The Fortune Quilt (5 page)

“No.” I feel my throat tighten. “We don’t know.”

Brandy watches me for a moment, then her face relaxes in understanding. “She’s just gone.”

“We haven’t heard from her since I was twelve,” I say, wondering why I’m talking about this with the crazy quilt lady. I don’t talk to anyone about this.

“You’re angry,” Brandy announces, her eyes narrowing as she watches me. “Your aura just turned red around your chest and shoulders.”

Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

I push myself up to a standing position. “I’m not angry, and I don’t have an aura, but I am running up against a deadline, so…”

She looks up at me. “Everything’s about to change.”

“What?” Now, I’m annoyed. Although I don’t know why. I don’t believe in this stuff.

“Oh,” she says, her voice compassionate and her eyes slightly off focus, like she’s staring at something a few feet behind me. “It’s going to be all right, but you have to pay attention.”

“It’s all right now,” I say. “Pay attention to what?”

And then, she blinks, shakes her head, and appears to snap out of it. She shuts off the recorder and starts folding the quilt. I guess today’s crazy quota has been met.

I hold out my hand to stop her. “Look, thanks, Brandy, but—”

“Stop arguing, please,” she says, her voice tinged with weariness. She holds the folded quilt and the tape out to me. “It belongs to you and even if you don’t believe in the rest of it, you got a pretty blanket out of the deal, right?”

Excuses about conflict of interest and journalistic integrity flash through my mind, but they fade fast. Even though the Mary thing is exactly the kind of vague coincidence that make ladies who heart schnauzers pony up the big bucks for this kind of stuff, I can’t shake the sense that this quilt is somehow connected to my mother, and despite all reason I am suddenly overwhelmed with wanting it. I reach for it, and feel an instant sense of calm when I hold it in my arms.

“Thank you.”

She smiles and cocks her head to the side. “Call me if you have any questions.”

I nod and find my way out. When I reach the Blueberry, Christopher tosses his cigarette butt on the ground and chuckles, eyes on the quilt.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Shut up.” I toss the quilt into the back of the Blueberry. “Let’s go make some widgets.”

***

The most persistent memory I have of my mother is from when she brought Five home from the hospital. She looked like she hadn’t showered in days, which was unusual for her. She was the kind of woman who never left the house without makeup. I didn’t make too much of it at the time, figuring this was just the way it was when there was a new baby in the house. I was four when Ella was born, and couldn’t remember the aftermath of that for comparison, but to my twelve-year-old brain, it made sense. I helped Mom up to her room while Dad tended to Five. It was when my mother looked down at me, her eyes distant and strange, that I had the first inkling something was really wrong. She didn’t say anything to me, just headed into the bedroom, where she stayed for the next six weeks.

Whenever I wasn’t in school, I took care of Five. I sterilized her bottles. I mixed her formula and left it, ready to warm, in the fridge. I bathed her at night. I gave her midnight feedings. I failed my pre-algebra exam.

I remember Dad telling me that Mom was just tired and overwhelmed, and that he was proud of how much I was helping out. Then one day I came home from school and found Five sitting in her crib, screaming, her diaper brimming with yuck. I went into the bedroom and yelled at my mother, told her to get up off her ass and take care of the baby. I never spoke to my mother like that before, and it worked. Her eyes cleared, and for the first time since coming home from the hospital, she was actually able to focus on me. It only lasted long enough for her to scream at me to get the hell out of her room, but at least it was something.

She left the next day while Ella and I were at school. We came home to a note and a neighbor, who handed Five over to us and left.

Dad held it together pretty well, but he never got over it. It was like one of those cartoon characters, running through a wall and leaving a bunny-shaped hole behind. One look at Dad, and you could see the Mary-shaped hole left there. He never even filed for divorce. Technically, if she’s alive, they’re still married.

I don’t think about my mother very much. There’s no reason to. But on the day that Brandywine Seaver gives me the quilt, I find I can think of little else. When I get home that night, I sneak the quilt up into my room and tuck it under my bed, as though it’s some sort of contraband. I don’t know why, though. If Dad saw it, he wouldn’t think twice about it. As well he shouldn’t.

It’s just a quilt.

***

“So, tell us about the quilt,” Lindsay says three days later, leaning over Christopher to refill my glass of wine. It’s our weekly Friday night get together, in which Lindsay—Christopher’s roommate and certifiably the coolest girl on the planet—cooks us a lovely roast with garlic mashed potatoes and I bring something from the Albertson’s bakery for dessert. We are nibbling on caramel brownies and drinking red wine and I feel relaxed and happy. Christopher sits on the couch between the two of us and shakes his head.

“Lindsay wants a quilt now,” Christopher says. “Tell her it’s a load of crap or I’m gonna have to cover her rent next month.”

I look at Lindsay, ignoring Christopher and waving my wineglass lazily in the air as I talk. “She didn’t say anything of substance. It was all just random stuff about South America and paintbrushes and a book with an amber spine…”

Christopher raises one eyebrow. “A what?”

“And, you know, I don’t believe in that stuff anyway.”

“You didn’t mention the book with the amber spine before.” Christopher’s voice is tight and strange, and his cheeks are red. For such a big guy, he really can’t hold his drink.

“Of course I didn’t, because it doesn’t mean anything,” I say. Lindsay reaches for another brownie.

“Well, now that we’ve taken care of the softball questions,” she says, setting the brownie down on the plate in her lap without taking a bite, “there’s something we need to talk about.”

“No,” Christopher says, warning deep in his tone, and Lindsay rolls her eyes. I can’t help but smile. They act like such a married couple sometimes, and I’m 90% sure Lindsay’s in love with him. Sadly, Christopher’s too thick to know a good thing when it’s making him garlic mashed potatoes, and I’m sure as hell not gonna be the one to tell him.

“She’s a
girl
,” Lindsay says, shooting a look of pure loving evil at Christopher. “She needs to talk about this stuff.”

“Not all girls need to talk everything to death,” Christopher says, grabbing his beer bottle off the coffee table.

“Yes. They do. Ella’s still on her honeymoon, so who is Carly going to talk to if not you and me?” She leans forward to build a direct eyeline between us that excludes Christopher. “The thing with Seth at the wedding. How are you doing?”

I take a deep gulp of wine, then wince as I swallow. “I’m fine. It’s no big deal. He’s just… you know… still having a hard time. I guess.”

Christopher snorts. “You’re making excuses for him? He got drunk and made you miss your sister’s wedding.”

I pat his hand. “Take it down a notch, there, Bulldog. I was there for most of the wedding, and Seth… you know. He’s still adjusting.”

“He’s an asshole.” Christopher takes a swig of his beer.

Lindsay nibbles her lip. “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, that had to be tough. And you know, we’ve never really talked about why you guys broke up in the first place. Did he…” She pauses, and a look passes between her and Christopher. “Did he do something… bad to you?”

“What?” I laugh, then stop when I see how intently Christopher is watching for my answer. “This is what you think? You guys have been talking about this?”

Christopher picks at his beer label, not looking at me. “Not us. Her.”

“He just seemed to love you so much,” Lindsay said. “And then, suddenly, poof. Gone. I was just worried—”

“He didn’t do anything wrong.” My throat feels dry and I grab my wineglass. “He was great. I just wasn’t ready, I guess, and he couldn’t accept that. When I gave the ring back, he kinda freaked out.” I see Christopher tense next to me and I backtrack. “Not in a bad way, just… he started drinking, he wouldn’t stop bugging me about it, and it just got to be too much. So I ended it for good and moved back to Dad’s.”

Lindsay nodded, her face full of sympathy and understanding. “And how’s that going, being back home?”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, at first, it was really comforting, you know, being Daddy’s little girl again after going through all that crap with Seth. Then there was the preparation for Ella’s wedding, and Five really seems to like having me around. I’m probably going to get my own place again after November sweeps, when things calm down.” I stare down at the wineglass in my hand, and feel a little shaky from thinking about Seth. See, this is why I don’t like talking about this kind of stuff. It doesn’t do any good, it just upsets me, and who needs that? I down the last of my wine. “And that’s it.”

Lindsay watches me expectantly, and I see a slight expression of disappointment seep over her face as she realizes that’s the end of the conversation. But still, she smiles, because Lindsay, as previously stated, is the coolest girl on the planet. I aspire to be Lindsay someday, with her long blonde hair that does what it’s told and her great cooking and her ability to always be kind no matter how bad of a verbal ass-kicking someone desperately need. Lindsay never says the wrong thing. Lindsay would have taken the quilt graciously, sent a thank-you note exactly three days later, then called Brandywine Seaver to report every instance in which one of the predictions might possibly be coming true.

I hope Lindsay never gets a thing for schnauzers
, I think, and the thought makes me laugh a little.

“Well,” Christopher says, standing up and grabbing the empty bottle of wine, “I’m ready to kick both your asses at Scrabble. Who’s up for an ass-kicking?”

Lindsay and I share a smile as we follow Christopher to the table, where we proceed to annihilate him in Scrabble, the way we do every Friday night.

***

November sweeps starts, ironically, on October 26th, and Christopher and I are plunged into the insanity. We work long days, drink loads of coffee, and spend countless hours trying to soothe our boss, Victor. He’s perpetually convinced that
Tucson Today
is on the verge of being canceled, which it never is, and the paranoia gets ten times worse during sweeps, when ratings are actually measured. And every sweeps,
Tucson Today
performs consistently, and there’s nothing to worry about, a fact which doesn’t so much as make a dent in Victor’s neurosis. He’s like one of those elderly aunts who insists she’s about to die every day and ends up outliving everyone else in the family. Sadly, though, Victor’s freak-outs tend to be infectious to the less hardy on the show.

“So, this psychic quiltmaker story.” Eloise Tucker, the show’s host, huddles even closer to me in the tiny sound booth as we review the voice-over script she needs to read for the story. “Do you really think it’s, you know, sweeps material? I mean, I’m not going to win a regional Emmy with something this fluffy, am I?”

I keep my smile on. Eloise Tucker is never going to win a regional Emmy, because she’s never investigated, produced or written a story. She just looks pretty, reads the VOs, introduces the stories on air, and has to have
Tucson
spelled phonetically on every script lest she call it
Tuckson
. Somehow, she has managed to misinterpret Victor’s obsession with the
show
winning a regional Emmy as being an obsession that
she
win a regional Emmy.

And I have no intention of being the person to disabuse her of this notion. I have to admit, though, it’s tempting every time she calls one of my stories “fluffy.” Especially when, as is the case with the psychic quiltmaker, I was assigned the story and had no choice in the matter.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I say diplomatically, then spell out both
Brandywine
and
Seaver
for her phonetically at the top of the script.

BRAN-dee-wine.

SEE-ver.

“But shouldn’t we be out interviewing the family of that kid who got bit by the snake?” she asks.

No
, I think,
because a) the snake wasn’t even poisonous and b) we’re a magazine show, covering human interest stories with depth and intelligence, not a bunch of news idiots who think the only path to good ratings is to terrify everyone that there’s a snake in their backyard waiting to gobble their children whole.

I don’t say this out loud, though, because we share editing facilities with the news people.

“Mmmm,” I say noncommittally. “Maybe.”

Eloise’s eyebrows knit as she looks at the script.