The Beach Quilt (26 page)

“Finally!” Cordelia cried, the moment the door had closed behind the most recent customer. “I thought she would never stop talking!”

“Yeah, but she did buy a lot of stuff,” Sarah pointed out. “She spent almost one hundred dollars. That's pretty major.”

“I guess. But I would so rather be at the beach or lying out on my deck or shopping,” Cordelia grumbled.

Sarah bit back a smile. “Don't you appreciate the money? You can't go shopping without money.”

“Well, there is that,” Cordelia admitted. “But working is so boring! Doing inventory is boring. Wrapping packages and stocking shelves is boring!”

“Okay, not all of it is—stimulating. But it could be a lot worse. We could be working for awful bosses instead of our moms.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “All right, there is that, too. Still.”

“And it is kind of fun, working on the quilt for the baby when there are no customers. Don't you think so?”

“Yeah, quilting isn't half as bad as I thought it would be, except when I drop the needle! The quilt's going to be really pretty. I love how we're doing the white beach roses against the cream background.”

“And the customers, most of them anyway, are pretty pleasant.”

Cordelia laughed. “Okay, you convinced me! Working at The Busy Bee is a lot nicer than working for, say, some big grocery store. You know Willy, from Mr. Davis's class? He bags at Hannaford. He told me that one time this customer made him repack her groceries three times before she was satisfied. Can you imagine? And he couldn't say anything to her because the customer is always right, or at least, they're supposed to be.”

“Well, if a customer here was obnoxious, we couldn't say anything in protest, either,” Sarah pointed out.

“But we could tell my mom and then, look out! She's banned people from the store, you know.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. One summer there was this woman who came in every single day for a week. She would spend almost twenty minutes browsing and never buy a thing. Then on the Friday, she came in, but about two minutes later she kind of hurried to the door. I don't know how my mom knew, but she was sure the woman had lifted something so she shouted after her and then ran to the door and blocked it.”

“Oh my God,” Sarah said. “What happened?”

Cordelia laughed. “I was terrified there was going to be a fight—like, what if the woman was crazy?—but all that happened was that the woman handed over a package of needles she had stuffed in her bag. My mom told her never to come back or she would call the police.”

“So she never came back.”

“Right. The really weird thing was that she didn't look like a criminal or a troublemaker. She looked like a perfectly respectable middle-aged woman. She was wearing nice clothes and had this big diamond ring.”

“Maybe she was a kleptomaniac,” Sarah suggested.

“Or maybe it was a dare! Maybe her perfectly respectable friends put her up to it!”

“It just goes to show that you can't judge a book by its cover.”

“Appearances are deceiving. I know.”

Sarah smiled ruefully. “Like me. I know some people, maybe most people, look at me and think I'm a stupid, irresponsible kid.”

“Which you are not!”

“Well, maybe I am, in some ways. But I don't really believe that about myself, not entirely. Anyway, I want people to look at me and see a person who's sworn to be a good mom, someone who's smart and someone who's really sorry for making a stupid mistake.”

Cordelia groaned. “Oh my God, Sarah, you've got to stop blaming yourself, really! Accidents happen.”

“But a lot of times they can be prevented.”

“Life isn't a commercial for an insurance company, Sarah.”

Sarah laughed. “What?”

“You know what I mean. You've seen those ads on television that say, do this and your house won't go on fire and your insurance rates won't go up. Don't do that because you'll run your car into a tree and your insurance rates
will
go up. In real life, well, sometimes you can do everything the way you're supposed to, and stuff can still mess up.”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “You're right. Life
is
random. But that doesn't mean people don't feel guilt. It doesn't mean that people
shouldn't
feel guilt. People are responsible for the majority of their lives.”

“Maybe. But you still have to give yourself a break sometimes. Like, okay, I made a mistake, I forgive myself, I won't do it again, move on.”

“You sound like a life coach or one of those self-help gurus.”

“So what if I do?” Cordelia said a bit defensively.

“So nothing. Thanks, Cordelia. I
do
appreciate your support. Really.”

“Rats.”

Adelaide had brought her laptop to the kitchen table to read her e-mail. She frowned at her in-box. There was a message from her mother in Florida, occasioning the all too familiar stab of guilt. When had she last spoken to her mother? It had to have been at least two months ago. Then again, she hadn't heard from either of her parents in that time. But wasn't it the duty of the adult child to make the contact?

With a sigh, Adelaide opened the e-mail. There was the usual update about life in Palm Hills. Her parents had won first place in a couples' tennis tournament. Her father had a cold, nothing serious. The neighbors to the right had put up an illegal awning and the neighbors to the left had brought the matter to the condo board. Adelaide felt a sort of unpleasant lethargy descend over her as she read the uninteresting details of her parents' life in retirement.

The next paragraph proved far more interesting.

“Oh,” her mother wrote, “I thought you might be interested to know this. Last week I saw a piece in the
New York Times
about the father of your son. I'm sure you could still find the article online. He seems to have made quite a good job of his life, which he certainly could not have accomplished if he had been burdened with a wife and child at the age of eighteen. Smart man.”

Adelaide's hands began to shake, and she felt hot all over. She knew without a doubt that she should not read on, that she should immediately delete her mother's e-mail. But, as with a gruesome accident that tempts viewing, Adelaide read on.

“After having seen that article,” her mother wrote, “I can't help but think that without that unfortunate incident in your past burdening your progress like some dead weight you might have chosen to marry someone with Michael's drive and talent. But then again, that's just a mother's opinion, and the past is the past.”

Adelaide sat back in her chair. The cruelty of her mother's remarks hit her like a sharp slap across the face. She didn't feel angry—that would come later, no doubt. What she felt was the nauseating shock that comes when someone you thought loved or even simply liked you lashed out at you without obvious provocation. It undermined so much of what you took to be true—that you were a decent person and that other people knew and acknowledged that you were a decent person.

To bring up that awful, painful time in her daughter's life and in such a seemingly casual but obviously deliberate way seemed to Adelaide like something impossible to forgive. Like something impossible, too, for her mother to explain or to justify. What purpose could it possibly have served other than to wound? And why did her mother, after all these years, feel the need to wound her daughter? Adelaide had done what she was told and had given up her baby. Her mother had not been inconvenienced. Her lifestyle had not been disturbed.

Adelaide closed her eyes and took a deep breath. At that moment she couldn't imagine sharing this shame and her hurt with anyone, not even with Jack. Amazingly, stunningly, her own mother had succeeded in intruding into her marriage, damaging the emotional intimacy she usually shared so easily with her husband. Her mother had hit the send key in Florida, and the bullet had hit its target all the way up north in Maine.

Finally, Adelaide opened her eyes and hit the delete button. She felt that she might never be able to talk to her mother again. What was there to say, after that missive? “Thanks, Mom, for your opinion”?

It was ridiculous of course, to allow her mother to disturb her peace of mind so badly. She was an adult with a husband and child to care for and a business to run. She was no longer that frightened seventeen-year-old, desperate for someone to help her, desperate for someone to save her from having to make a very tough decision.

But a mother, especially an unkind one, was a powerful force to defend against. Adelaide got up from the table to make a cup of tea. As she was spooning sugar into her cup, she remembered Cordelia's anger at her grandparents for their part in pushing the adoption. Could she have contacted her grandparents to reproach them? Could Nancy Morgan's e-mail be an act of retaliation?

No. Adelaide dismissed the idea. Cordelia would never take a step that might backfire on her mother, no matter how angry she felt. It wasn't in Cordelia to want to wound. She was suffering right now, but Adelaide was sure she would get past the pain or the confusion or whatever it was she was feeling.

Adelaide dropped the spoon and put her hand to her head. Although sometimes, as she knew all too well, pain and confusion could last forever.

Cindy stood at the living room window, peering down at the end of the road. It was a very hot and very humid day. She was worried about Sarah being out under the burning sun. She hoped she had put on plenty of sunblock. She hoped she had worn a wide-brimmed hat and high socks for protection against the tics. She hoped she had thought to bring water with her. Dehydration was a real possibility.

Cindy checked her watch yet again. It was close to two; Sarah had been gone for almost three hours. She was now absolutely convinced that something terrible had happened. She was certain that Sarah was in trouble, sprawled at the bottom of a ravine with a broken leg and smashed ribs. She could not banish the terrible image of Sarah huddled in the back of a lunatic's van, kidnapped for gruesome purposes. A bear, made mad by fear or some dread disease, had attacked Sarah, leaving her a bleeding mess with only the squirrels as chattering witnesses.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Cindy murmured to the window, but the outrageous thoughts kept pounding at her brain. What if, in a moment of extreme panic over the upcoming birth and all that would result, Sarah had gone off to commit suicide? Cindy's stomach heaved. She was horrified to have for one moment considered such a tragic possibility, but there it was, lodged in her overheated mind.

She couldn't stay still any longer. She snatched her car keys from a peg just inside the front door and raced outside to the car she had left parked in the driveway. But just as she was lowering herself into the driver's seat, she saw Sarah, coming around the bend at the end of the road. Feelings of relief warred with feelings of anger. Tears of all sorts threatened to blind her. She closed the door of the car with more force than was necessary and stood waiting until Sarah was close enough to hear her.

“Where were you?” she called. “I was frantic with worry.”

Sarah frowned, as if puzzled. “I went for a walk. I told you that before I left.”

“But you were gone for almost three hours!”

“So? That's not unusual.”

“You could have called to tell us you were okay.”

Sarah half laughed. “I never call when I'm out for a walk. You've never asked me to.”

“Do you at least have your phone with you when you go out?” Cindy demanded.

“Of course,” Sarah replied, an edge of annoyance in her tone.

“Well, you didn't this time because I called you.”

Sarah stuck her hand in the back pocket of her jeans. “Oh, sorry. I guess I forgot to bring it. I must have left it charging in my room.”

“Lord,” Cindy cried. “Sarah, you can't just go wandering off like that. You have a responsibility now to someone other than yourself. You have a responsibility to your baby.”

Sarah laughed. “I don't believe this! How is taking a walk in the woods behind my own home hurting my baby?” she asked, her voice shrill. “And how dare you imply I'd do something to put my baby in danger! I'm a good person. I'm a responsible person. Just because I forgot my phone one time doesn't mean I'm stupid.”

“I didn't say that you were.”

“You implied it.”

Cindy was caught short. Had she indeed? Suddenly, she became aware that Stevie was standing in the driveway, witness to the scene. She looked very small and alone.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I was just worried, that's all.”

“Worried about what? What the neighbors would say if—” Sarah sighed heavily. “Never mind. Look, I'm sorry, Mom. Can we please just—forget it?”

Cindy pressed her lips together tightly. She didn't want to forget it. But she knew that to prolong the conversation at this point would be pointless. It would only make them both angrier. “Do you want something to eat?” she said finally. “It's past lunchtime.”

Sarah lowered her eyes. “All right,” she said. “I'll be inside in a minute.”

Pinky was perched against the pillows on Cordelia's bed. He looked a bit worse than he had back in the winter. Well, Cordelia thought, he had been a great help to her since then and she loved him more than ever. Appearances really didn't count for much in the end.

Cordelia plopped down at her desk and opened her laptop. She had been thinking about what she had told Sarah the other day, that accidents happened, that you shouldn't always be hard on yourself. She believed that. But if she believed that people should be forgiven for their mistakes, why was she still being so harsh about her mother?

Cordelia shook that question away. She was not ready to make peace with her mother. She still felt too—too wound up by what she had learned. There was still too much noise in her head, obstructing a way to forgiveness and understanding.

Women having babies.
Blah!
Sometimes Cordelia felt as if Sarah's pregnancy (and her mom's first one?) had taken over her own life. It occupied so much of her thoughts. Even her dreams, when she remembered them, were now often peopled with random babies and toddlers and once even a stunningly handsome boy about eighteen who came up to her in a mall and said, “I'm Sarah's baby. Tell her I liked the quilt.” Talk about bizarre.

And here was more proof that her life was no longer her own! What was she doing on a sunny summer afternoon? Not shopping. Not reading a fashion magazine. Not hanging out at the beach. No, she was sitting in her bedroom researching teen pregnancy! Fun!

That was sarcasm, because not a bit of it was fun. There was all this information on how badly things would probably turn out for Sarah and her child. This one site said that approximately seven hundred and fifty thousand teenage girls became pregnant each year. Eighty-two percent of those pregnancies were unplanned. More than half of the pregnancies continued on to birth. That was a heck of a lot of children being born to children!

And it all only confirmed what her mother had told her months before, when she had been urging Mrs. Bauer to talk Sarah into putting her baby up for adoption. (Was
that
why she had been so pro adoption? Did she want Sarah to have the good life she had made for herself? Or did she only want another person to experience her pain?)

Scariest bit of all to Cordelia was the danger inherent in childbirth. The statistics were startling. In the United States, women were currently dying from childbirth at the highest rate in decades.
What!
Some experts felt this was due to obesity and the increase in voluntary C-sections. There was another dread statistic. Every year more than half a million women worldwide died of pregnancy or childbirth. It was horrifying.

And then there was this: Teenage mothers were reported to be at a higher risk for birth complications, toxemia, anemia, and death.

Death!

Suddenly, finally, Cordelia felt a pang of sympathy for the pregnant seventeen-year-old her mother had been. Had she lain awake at night, petrified of dying? Had she gone to the hospital scared that she would never come out?

It was all very, very frightening, and she wondered if Sarah knew how dangerous the natural act of giving birth could be. If she did know, how did
she
sleep at night? How did she get through the day—eating meals, working at the shop, taking those long walks—without being totally preoccupied with the thought of death?

A chill ran through Cordelia. Sarah had had that awful nightmare about dying. Could it have been a premonition? No, Cordelia decided immediately. Absolutely not. Sarah wasn't the sort of person who was visited by spirits of the past or haunted by ghosts of the future. Her feet and her head were firmly planted in
this
world.

Sarah, Cordelia told herself firmly, would be fine. She wasn't even a little bit overweight, and she was planning a vaginal birth, not a C-section, and in spite of that awful news about so many women dying in childbirth, this was still
the United States of America!
And some of the best medical care in the country was available right there in Maine. There was no way Sarah's life would be in danger. No. Way. Sarah was the proverbial picture of health. In a way, Cordelia realized, she looked better now than she ever had. That old cliché about pregnant women having a glow was true after all! It was probably just hormones doing whatever it was they did, but still.

Cordelia shut down her laptop. Sometimes, she thought, getting up from her desk, information could be a bad thing, especially when taken in large doses when you were all alone. Fortunately, there were several very effective antidotes to information overload.

Food was one of them, especially when it was of the cheese variety.