The Fortune Quilt (12 page)

“Well, what the fuck did you think was going to happen? You just disappear… Wait. I need to pull over.” There’s a long pause, and I can hear the traffic noises in the background. Then, finally, “I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten much sleep.”

“Christopher…”

“Where are you?”

I stare out my windshield at Bilby’s main street, winding up into the foothills. “Oz.”

“What? Where? Can I come see you?”

“No,” I say. “Stay there. Go home. Get some rest.”

“Get some… what? I need to see you. I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“You know what was going through my head all night? Do you have any idea—”

“I don’t love you back,” I blurt out.
Quick and fast, quick and fast, rip off the Band-Aid.
“I mean, I do. I love you so much, but not in the way that I think you want me to. Not in the way that I want to, and I really do want to, Christopher, but I just… I don’t.”

There is his and hers silence. I feel as terrible and low and heartbroken as I’ve ever felt in my life. I take in a deep breath and rip off the rest of the Band-Aid.

“I just think you should know now, you know, before this whole thing gets out of hand.”

Ha ha. Little late for that.

“That’s okay,” he says, but it’s not. I suspect it’ll never be okay again. “I just wanted to know you’re okay.” There’s a thick silence, then, “We’re still… friends, right?”

I swallow against a tremendous knot in my throat that seems bent on choking me. “Oh, yeah. Always.”

This is followed by another long, painful silence, and when Christopher speaks again, his voice is strained.

“Okay. Well. I’ll see you, then. I guess.” The line disconnects. I turn my phone off and flip it shut, tossing it back into the ashtray. Every beat of my heart sends pain shooting through me and I am suddenly overwhelmed with grief. A sob escapes from my throat, and I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Here, on the streets of Bilby, Arizona, I’m about to completely lose my shit. The idea of returning to Tucson fills me with such dread that I can’t even entertain the thought of going back. But what else am I going to do?

I sit up straight, white-knuckle the steering wheel and focus on a sign in a shop window directly in my eye line. It’s a white sign, with hand-painted letters, but I can’t read them. I am breathing in, breathing out. I am in control. I am okay.

I am okay.

I exhale a long breath, blink hard a few times, and the letters swimming in my vision settle into a recognizable pattern.

HELP

I squint a bit.

WANTED

I am out of the car and halfway down the street before I even realize what I’m doing. I push into the store and find a tall, gorgeous black woman with fine cornrows of hair cascading down her back over a gorgeous burnt orange African caftan-style dress. She smiles at me. Her teeth are bright and perfect, and she seems so at peace, so comfortable and happy in her environment.

I wonder briefly if she’s crazy, too, if the whole town is some kind of free commune for the mentally unbalanced. I haven’t met anyone in this town who is bitter or pissed off, and the rule of averages just doesn’t support this.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Do you have a job opening?” I say, motioning toward the sign in the window.

She gives a gentle laugh. “How old are you, sweetie?”

“Twenty-nine,” I say flatly.

Her eyebrows raise a bit and she nods. “Oh. Wow.”

“So, do you need help, or what?” This is not my typical job interview game, but then, I’ve never applied for a job in retail. Very possibly, this could be how it’s done.

“Well, yes.” She quirks her head a bit to the side and her eyes narrow slightly with concern. “Are you okay?”

I’m about to tell her I’m fine and then a voice in my head says
f
uck it.

“No,” I say. “My mother has returned from the dead and torn my family apart. The show I was working on got canceled. And…” I swallow hard. “My best friend is in love with me.”

The woman’s face softens. “Oh, honey.” She leans forward, and her face crinkles in sympathy. “What’s the matter? You didn’t know she was a lesbian?”

Wow. People sure love lesbians in this town. “If he is, he hides it well.”

“Oh.” There is a prolonged silence. One side of her mouth quirks, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” I say, but suddenly, it is. In a moment, we’re both laughing. Our eyes are wet with tears, and every time one of us stops, the other one starts it up again. It occurs to me that I am hysterical, and I’m not really bothered by the realization. It’s kind of fun. Hysteria is definitely underrated.

We finally settle down, and she smiles at me kindly. She likes me. I can tell. Even though I just dumped my personal life on her and became hysterical in her store, she likes me.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Carly McKay,” I say, holding out my hand. She takes it. Her fingers are rough, but warm.

“I’m Janesse,” she says. “Do you have any experience in art supplies, Carly?”

What?
I think, then glance around. Hmm. I am surrounded by shelves filled with different kinds of paint, varieties of paintbrushes. Markers. Charcoals. An entire wall dedicated to huge pads of art paper. There’s a display of canvases on the back wall. She’s right. It’s an art supply store.

I hadn’t even noticed.

“I’m a television producer,” I say.

“I see.” She eyes me for a long time, her dark eyes deeply evaluating, before speaking again. “It’s mostly just a clerk position. Inventory. Stocking. Register. That sort of thing. It doesn’t pay much.”

I’ve been living at home rent free for the last nine months,
I think.
I don’t care if it pays at all. Just give me something to do.

“That’s fine.”

She nods. “And I’m going to need some references.”

A sudden peace washes over me, and I smile. “Do you know Brandywine Seaver?”

“Oh.” Her face darkens briefly, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong. “Are you a friend of Brandy’s?”

“Is that a problem?”

A little visible effort and her face relaxes into a smile. “No. No, not at all. I’ve known Brandy a long time. She’s really great.”

“Good,” I say, holding up my hand, palm out, index and middle fingers entwined. “Because we’re like this.”

***

“Now, it’s not much,” Brandy says as she fits the key in the lock to the blue cabin, “but it’s got all the basics, and it comes furnished, so no worries on that score.”

She twists the knob and we go in and I am surprised that the interior isn’t identical to Will’s, as I had assumed it would be.

“Like I said,” Brandy says, “it’s not much.”

I step in past her, mesmerized. The walls, like Will’s, are simple plaster walls. Unlike Will’s, they’re painted. The living room is a bright shade of green. I glance back at Brandy, who is grinning widely at me.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

I glance at the living room and am surprised when I don’t hate it. The color is bright, but next to the blue and green plaid sofa, it kind of works. There’s a simple, bulky natural wood coffee table that looks hand-made. A mismatched, yet homey, orange easy chair sits out at an angle, facing the fireplace.

I catch my breath and put my hand to my chest. “Oh, it’s got a fireplace.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Brandy says apologetically. “That’s not a problem, right? I mean, you’re not an artist so you’re not concerned about stray sparks in the turpentine or the smoke getting into your work, right?”

“No,” I say, staring at the fireplace, charmed. “No, I’m not worried about that.”

I turn my head. In the back right corner is a tiny kitchenette; the walls in this area are bright blue. There’s a tiny baby sink and a tiny baby stove, with four small gas burners. The table is small, linoleum, functional. The two chairs don’t match; one is wooden, the other some chrome number from the fifties. I walk over to the tiny baby fridge and open it.

“That works,” Brandy says. “I just haven’t turned it on yet.”

It isn’t much taller than I am, and it’s narrow, but how much do I need? I’m only one person.

The cabin is sectioned down the length by a bright pink wall with two doors in it. I motion to the one close to the kitchen.

“That’s the bathroom,” Brandy says. “It’s kinda small.”

I walk in. She’s right. It is small. But there’s a shower stall, a sink, and a toilet. A medicine cabinet with a mirror over the sink. Bright orange walls. All the necessities for the modern, recently-Towered girl.

There’s another door in the bathroom, and I push through into the bedroom, which has been painted bright yellow. Two large windows grace each outdoor wall, and next to one is a tremendous tall dresser, which makes me laugh considering the miniature kitchen. In the corner, angled out, is a plain, queen-sized bed on one of those high-set frames. I suddenly feel like Alice in Wonderland. I go and hop up to the edge of the bed, looking down at my feet hanging over the worn but lovely wooden floor, and something clicks in my heart.

I have just fallen in love with this place. I love the woodsy smell of it. I love the walls, the way they’re all funky-colored and they just don’t care. I love the mismatched furniture, the tiny kitchen appliances and the tremendous bed. I love the do-over-ness of this new life.

I am surrounded by possibility. I realize that I am very close to the hysteria I felt earlier at Janesse’s, and that this sense of euphoria may be closely linked to mental imbalance, but I don’t care. I’m riding it.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, which is simply the wood plank roof of the cabin, reaching upward toward its peak.

Suddenly, I angle up on both elbows.

“Brandy.” I laugh. “Why didn’t you bring me here last night?”

Brandy blinks as though she doesn’t understand the question.

“Because,” she says as though it’s obvious, “nobody lives here.”

I sit up. “Well, now they do.”

She smiles. “Really?”

I nod. “Really.”

She watches me for a moment, cocks her head to the side. “That’s very brave of you.”

“What, running away from my life?”

“No,” she says. “Re-imagining your life. Usually when people get Towered, they try to rebuild what they had. It takes a lot of courage to imagine your life might be different.”

I think about that for a second. “It’s not brave if you have no choice. Then it’s just desperately grasping at straws.”

“Potato, po-
tah
-to,” she says. I laugh and realize with a splash of surprise that I genuinely like Brandy. Very much.

“So,” I say, “where’s the closest place a girl can score some underwear?”

Brandy thinks on this for a moment. “Kinja Bale does some cool things with tie dyed lingerie. She has a store down on Cicada Drive.”

“I was thinking something a little more casual,” I say. “Hanes Her Way casual. And I’m going to need some basics for this place.”

Brandy shrugs. “There’s a Wal-Mart in Douglas, but…” She scrunches her nose. “It’s Wal-Mart.”

“Don’t knock Wal-Mart,” I say, hopping off the bed. “You and me might come to blows.”

***

By late afternoon, I’m all set. I have cheap dishes and cheap silverware, a stocked refrigerator, four bottles of wine (one of which is traveling with me as I move around the cabin setting up), an alarm clock, underwear, basic lighting, a made bed. I set up my television in the living room, put Will’s
She Might Be Crying
painting up on the wall over the fireplace (hey, if he didn’t want it named by the new owner, he should have titled it his own damn self) and I sit on my couch, which is pretty comfortable, making up for the fact that it’s ugly as a six-pack of sin.

I pick up my glass of wine.
It’s just the way I like my men,
I think.
Cheap, red, and Australian.
The joke doesn’t make any sense, nor is it particularly funny, but it makes me laugh, because deep, deep down inside, I am panicked and on the verge of hysteria. I comfort myself by channeling Brandy, by telling myself that I have not fucked up everything I’ve been working toward in the past ten years. Not at all.

I’ve been
Towered.

I have
re-imagined
my life.

I am a clerk at an art supply store.

I live in a cabin.

In Bilby, Arizona.

I chuckle again. Now
that’s
funny.

My cell phone sits on the coffee table, hooked to the charger and blinking green at me, letting me know it’s hyped up and ready to go. I shut it off after talking to Christopher, but planned to access my inner grown-up and call everyone this evening. I would tell them I’m okay, let them know that I’ll be away for a while, and hang up. I don’t want Dad or Ella to worry, but I also don’t particularly want to make them feel better, either. I am the injured party here, and eventually they will come to their senses and realize how unfair they’ve been. I want them to feel bad, but I don’t want them to be freaking out about my safety. In my mind, this passes for maturity, and I’m pleased with myself.