The Scarlet Thread (26 page)

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried not

to think about it. “How long can you stay?” she said, hoping Alex

would say as long as she needed him.

“I made reservations for tomorrow.”

She lowered her hands slowly, despair filling her. Alex had

given her three days of his precious time. She supposed she

should be thankful.

“The kids said they want to stay with you.”

“That’s fine,” she said in a brittle voice. She took down a cup

and saucer from the cupboard. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sí.”

She glanced back at him and saw he was still staring into the

backyard. Maybe her mother had meant something to him after

all. She filled another cup and brought both to the table near the

windows.

“Mom and I sat here together only a few weeks ago, before

she was too weak to leave her bed.” The cups rattled slightly as

Sierra set them down and took a seat. “Roy Lubbeck is coming

over at five to go over Mom’s will.”

Alex sat down across from her. “I’ll stay another day or two if

you want me to, Sierra.”

Sure, she thought bitterly, he’d stay and resent every minute of

it. She shook her head.

“What are you going to do about the house?”

“Do?” she said blankly, glancing up at him.

“You’re going to have to rent it out or sell it. You can’t leave it

vacant. The place will fall apart. The garden’s already going to

seed.”

She could feel the blood flowing out of her face. “I grew up in

this house.”

“I know how much the place means to you, Sierra, but you

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have no idea what it costs to keep up a place like this. Your

mother was working on it all the time.”

“I buried my mother this morning, and now you want me to

give up this house?”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s my fault your mother died of

cancer,” he said, his eyes glittering.

“I didn’t, but it would’ve been nice of you to wait a few days

before telling me I should get on with disposing of my mother’s

property!”

“Bien, chiquita.
Take all the time you need. Stay for another

month! Keep the place if you want. I don’t care what you do!”

He scraped his chair back and grated out the rest. “Just don’t expect me to foot the bill for maintenance costs and taxes!” He left

her sitting at the table.

A moment later, Sierra heard the roar of the Cadillac’s engine.

He revved it loudly and then sent gravel flying as he backed out

of the driveway.

Pushing the cup and saucer back, Sierra put her head in her

arms and wept.

Mike pulled his van into the driveway an hour later. Carolyn and

Clanton piled out with their three cousins. After a quick kiss

hello, they went into the family room to watch a movie with their

cousins. Melissa put her hand lightly on Sierra’s shoulder and

then took the lasagna out of the refrigerator and put it into the

oven to warm up.

“Alex drove his mom and dad home,” Mike said, pouring himself a mug of coffee. “He said he was going to stay and visit for a

while, but to tell you he’d be back here before five. You told him

Roy’s coming by?”

“Yes.” Sierra kept her gaze on her cold coffee. “I’m sorry I left

the way I did.”

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Except Alex.

Melissa came back and took the seat Alex had left vacant.

“You look tired, Sierra. Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll wake

you when dinner’s ready.”

Sierra nodded and rose. She felt her brother looking at her and

wondered if he’d guessed how bad things were between her and

Alex. If he did, he was sensitive enough not to say anything.

As she climbed the stairs and walked along the upper hallway,

she glanced at the narrow passageway to the attic. She remembered finding her mother there on the day Alex had turned life

upside down. It hadn’t turned right side up since.

She went up the steps and opened the door. Standing there,

she looked in, amazed at the change.

The attic was swept and dusted, new Nottingham lace curtains

hung over the four small windows. The old sofa had a new forest

green slipcover and four bright throw pillows, two of a deep

golden yellow, two white with embroidered sunflowers and

green ruffles. The coffee table had been refinished. On it were

several old picture albums. The old brass lamp, now polished,

stood between the sofa and her father’s old worn leather recliner.

The walls had been painted pale yellow, the open-beamed ceiling white. On the south wall hung a dozen paintings and pictures.

Sierra took one down. Not recognizing the face, she turned it over

and saw that her mother had written the pertinent historical information on a card and glued it to the newly papered back. She

smiled. Her mother had always been a stickler for detail.

The bookcase where her father’s old files had been stored was

now full of old books. The top three rows were designated for

Mike, among them
Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, The Collected

Works of H. G. Wells, The Earth Abides.
The bottom three were for

her. She pulled out a worn copy of
Little Women
and leafed

through it. Tucking it back in the shelf, she ran her fingers over

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Anne of Avonlea, Daddy Long Legs, Captain from Castile, The Black

Rose
and looked away.

In the far east corner of the attic, standing in a beam of sunlight, was the ornate wood-framed oval mirror. The old braided

rug had been cleaned, the trunk of dress-up clothing repainted

white with tole-painted flowers and leaves. She opened it and

saw everything had been washed, ironed, and neatly folded

away. Nearby was a small bookcase with children’s games and

books.

When she turned around, she saw two distinct stacks against

the west wall, one for Mike, one for her. Her brother’s red Radio

Flyer wagon was neatly packed with other mementos, favorite

books, an old worn teddy bear, a baseball bat and glove. Next to

it were boxes neatly labeled: “College Texts,” “Trophies,”

“Comic books,” “High School Mementos/Block sweater.”

Her own things were sorted, consolidated, and labeled as well,

“Clothing/Prom dress,” “Dolls,” “Scrapbooks/Albums,” “Stuffed

Animals.” In one container was clothing she’d tired of but had

been unwilling to give away. Mary Kathryn McMurray’s trunk

sat next to the new white boxes, a white envelope taped to the

top. “Sierra” was written in her mother’s familiar handwriting.

Sierra removed it and opened it carefully, extracting the note.

My dearest Sierra,

This trunk and all its contents were meant for you. I

read the journal before I sent it and couldn’t help but feel

you and Mary Kathryn McMurray share a great deal in

common. The quilt has a message for you. You may not

see or understand it now, but one day it will come to you

like a star bursting in the heavens. And what a day that

will be!

I love you.

Mom

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metal braces of the trunk. She could smell the linseed oil her

mother had used. Unlatching the top, she opened the trunk. The

scent of mulberry sachets rose and surrounded her. The beautiful antique quilt lay on top, cleaned and carefully refolded. Sierra

lifted it out and saw the gift wrap–covered boxes beneath. In one

was the Indian gift basket. In another were the carved wooden

animals with the note saying they were for Joshua. A blue velvet

box held half a dozen wedding rings, each tagged with a name of

the relative who had worn it. Her throat closed when she found

two tied together with a small tag reading, “Brian Philip

Clanton, Marianna Lovell Edgeworth, married December 21,

1958, in San Francisco.”

Sierra put everything back the way she had found it. She

folded the note and put it on top of the quilt. Closing the lid, she

ran her fingertips over the wood-and-metal braced surface. She

walked to the small attic window and pushed it open. A bracing

spring breeze fluttered the lace curtains.

“I’m no farther away than your heart.”

Grief tore at her, and Sierra went back to the sofa and sat

down. She opened the top album. On the first page were two

pictures of her father as a young man. One showed him with

shoulder-length hair and dressed in worn Levi’s and boots.

Right next to it was another picture of him clean-shaven, hair

shorn, and wearing a policeman’s uniform. She smiled at the

contrast. On the next page were pictures of her mother. In one,

she appeared to be dancing in a meadow. Her arms were outstretched, her head back, her waist-length hair swirling. In another, she sat on a beach gazing pensively out at the surf. There

were pictures of Mike, a bundled baby asleep on his father’s

shoulder, a baby playing in his crib, a toddler playing in the

sandbox in the backyard. On the next page were pictures of

her, wrapped in a blanket in her mother’s arms, another of her

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sitting in a high chair with her face covered with spaghetti, yet

another of her toddling along the cobblestone pathway in the

backyard garden.

Each year was chronicled in pictures. Stretching out on the

sofa, Sierra paged through the albums, seeing her mother and

father in the early years of marriage. She smiled over pictures of

Mike from infancy to his wedding. She went through her album,

reliving memories as she saw herself in the garden with her

mother, playing dress-up with friends in the attic, swimming at

Memorial Beach, playing baseball, wearing her cheerleader’s

uniform. She came across a picture of Alex in cap and gown. She

was standing with him, and they looked at one another with open

adoration. Young love in full bloom. She had forgotten her

mother came to the high school graduation ceremony. Her father

had ignored the invitation. On the next page, she saw herself in

the full bloom of her first pregnancy. The next picture showed

her in a hospital bed, looking tired and happy, Clanton in her

arms. María and Luís were on one side of the bed, her mother

and father on the other. Beneath the picture was written, “Reconciliation.”

Outside the attic window, a nest of baby birds chirped excitedly. Sierra laid the album against her breast and listened. She

knew when the mother bird was close and when it flew away by

the sounds of the chicks. Closing her eyes, she drifted.

“You can’t let it go.” Her mother smiled at her as they both worked on

their knees in the garden. “You need to take notice each day. See how

they’ve come up already. If you give these weeds a day or two, they’ll begin

choking the flowers.” She sat back on her heels and brushed strands of

dark hair back from her temples. She looked young again, healthy and

happy. “It’s like that with life, too, honey.”

Sierra awakened abruptly when the album was lifted from her

chest. Alex stood over her. “Roy Lubbeck is downstairs.”

“Oh,” she said sleepily.

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