The Beach Quilt (12 page)

The waiting room was pretty much like every other waiting room Sarah had ever been in. Prints in pastel colors hung on the walls—a seascape; a white house with a big front porch; a field of lavender. There were stacks of magazines on the side tables; in this case, Sarah noted immediately, lots of parenting magazines and not many copies of
Time
and none at all of
Sports Illustrated
. A watercooler stood in one corner, next to a large potted plant (plastic). Bland music played softly from a sound system. A jumble of plastic toys and a handful of board books were crammed onto two low shelves, in easy reach of toddlers' grasping hands.

The doctor, the receptionist explained, was running late.

“Doctors are always running late,” Cindy murmured, as they turned away from the desk.

They took seats next to each other. Her mother flipped through a home decorating magazine. Sarah couldn't even pretend to pretend interest in anything but her thoughts, not even the homework that was stashed in the backpack she had brought in from the car.

She felt hugely self-conscious. Even though she wasn't showing yet, she wondered if all of the other women in the waiting room suspected that
she
was the one who was pregnant. Her mom wasn't too old to have another baby, but why would a mother bring her teenage daughter to the ob-gyn with her? It probably wasn't unheard of, but it probably wasn't the norm, either.
But then again,
Sarah thought,
what do I know about anything?
And maybe not one of these women cared a whit about her.

Except for that woman across the room, the one wearing a very fluffy sweater Sarah thought might be cashmere. She had definitely shot a smug look Sarah's way. Or maybe it had been a look of pity. Either way, it made Sarah vaguely angry.

“I'm going to the ladies' room,” she whispered to her mother. She didn't really have to go—and she thought that she probably should wait in case the doctor needed a urine sample—but she just couldn't sit there another moment longer, speculating.

There was one other person in the ladies' room, a very pretty and very slim woman. She was dressed in a red blouse and a black skirt and black pumps.

Sarah smiled at her. The woman looked away and went into one of the stalls. Sarah didn't take offense. She figured the woman must really need to use the bathroom.

A moment or two later, Sarah emerged from her stall and went to one of the two sinks. The woman in the red blouse stood at the other.

“Hi,” Sarah said.

The woman did not respond. She kept her head down and her eyes focused on her hands as she washed them thoroughly.

Sarah was sure the woman had heard her. They were standing less than three feet from each other. So why then had she not responded? Why had she avoided looking directly at her? Did she sense that Sarah was pregnant? It wasn't as if she was contagious!

Cheeks flaming, Sarah continued to wash her hands. Maybe the woman in the red blouse was the sort of person who believed in moral corruption through proximity. Sarah had read about that idea. In the not so terribly distant past a “good” woman was forbidden to socialize with a woman who had “fallen.” It seemed truly unbelievable that such an absurd superstition could exist today. But in every age, there was the type of person who rode around on a moral high horse (that was her father's phrase), condemning anyone who had “sinned.” Maybe that was what was wrong with the woman in the red blouse. In which case, Sarah thought, there wasn't much chance of her coming around to a more loving mind-set without a good old-fashioned miracle.

Sarah remained at the sink until the woman had left the ladies' room before going back to the waiting room. Her mother smiled at her as she sank into her seat.

“You okay?” she asked. “You were gone a long time.”

Sarah nodded. She was far from okay, but what was the point in complaining?

When,
she thought,
will the doctor finally see me?
She fought the urge to bolt from the waiting room and run and run until . . .

Stop it, Sarah,
she told herself.
Just—stop it.

Sarah took another quick look at the other women in the room. They were all significantly older than she was. Every one of them had a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. One woman was dressed more stylishly than anyone Sarah had ever seen in Yorktide, aside from a few of the summer tourists who came into The Busy Bee.

Sarah looked down at her own naked hand and the faded T-shirt and hoodie she was wearing over a pair of jeans her mother had said she could adapt when the time came by sewing in a stretchy panel. There would be no fancy maternity clothes for her. But there was nothing to stop her from wearing a simple band on her finger, was there?

Sarah fought an urge to giggle. She was losing her mind. It was a ludicrous idea. She would be fooling no one. And even if someone
did
believe she was married and asked about her husband, Sarah would be forced to admit that the ring was a ruse. What was that line from Sir Walter Scott one of her English teachers used to quote all the time? “Oh, what a tangled web we weave/when first we practice to deceive.”

“Sarah Bauer?”

It was a nurse, a smiling middle-aged woman in lilac scrubs.

“Yes,” Sarah said, rising. “That's me.”
And that confirms it
, she thought, following her mother out of the waiting room.
Now everyone knows for sure that I'm the mother-to-be
.

The brown skirt with the forest green blouse and the gold brocade jacket. Adelaide decided that would do nicely for her appointment at the home of a family in South Berwick. Paula Fleming said she had a hundred-year-old quilt she would like to sell. Adelaide half dreaded these excursions. Sometimes, if rarely, the quilts were in good shape. Other times, they were in regrettably poor shape, and sometimes they were simply unsalvageable. No quilt owner wanted to hear that the precious family heirloom had no monetary value. If only more people knew how to properly store and clean and repair fabrics!

Well,
Adelaide thought, fastening a pendant around her neck,
maybe this excursion will prove to be one of the more happy ones.
Maybe she would have something positive to tell Cindy upon her return.

Poor Cindy. Adelaide couldn't help but wonder if Cindy had known that Sarah was having sex with Justin. She couldn't help but wonder if Cindy had tried to get her daughter on the pill. But she wouldn't ask. How could she? It would sound as if she was judging her friend, looking for a way to blame her for what had happened.

Still, she couldn't help but feel a bit angry with Cindy. It was a misplaced anger, she knew, it was self-righteousness, not to be acted on unless she wanted to inflict terrible damage to their friendship. And she did not.

But she had told Jack what she was feeling. He, too, was deeply saddened by Sarah's situation. And the night before, in bed, Jack had also admitted to feeling some anger toward the Bauers.

In spite of her own misgivings, Adelaide had pointed out that a parent could only do so much.

“But
did
they? Did they do enough?” he retorted.

Adelaide sighed. “We can't know that. We don't have a right to ask. Besides, what would we do with the information? Punish them if it wasn't what we wanted to hear? Cut ties with them?”

“Of course not. You're right. I'm just so frustrated.”

They had turned out the light soon afterward, but Adelaide had lain awake for what seemed like hours, reliving memories of her first pregnancy, and remembering how vastly it had differed from the second pregnancy, when expectations had been high, knowing the outcome would be so vastly different.

Adelaide checked her watch. She had better get a move on if she wasn't to be late for her appointment. She went down to the kitchen and took three ibuprofen as a precaution against what she had taken to calling her “adoption headaches.”

Still, even before learning of Sarah's pregnancy, not a week had gone by, not three days in a row, when she hadn't thought of the child she had given up with such a mixture of hope and despair. She wondered if he had grown up an only child or if he had siblings. Did he have grandparents who had spoiled him and a favorite uncle who took him for rides in his cool car? Had his father coached his Little League team? Had her son been a Boy Scout? Had his mother (and here in her thoughts, Adelaide always flinched) sang him to sleep after a bad dream, bandaged his scraped knees after a fall, sent him off with a note and his favorite sandwich to help ease the fear of the first day of school? Had both parents cheered madly when he graduated from college, which, being twenty-one, he might very well just have done?

Adelaide grabbed her bag off the kitchen counter and checked to be sure the coffeemaker was turned off. Then, she fetched her coat, boots, hat, and gloves from the front hall closet.

God, she thought, as she locked the front door behind her, how she hoped that her son had had a normal, healthy, happy, and loving childhood! If she had inadvertently given him up to a worse life than he might have had with her, well, she was pretty certain she wouldn't be able to live with that knowledge.

“I picked up the folic acid tablets at the pharmacy today,” Cindy said.

Sarah looked up from a pamphlet the doctor had given her on exercise during pregnancy. “Okay. Thanks.”

“And it says here you're supposed to be eating lots of fruits and veggies. Well, you already do. And Dr. Westin said you're already in peak health. Blood pressure is a good low and the blood tests all came back fine. I guess you should just keep doing what you're doing.”

“It's a good thing I'm not addicted to Twinkies,” Sarah said with a small smile.

Cindy pretended to shudder. “You can thank me for that. I wouldn't allow them in the house for a million dollars.”

“Really? A million dollars?”

Cindy thought. That kind of money would go a long way toward feeding, clothing, and educating a baby. “Well, okay,” she said. “For a million dollars but not for a penny less. Anyway, you liked the doctor, didn't you?”

Sarah nodded. “Yes. I was afraid she might be judgmental or something. But she was so nice.”

“And I was glad to know that Dr. Westin has two little ones of her own. I always like when a doctor can share in your personal experience.”

“But you wouldn't want your cancer specialist to have cancer, would you?” Sarah pointed out.

“Oh, gosh, no!” Cindy said. “I wouldn't want anyone to be sick for my sake! But when it comes to women's things, it's comforting to be cared for by another woman who knows at least a bit of what you might be going through.”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “I guess.”

Cindy looked with concern at her daughter. “Are you sure you don't want to join a support group for young mothers?” she asked. “There are several very good services nearby. I think it might be a very good idea. So did Dr. Westin.”

“I'm sure,” Sarah said promptly. “Thanks.”

“If you change your mind . . .”

“I'll let you know, Mom.”

“Okay,” Cindy said, though she doubted that Sarah would change her mind.
One battle at a time,
she thought.
It's all either of us can handle.
“So I was thinking that it would be a really nice idea to make a communal quilt for the baby.”

“What do you mean by communal?” Sarah asked.

“I mean that you and I and Adelaide and Cordelia would design and make it together. Sometimes we'll meet to work, and at other times, each of us can do her work on her own.”

Sarah looked dubious. “I've never been very good with sewing. I don't have the dexterity or something.”

“Well, you could contribute ideas. I really think it would be a good creative project for us all.”

“What about Stevie?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, of course, Stevie, too. If she wants to.”

God,
Cindy thought,
I can't forget about Stevie in all this.
She can't become a victim of neglect. Cindy suddenly remembered a family she knew growing up, a nice family with three kids. When the oldest boy was about eleven or twelve, he had been diagnosed with a fast-growing cancer. By the time he was in remission (and he had gone on, as far as Cindy knew, to high school and college by the time she lost track of him), his younger brother, never a problem until then, had been sent off to a juvenile detention center for a series of offenses, and his sister, a quiet, studious sort, had retreated into a severe case of anorexia that eventually took her life.

Maybe it had all been a coincidence, the two younger siblings falling apart while their parents were completely absorbed in the trauma that had befallen their oldest child. But maybe it hadn't been a coincidence. Cindy wasn't about to take chances with her own family.

“You'll enjoy making a quilt,” she said now, taking her daughter's hand. “We all will. I promise.”

Cordelia and Stevie were in Cordelia's bedroom. It was the first time Stevie had been there; in fact, Cordelia was pretty sure it was the first time Stevie had been in the Kane house without either Sarah or one of her parents.

Cordelia had seen Stevie, Clarissa perched on her shoulder, passing her house and had hurried out to say hello. Her mother wasn't at home, so inviting them both in was probably okay, as long as she vacuumed and used that special furniture polish that cut down on animal dander before her mother returned so she wouldn't have a sneezing fit.

Clarissa was a small, slim tortoiseshell with enormous, very round eyes. (Cordelia thought she looked like a lemur, but she kept that opinion to herself, unsure of how Stevie—and Clarissa—would take it.) Clarissa was smarter than a lot of people Cordelia knew; at least, she was more curious and clever. She could open doors and drawers; she recognized words and followed directions (really—you had to see it to believe it!); and she always knew exactly when Stevie was coming home, no matter the time of day, no matter if Stevie's arrival was random and off schedule. Moments before Stevie put her key in the lock, Clarissa was waiting just inside the front door to greet her. Cordelia thought Clarissa's love of traveling around on Stevie's shoulder strangely exotic. Maybe Clarissa was the reincarnation of some much-beloved pet of an Egyptian princess....

“The room's kind of a mess right now,” Cordelia explained, gesturing at the pile of dirty clothing in a corner. “Well, actually, it's always kind of a mess.”

“It's very, um, bright in here,” Stevie said. She was sitting on the edge of one of the beds. Clarissa was still perched on her left shoulder, four dainty paws drawn closely together. Cordelia sat on the other bed.

“You mean all the pink and purple? Yeah. I'm thinking maybe I should change the color scheme. I mean, it's been this way forever.”

“Change it to what?”

Cordelia shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe cobalt blue and emerald green? Neon yellow and hot orange?”

“You're not into mellow, are you?” Stevie noted. “Or, like, neutrals.”

“Mellow and neutral are not my style. Sarah says the room gives her a headache.”

Stevie laughed. “Colors not found in nature, she'd probably say.”

“Speaking of Sarah, has she heard anything from Justin?”

“Nope.”

“I'm glad he's gone,” Cordelia said, “though I suppose it would have been good if he'd stuck around to help Sarah.”

“He's too lazy to be of much help,” Stevie said with conviction. “He might try, but he'd give up pretty soon.”

Cordelia thought about that for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. “You're probably right.”

“I think he thought I was some kind of a joke.”

“What do you mean?” Cordelia asked.

“He was always making these stupid, teasing comments about my clothes and jewelry. He thought I was Goth. I am not Goth. I'm not
anything
. I mean, I'm just me.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, Justin isn't the most perceptive guy around.”

“And he called me Steve-o.” Stevie's disgust was evident in her tone. “I think that's some guy comedian who blows things up or something.”

“Justin is so dumb.”

“I still can't believe my sister went out with him.”

“Yeah, well, me neither,” Cordelia admitted. “But people do weird things all the time.”

“Not people like Sarah. Not usually.”

“I know.” Cordelia, who tried to be a fair person, considered for a moment. “Justin is kind of good-looking,” she said then, “if you like that sort of hunky guy thing. Maybe that's why she was drawn to him.”

Stevie made a face. “I never thought my sister would go out with a guy just for his looks.”

“No. There must have been something else. I asked her, you know. Straight out, what do you see in him? Back when they were dating.”

“What did she say?” Stevie asked.

“Not much,” Cordelia admitted. “She said that he was nice. And funny. Though I never heard him make a good joke.”

“That doesn't seem like enough of a reason to go out with someone, does it? That he's nice and funny.”

Cordelia shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe for some people it's plenty. Like if you're lonely or something.”

“I never thought of Sarah as lonely. She
likes
to be alone!”

“I know,” Cordelia said. “But lonely isn't the same thing as being alone. Anyway, it's too late for explanations. I mean, he's gone and what's done is done and all that.”

“Sarah Bauer and Justin Morrow, a mystery for the ages.”

Cordelia laughed. “I guess so. Definitely not one of the great love stories, like Romeo and Juliet. Well, maybe that's a good thing. I mean, they both wound up dead.”

Stevie reached up to lay a hand on Clarissa, who purred loudly in acknowledgment. “Though Justin will never really be gone, will he?” she said musingly. “You said he was gone, but that's not really true. Part of him will be here with us, in the baby. And he could always decide to come back, couldn't he? He
is
the biological father. He must have some legal rights.”

“I don't really know,” Cordelia admitted. “Honestly, I don't even want to think about it.”

“Me neither. But I can't
help
but think about it,” Stevie said vehemently. “And I hate him for it. For coming into our lives and ruining them like this. For doing what he did to my sister. He's like this bad thing hovering over us now. A dark cloud. An incubus. And he'll be there for the rest of our lives!”

Sensing Stevie's agitation, Clarissa had begun to purr loudly and rub her delicate face against Stevie's head.

Cordelia felt bad she had brought up the painful topic of Justin. “Oh,” she said. And then, “Look, Stevie, Justin isn't evil. Just stupid. And he's not, like, powerful and brilliant. He doesn't even have any money. He can't boss your family around. He's nothing to be afraid of. I'm not even sure he's worth hating.” Frankly, Cordelia didn't think anyone was worth hating. Much.

Stevie clenched her hands into fists on her lap. “You don't understand,” she said fiercely. “It's not your sister who's pregnant with his baby.”

Cordelia felt a teeny twinge of annoyance—how dare anyone doubt that she was very concerned about Sarah!—but then she thought about what Stevie had said. “You're right,” she agreed. “Sarah is my best friend and always will be, but she's not my sister. I can't feel exactly what you're feeling. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, you have nothing to be sorry about! I feel like I'm being a total drama queen these days.”

“Well, it
is
kind of a dramatic thing.”

Stevie gave a harsh little laugh. “Dramatic enough for a television show.
Teen Moms of Southern Maine.
”

“Ugh. What a nightmare.”

A long moment of silence followed this pronouncement. Finally, Stevie said, “Maybe you should consider black.”

“What?” Cordelia asked, startled out of her thoughts. (In her mind's usual jumping bean way, she had been thinking not about Sarah, but about what her mother would be making for dinner.)

“For your room. A black scheme, maybe with some white and gray accents.”

Cordelia was genuinely appalled. “Uh . . .” she said.

Stevie got to her feet—cat still attached to her shoulder—and grinned. “Just kidding. I'd better be going. It's my turn to set the table and stuff.”

“Thanks,” Cordelia said when Stevie had reached the door. “For talking.”

Stevie nodded. “You too.”

Clarissa yawned and flicked her tail.