The Fortune Quilt (13 page)

Fighting myself every step of the way, I lean forward and snag the phone, unhooking the charge cord as I do.

Hey, Ella. I’ve re-imagined my life.

No worries, Dad. I’m fine. I’ve re-imagined my life.

Five? Well, you’re just gonna love the furry little kittens out of this…

I start with Ella’s number. Ella will be the easiest. Ella will understand. Ella always understands. Hell, this is the girl who is still friends with every ex-boyfriend who has been remotely willing to stay in touch. If anyone is going to be a soft place to start, it’s Ella.

She answers after three rings.

“Ella?” I say. My throat feels tight. “It’s Carly.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Carly? Where are you?”

I chuckle lightly and throw back a glug of wine. “I’m in Bilby.”

She pauses for a moment. “Bilby? What the hell are you doing in Bilby?”

“I’m…” I can’t say the words
re-imagining my life.
I just can’t. I may have been Towered, but I’m still me. “I got a job. I’ve…” I glance around, and the reality of what I’ve done hits me fresh, as though it’s news. Wow. “I’ve rented a cabin.”

There’s a long sigh. “But you’re okay?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Great,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she means it. I’m just about to ask her what’s bugging her when she explodes all over me.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she says. “You scared us all half to death. Dad was going to call missing persons.”

“An adult has to be gone 24 hours before you can call missing persons.” At least, according to all the TV shows, and why would they lie?

“Christopher has been going crazy. He said you sounded strange when he talked to you this morning. When he called us, I was on the phone with the hospital, asking if anyone matching your description had been admitted.”

“You overreacted, then,” I say. “I’m a grown-up. I was gone for what, maybe fourteen hours when I talked to Christopher?”

“And let’s talk about Christopher,” she says. “How could you?”

My head shoots up. Conversational whiplash. “What? What about Christopher?”

“He’s a mess. I don’t know what finally happened or didn’t happen between you two, but you’ve really wrecked him. God, Car. I can’t believe how selfish you’re being.”

I blink, actually pull the phone away from my face and do a double-take. Where’s my sweet sister, who’s supposed to be on my side in the Christopher thing, even if I’m wrong? When I put the phone back to my ear, the new, angry Ella is still talking.

“… loves you, and you can’t even be bothered to come home and tell him you’re alive in person.”

“Wait? How do you know Christopher’s in love with me?”

“Any idiot can see it, Carly. God. He’s been in love with you for years.”

I take another gulp of wine. “Gee. Someone could have given me a heads up, doncha think?”

“And Mom,” she says, skidding into another conversational one-eighty. “How could you do that to Mom?”

“How could I…?” This gets me just angry enough that I gain my footing in the conversation. “Are you serious, El? How can
I
do that to
her
? What’s up with the selective amnesia, babe? Have you been around for the last seventeen years?”

“She’s sorry,” Ella says. “If you had stayed around long enough to listen to her, you would have known that.”

My throat clenches tight and I swallow against it.

“
I’ve
been around.
She
hasn’t.” My voice is shaky. I am on the edge of the great Cavern o’ Nervous Breakdown, and my sweet, gentle, forgiving sister is about to push me over.

Something’s not right here.

“It’s just like you,” she goes on, “to blow up like that without listening first, to make a big production over everything, to make things worse when it’s already hard enough.”

Wait a minute. Ella was supposed to ask me how I am. Ella was supposed to rush down here with a bottle of gin and distract me with honeymoon stories. She was supposed to be comforting me.

I am not comforted.

“You’re being selfish,” she says. Her voice is sharp and bitter and I hardly recognize it. “You’re being terrible and selfish and you can just stay in Bilby for all I care.”

And the line disconnects. I pull the phone away from my face and stare at it. The little screen confirms it; my sister has hung up on me. My sister—who once instantly forgave a guy who stole her television, hocked it, and used the money to take a cocktail waitress to Rocky Point for the weekend—
this
girl has hung up on me.

There is a knock at the door. Hands shaking, I get up and answer it.

It’s Will, on my doorstep, holding up a small houseplant. He grins.

“Welcome Wagon,” he says.

I stare down at the plant. It’s one of those impossible-to-kill kinds, with the bright green leaves that look like they’re plastic. It looks happy, and vibrant. It’s in a ceramic pot, painted in swirly images of daisies.

Will is giving me a plant in a pot that he painted himself, I realize, and much to my dismay an awkward sob punches its way out of me as a response to this small kindness.

“Carly?” Will looks concerned, as well he should. My eyes are welling up. I can barely see him. Another sob breaks free and I clamp my hand over my mouth as the tears bounce down my cheeks and over my fingers.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” Will says, stepping inside and settling the plant down on the floor before putting both hands on my shoulders. “Do you… not like plants?”

I manage a weak laugh and he smiles, a glint of hope in his eyes that this might turn out okay, but then there are so many tears, I can’t keep track of them all. It feels like they’re falling over me like rain. It’s a deluge. I am going to drown. Somehow, I make it to the couch, and Will is next to me with his hand resting on my upper arm. I swipe at my face.

“I’m sorry,” I squeak out over the sobs. “I’m not… usually… like this.”

“Can I get you something?” he says. “Some water, some Kleenex?”

“I don’t have Kleenex!” I wail, as though I’ve just realized I don’t have a soul.

“Yeah, me either,” he says. I look up at him, and he gives me a weak smile. “Yeah, that whole boy scout thing was a joke. I’m almost never prepared.”

I don’t know why, but this brings on a fresh wave of sobs.

“All right, that’s okay,” he says calmly. He squeezes my arm. “One second, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, trying to catch my breath and failing miserably as another round of sobs takes over. “Okay.”

It seems like he is instantly gone and instantly back, and he has a roll of toilet paper in his hands. He rips off a section and hands it to me. I swipe it over my face and try to calm down. His hand is running over my shoulder and down my arm, in comforting strokes, and my heart cracks right down the middle. I can feel it, I can hear it, and it hurts like a bastard.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after a minute.

I shake my head and there is a long conversational drought. Then, suddenly, for no reason I can understand, I start talking.

“How could she just leave like that?” My voice is scratchy and tired, but I keep going. “If she loved me, she would have stayed. She wouldn’t have left me to raise a family at the age of twelve. If she loved me…” A fresh wave of pain washes over me, cutting me from the inside. “But she didn’t. She just didn’t.”

“This isn’t…?” He sounds unsure as he forms the question. “Are you talking about your mother?”

I nod and sniffle, and his face washes over with understanding. “Oh, man. That’s… wow. Huge.”

“She came back,” I say. “Last week. I came home from work and there she was, sitting on the couch, drinking scotch with Dad.”

Will is silent, his hand smoothing down over my back. I blow my nose and grab for more toilet paper.

“She and Dad are going to therapy, I guess. Five wants to know her. Ella wants… I don’t know what Ella wants.”

And there’s her voice in my head,
You’re being terrible and selfish and you can just stay in Bilby for all I care.
I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, but at least they’re relatively calm tears. I simply lack the energy to wail.

“I’m still so angry,” I say after a moment. “I can’t forgive her. I want to slap her and yell at her and everyone else wants to sit around a campfire with her, roasting marshmallows and singing freakin’
Kumbaya
, and what the hell is wrong with them, anyway? Don’t they remember what it was like? Don’t they care what she did?”

My throat tightens and I can’t talk anymore. It seems like there’s no space inside me for anything but tears. Will’s hand moves around my shoulders and he pulls me against him. I rest my head on his shoulder and another geyser opens, and I feel like I’m never going to do anything but sit here and weep. Will puts his lips to the top of my head and makes shushing sounds into my hair, and eventually, I start to come back.

“I’m sorry,” I squeak, finally getting the strength to separate myself from him. I snatch some tissue off the roll and resolve to get some Kleenex the next time I’m at the store. “I’m usually tougher than this.”

“Oh, hey, no,” he says, turning toward me on the couch, his fingers coming up to push my hair away from my face. “I’m amazed at how strong you’ve been. I don’t know how you’ve gotten through as well as you have.”

“I haven’t,” I say. “Dad can forgive her. Five can. Ella can. I can’t. I’m a horrible, terrible, weak and petty person.”

“Carly, come on,” he says. “You know that’s not true. I’ve just met you, and I know that’s not true.”

I look up at him. My eyes are beginning to puff up and I wonder absently if I’m inadvertently squinting. “Wait until you know me better before you make any rash judgments.”

He smiles at me. “I think I know enough.”

I try to smile back, but end up just taking a deep, stuttering breath.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everyone has bad days.” He reaches up and brushes some of my hair away from my face. I feel a shudder go down my back and I have a strong urge to curl up in his arms and let him hold me until I feel better. But we hardly know each other, so instead, I shift away from him and he drops his hand.

“I’m so tired,” I say finally. “I think I might just go to sleep and think about all this again tomorrow. You know, pull a Scarlett O’Hara.”

His smile quirks. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll let you get to it.”

I get up off the couch, and he places his hand gently between my shoulder blades as we walk to the door.

“If you need anything,” he says, turning to me and bending his knees to bring his eyeline level with mine, “I’m within shouting distance.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

“Yeah, I know you will.” He gives me a slight smile, then opens the door and disappears. I close the door behind him, resting my forehead against the door as I stand there, staring at my Keds.

“Hot damn, I’m a basket case,” I mutter to myself. Then I go to my new bed, hop on up, and pass out into a black sleep.

***

It takes me exactly three days to transition from my old life to my new, re-imagined one. By the third day into my new existence, I have stopped picking up my cell phone to call Christopher, only to hang up before dialing, and I have mastered the cash register system at Art’s Desire. I have stopped dreaming about being back at work on
Tucson Today
, and I have made a friend in Allegra, who forces a new flavor or style of coffee on me every day during my break, refusing to believe that every day, all I really want is a Viennese latte. I have stopped waiting for my father to contact me to tell me he’s sorry, and I have met and been embraced by—in many cases,
literally
so—the vast majority of the people in Bilby.

With the exception, that is, of Mr. Trimble.

Mr Trimble is a skinny old guy who dresses entirely in black and buys one box of charcoals twice a week and who, I’ve discovered, does not respond well to being directly spoken to. As a matter of fact, on my second day at work, when I asked him if he needed anything else, he told me to fuck off.

“Don’t worry about Mr. Trimble,” Janesse had said. “He’s just… special. All you have to do is sell him his charcoals and, uh, no eye contact, okay?”

“Special,” snorts Allegra now as we sit outside the café at the mosaic tables. “That’s Bilby-ese for off his nut. How’s that peppermint macchiato?”

“Nice,” I say, taking a sip. I’m beginning to enjoy her concoctions, for the most part, although I do miss my Viennese lattes. But tomorrow is Friday, and she’s promised me that on Fridays I can have whatever I want.

“So, tell me,” she says, leaning her elbows over the small table. “You used to live in New York. What’s it like?”

“Well, I lived in Syracuse. It’s nice, I liked it, but it’s not like New York City or anything. And I was only there for a year.”