The Goodbye Quilt

by Susan Wiggs

  “You should have it, Moll. See, all the fabric comes from things that are familiar to you, stuff I’ve saved over the years. It’s a keepsake. A picture of your life so far.”

  “I know, Mom. Believe me, I know. And I love it for that reason,” she says. “I love you for making it. That quilt is incredible.” She takes a breath, regards me with a wisdom I never knew she possessed. “But it’s not my story, Mom. It’s yours.”

  The clarity and wisdom of her words fills me up completely. She’s looked at the big picture and seen what I never could. I was so focused on each tiny stitch and detail that I didn’t realize what I was creating. What a nutty idea, thinking I could stitch together some kind of patchwork picture of Molly’s life so far. It’s arrogant, too, to presume to tell her story. Because like she says—it’s not a picture of her life. It’s a picture of mine. The best part of mine.

  “What do you want me to do with it?” I ask her.

  “Just don’t leave it here where it could get ruined or lost. Keep it for you and Dad…I don’t know. Mom, it’s so beautiful. It doesn’t belong here. Seriously, you know I’m right.” She holds the folded quilt out to me, handling it with reverence and respect. “You decide.”

  I hesitate, then take the quilt from her, holding it against me, knowing my heart is stitched into every square inch of the piece. Each bit of fabric comes from a vanished but fondly remembered moment in time. All along, I thought it was about Molly, but ultimately, it is about me—the mother I was, the moments I remember, the hopes and dreams in my heart.

  But bring it home? What will I do with it then? It’ll just end up in the old cedar chest, stale and forgotten. For me, the joy of the quilt was in its creation, not in having it. But that doesn’t mean Molly’s obligated to drag it around.

  The last thing she needs is the smothering burden of this blanket I’ve patched together, covered with messages from the past. She wants to create her own story, in her own way, on her own blank canvas.

  That’s the daughter I raised.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Then…” I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “I guess I’d better hit the road.”

  Alarm flashes in Molly’s eyes. It’s finally real to her. I’m leaving, and she’ll soon be all by herself. But she visibly conquers her fear, squelching panic with steely resolve, evident in her posture and the set of her jaw. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  I turn to conduct one last survey of the place that will be her home for the next year. The room isn’t ready. The furniture arrangement isn’t ideal. The book case is too close to the radiator, and there aren’t enough outlets. With every fiber of my being, I want to stay here and fix things, make adjustments, improvements. I force myself to turn away.

  The hallway smells of bleach and fresh paint. Someone is mopping up a spill on the floor. Other parents and kids are moving in, some in weighty silence, others with caffeinated chattiness, a few engaged in low-voiced arguments.

  “You’re not going to lose it, are you, Mom?” Molly asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I might.”

  Molly looks startled. She’s used to being protected, shielded, having troubles glossed over and smoothed out so they don’t snag on her. But as she pointed out to me earlier, she is a young adult now, old enough to know her mother is not infallible. She swore she didn’t need me running interference for her at every turn.

  “Check it out,” she says, bracing her hands on the windowsill. A cluster of students has gathered in the old yard below. “I think that’s the meeting point for the orientation groups. It’s geeky, but I kind of want to go.”

  We step out into the sunny afternoon. I feel a piercing sweetness deep in my heart. A barely dammed river of tears pushes against my chest.

  “If you cry,” Molly warns, “I’ll cry, too.”

  “Then we’ll both cry.” And we do, but somehow we manage to stop, regaining control by focusing on the long line of departing cars.

  “I’ve got that orientation meeting,” she says, pressing her sleeve across her eyes.

  “And I need to get going, too. Maybe miss the traffic heading out of the city.”

  “That information packet lists some local places to stay,” Molly points out. “I mean, if you don’t feel like a big drive today…”

  “I’m kind of eager to head back to your dad and Hoover,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is that I can’t face a night at the Colonial Inn with its stupid plaster lamplighters in three-corner hats, knowing Molly is only a short walk away. The temptation to go check on her would be too great and prolong the pain of separation. I plan to drive a couple hundred miles, take a long soak in the hotel hot tub, then phone Molly from a safe distance.

  The breeze that sweeps through the quadrangle smells of autumn. A few yellow leaves flutter down with lazy grace. Students and statues populate the ancient, broad lawns laid out centuries before by idealists who embraced order and harmony.

  The grassy yard is crisscrossed by walkways littered with new-fallen leaves. Long-bodied boys lie with their heads cushioned on overstuffed backpacks, their noses poked into dog-eared novels. Girls with sweaters draped over their shoulders sit cross-legged in small groups, engaged in earnest debate.

  All up and down the street, there is the sound of car doors slamming shut, farewells being called out.

  Molly and I walk to the SUV, which is now as mpty as an abandoned campsite. My lone suitcase lies in the back alongside the parcel filled with my new clothes. I place the quilt back in its bag and set it down next to the glossy sack from the department store. The thing is coming home with me after all, it seems. Maybe I’ll finish it this fall.

  “So, okay,” Molly says uncertainly. Her eyes dart here and there; she does not look at me. “Thanks for driving with me, Mom. Thanks for everything.”

  “Sure, honey. Promise you’ll call if you need anything, anything at all. I’ll have my cell phone on, 24/7.” I touch her arm, feeling its shape beneath my fingers. Then I give up pretending to be casual. No point trying to minimize the moment. “Oh, baby. I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “Me, too, Mom.”

  Everything I need to say crowds into my throat—eighteen years of advice, guidance, warning, teaching. And it overwhelms me. It is too much…and not enough. Have I forgotten something important? Have I taught her to do laundry and balance her checkbook? To write thank-you notes by hand? Turn off the coffee maker when it’s done? To fend off a horny guy and to contest an unfair grade? To look in the mirror and like what she sees?

  There is so much to say. And so I say nothing. There was a time when eighteen years felt like for ever, or at least more than enough time to cover every possible topic, but I was wrong about that. I can only hope Dan and I equipped her to make the right choices.

  I am amazed to feel something new. I don’t want to spout out any more advice or commentary. I want life to happen for Molly in all its pain and joy and richness, revealing itself moment by moment, unfiltered by a mother’s intervention. An unexpected, settled feeling creeps in. There are things she knows that will hold and keep her, whether or not I am there. Finally, I’m starting to trust that.

  I want her to be on her own. This is what she is supposed to do. It’s the natural progression of things. Dan and I have given her everything we have. Now it is time for her to fly, seek new mentors, find her place in the world. I think about all the things that will happen to Molly. Things that will bring her joy and break her heart, make her laugh, cry, rage, exult. I wish I could protect her from the rough parts, but I know I can’t. And really, I shouldn’t.

  The essence of life is the journey, unblunted by an overprotective parent. There is a richness Molly will find even in the deepest sadness. She has a beautiful future ahead of her. Sticking around, interfering and shielding her will rob her of something she needs to figure out on her own. I don’t want to stand in the way. Life as it unfolds is just too incredible.

&nb
sp; She knows we will always be here for her. Our lives are forever entwined. And yes, she’s going to suffer a broken heart and face disappointment and make bad decisions and do all those other things we humans do, but she’ll survive them. She’s smart and big-hearted and deeply resourceful, probably more than I know, though on this trip I’ve seen glimpses.

  “You’re going to be incredible,” I finally say. “I’m so happy for you.” I am, but I had no idea happiness could hurt so much.

  This is it. This is really it. This is goodbye. Suddenly I don’t care that there are people all over the place, people who are going to be Molly’s friends and neighbors for the next four years. I take my daughter’s face between my hands and stare into the eyes I know so well, into a soul that is as bright and clear as the September sky.

  She’s going to soar, I’m certain of it. Higher than she or I can ever imagine. “Goodbye, Molly,” I say. “Goodbye, my precious girl.”

  Smiling mouth. Trembling chin. “’Bye, Mom.”

  I kiss her soft cheek, and we embrace, a long strong hug, filled with the wistful scent of autumn and of herbal shampoo. “You are golden,” I whisper to my daughter, quoting one of our favorite songs. “You are sunshine.” We pull back, smiling, eyes shining.

  “I’ll call you tonight, okay?” I tell her.

  “That’d be great, Mom.”

  One more kiss. A squeeze of the hands. With slow deliberation, I climb into the truck, roll down the window. We hold hands again while I start the engine. Then I put the car in Drive and let go. Our fingers cling for a heartbeat, then slide apart.

  In the rearview mirror I can see Molly standing on the sidewalk, as slender and graceful as the turning trees of the old college yard. Golden leaves fly upward on a gust of wind, swirling around her lone form. My daughter stands very still, and just as the truck turns the corner onto the busy avenue, she raises one hand, waving goodbye.

  Tapping the horn to acknowledge the wave, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  I set the iPod to a mix of quiet songs. The first one is a classic, from my dating days with Dan. As the music plays, I head for the interstate, tears still escaping to soak into the neckline of my sweatshirt. I flex my hands on the steering wheel, set my jaw. So what if I’m crying. I’m the mother. I get to cry if I want to.

  The traffic flows like a viscous liquid, undemanding, carrying me swiftly away from the city, the car a fallen leaf in a rushing stream.

  As the city fades away behind me, I picture Molly in her freshly painted dorm room, unpacking her belongings, putting her new sheets on the narrow iron-frame bed, propping up snapshots of her friends and family, her dog and Travis, shelving books and supplies, plugging in the computer, organizing her things. Eventually she will come across the covered plastic box I filled with her favorite snacks—microwave popcorn, granola bars, Life-savers, pecan sandies, canned juices, cinnamon-flavored gum. Inside she will find a familiar note scribbled on a paper napkin: a little smiling cartoon mommy, with squiggles to represent the hair, and a message that will remind her of all the homemade lunches of her childhood: “I U. Love, Mommy.”

  I think about giving Dan a call and I will, but not just yet. This moment is too raw, but it’s mine to feel—the bittersweet triumph, the sadness, the hope. On this leg of the journey, there will be no detour or scenic route as I make my way home. Home, to Dan, who said he can’t wait to see me.

  Home, to a life that is open like the pages of an unread book. Yes.

  I’m ready to live my life. Okay, maybe I’m a little scared, but in a good way. I want to discover who I am on my own, what I love beyond the obvious, and what I really want for the rest of my life.

  At the west end of the city, I pass a suburban strip mall I remember from the day before, with the Crowning Glory Salon, the delicious-smelling Sweet Dreams bakery and the charity called New Beginnings. The charity is closed for the day but there’s a big metal donation box in the front. Under the Web address for the charity is its slogan: “Comforting women and children in need.”

  On impulse, I turn into the parking lot, go around to the back of the Suburban and open the gate. Molly’s observation drifts back to me: This is about your life, Mom.

  I stand there for a minute, thinking about the woman I’ve been for the past eighteen years and wondering who I’ll be for the next eighteen. It’s a bit scary to contemplate, but exciting, too.

  When I grab the parcel, my resolve wavers. Then I think, go for it. The true meaning of charity is to give freely, no strings attached. I have to let go, only trusting that my gift will be out there in the world somewhere, doing whatever it’s bound to do.

  And then I push the bag into the drop box, having to shove its soft bulk inch by inch through the narrow slot. At first I worry that it won’t go down the chute, and I have to push hard. Then the last bit slips through easily and disappears.

  Stenciled under the chute are the words, “Thank you for your donation.”

  I return to the still-running car. Something stirs inside me, a sensation as empty and light as the curling, cup-shaped leaves lifted by the autumn wind.

  Stopping at the last red light before the on-ramp to the interstate, I catch the blinding beam of the late afternoon sun in my eye. The days of summer have grown shorter. The year is getting old already.

  I flip down the sun visor, and a stray slip of paper drifts into my lap. Picking it up, I unfold it and see a little smiling cartoon face, corkscrew squiggles for hair, and a note that says, “I U. Love, Molly.”

  Epilogue

  The shop called Pins & Needles looks the way it always has, since its founding decades ago. Its brick and concrete façade glows in the evening light, the windows framed with swaths of fabric. The holidays are past and winter has settled in. The air is sweet and dry with the peculiar clarity that the winter cold brings. The shop is open late tonight, but there is no business to be done.

  In the window is a hand-lettered sign: “Retirement Party. Come celebrate with us.”

  Standing behind the counter, I feel as if I’m glowing, too, with a sense of happiness and fulfillment. All around me are my customers, the women who frequent the shop, talking together and sharing all the events of their lives. They’ve brought platters of cookies and a crystal bowl filled with punch. Minerva, now in a wheelchair, beams at me. “It’s a good time to move on, eh?”

  “I can’t believe it’s been twenty-five years,” says my best friend, Erin, as she gives me a hug. “Happy retirement, Linda.”

  I can’t believe it either, sometimes. All those years ago, when I struggled with myself after taking Molly to college, the answer was staring me in the face. I didn’t need a bag full of gorgeous new clothes to find my new life. They did more good giving someone else a fresh start; donating the brand-new things to the women’s shelter was the right thing to do. Dan loves me as I am. The women at Pins & Needles do, too. I just needed to be the person I’ve always been—a wife, a friend and neighbor, a needleworker, a dabbler.

  The proof is here before me now, a warmhearted shop filled with women I’ve come to know like sisters through the years. Minerva, who celebrated her ninetieth last year, has been my mentor. As the festivities go on, Molly and her husband arrive, their three kids in tow, and suddenly my arms are filled with grandchildren. The sweetness of this moment makes my heart expand with joy. Dan comes over, laughing about being outnumbered by females. He’s as strong and handsome as the day I met him nearly fifty years ago, wearing his age like a fine patina. He raises a cup of punch to me. “I knew you could do it, but now I can’t wait to have you all to my self.” Still a man of few words, he retreats with our son-in-law to forage for snacks and to escape the chattering women.

  After Molly left for college, I missed her terribly, but my life took a new turn and opened up in new ways. I found a dream of my own and went for it. Running the quilt shop didn’t make me a rich woman, not in the financial sense. But it enriched my life beyond measure, and I can
see that so clearly now, looking around at the faces of my family and friends, customers and well-wishers. The big changes can’t be seen, only felt.

  Molly gives me a hug and steps back, her eyes shining. “Happy retirement, Mom. I’m really proud of you.”

  Her words light me up like sunshine, as they always have. We turn together to the display wall behind the counter, regarding the quilt, the one I was making for Molly so long ago. She had it right all along—it was my story, and it wasn’t finished.

  Family. History. Love and loss. I’ve touched every inch of this fabric. It’s absorbed my scent and the invisible oils of my skin, the smell of our household, the occasional drop of blood, and sometimes my tears. I’ve added to the piece through the years; it’s an ever-expanding record of our days as a family. There’s a swatch from Molly’s graduation gown, and a ribbon from the table decorations on her wedding day. There’s a piece from her husband’s desert fatigues, and little precious bits from my grandchildren. A tiny silver bell marks our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I’m already wondering what little symbol will commemorate our golden anniversary. I try not to plan ahead. Why rob life of its surprises?

  I plan to take the quilt home with me tonight, and no doubt more keepsakes will make their way into the design. Life has taught me not to be afraid of starting something new.

  How do you say goodbye to a piece of your heart? You don’t ever have to. There’s always a way to keep the things we hold most dear.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m very fortunate to have a publisher that allows me to put my heart on paper. Many thanks to my editor and great friend, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, and to everyone at MIRA Books. As always, I’m indebted to Meg Ruley, Annelise Robey and their associates at the Jane Rotrosen Agency—your wisdom, patience and friendship mean the world to me.

  To my fellow writers—Anjali Banerjee, Kate Breslin, Carol Cassella, Sheila Roberts and Suzanne Selfors—thank you so much for reading multiple drafts and helping me pull this patchwork of emotion together.