Patchwork

Chapter Four

I had given the remaining quilts to Granny's other relatives, the ones who showed up after her death but had never made many appearances during most of her life. One for her only living sister who conveniently forgot Granny existed until she caught a whiff of the life insurance policy left by Granny's husband. One for the son of that same sister, Granny's nephew who owned a car dealership in some big city not too far away. I knew of him because he had borrowed a significant amount of money from Granny to open the dealership, and then later dared her to prove the debt since she didn't require him to sign anything for it. Oh yes, I remembered him well. Him, his mother, and other equally deserving family members were the recipients of Granny's craft, her legacy. I hope they enjoyed them.

They had swooped down upon the house like eagles to prey, racing from room to room, peering into closets, under beds, lifting mattresses and asking one another incredulously, "is this all she had?" After standing in the shadows watching them with as much hate as my teenaged heart could afford, I went to my room, retrieved the key to Granny's trunk and beckoned to the group to follow me. When I unlocked it and raised the lid, they all fell into it, grabbing, pulling, eyes gleaming like pirates. I stood aside and mumbled, "Granny would want you to have them". Not that it mattered, they tossed brief condolences at me and ran from the house with the plastic packages clutched to their chests, and piled into their luxury cars that were lining the driveway.

The last quilt – the one I now held – was the very quilt that Granny had wrapped herself in and absorbed all of its history of pain and disease. As I squeezed the plastic, a whiff of air puffed out of a tear in the bag and it made my eyes water from the stinging bitter odor. It reminded me of rotten sour meat mixed with vinegar, and it had deep musty overtones like mildew and dirt. I knew that odor well, it always lingered in the air at home like clouds up in the ceiling, like death. Yes, I could finally admit that that smell was the odor of death. But at that moment, I loved the smell because it brought back memories. I snapped myself out of the trance as the clock down the hall struck the half hour mark. It was nearing time for Dwight to arrive so I had to move quickly. I grabbed a tape dispenser from the kitchen drawer and worked to seal the plastic from any more escaping scent, then rushed back to the suitcase I had packed for my ex-husband.

There was just enough room left inside for the quilt. Dwight had taken just about everything else with him on that day when I came home from work and found his hastily scribbled note – "Sorry, babe, love you much, but I think it's time we give up. Always, D."

So now I was finally joining him in giving up. The exhumation of the last of his spirit from my life signaled my acceptance. I stuffed the quilt into the suitcase, sat on the lid to fasten it, and carried it to the front porch to sit and wait for Dwight as promised. I caught a glimpse of their car turning into the driveway as I went back inside of my house and closed the door with a sigh.

In front of the fireplace, I listened to his footsteps on the porch, a pause as if he was briefly considering knocking and speaking to me, and then the retreat to his car. When he drove off, I pulled out my sewing basket and withdrew the three patches I had amateurishly threaded together the day before. I looked down at my smooth, strong hands and thought to myself, "I can do this. I must do this." My hands were ready, even if my heart wasn't quite ready yet. I smiled and rubbed my fingers together like Granny used to do.

And then came the first knock at my door.