couch, scrambling to get a footing. He glared up at her, sniffed, and went to curl up in a corner of the white leather cushion.

  “I'm going now.” Juanita Hernandez, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, made the announcement from the dining room. “I set the table. All you have to do is heat the turkey piccata and the salad is ready for dressing.”

  “Thank you, Juanita.” Elaine picked up the torn-out recipe. “Here is something that looks good for our file.” Juanita, full-time cook, housekeeper, and sometime confidant, crossed to take the paper.

  “Hmm, does look good. You want for tomorrow?”

  “No, I have a dinner meeting tomorrow night, and George has that meeting with the hospital board. He won't come home before that, and the meeting will run late. He'll most likely eat at the hospital.” Elaine turned to look over the couch back. “If you'd like to take tomorrow off, you're welcome to do so.”

  “You sure? Termite man come in the morning.”