The Goodbye Quilt (12 page)

My Molly is terrified. She’s afraid she’ll be lonely. Afraid she’ll fail. Afraid she won’t measure up.

“Aw, Moll.”

Her shoulders hunch. “What if I blow it? What if I disappoint you?”

Finally, I know what she needs. Maybe this is the whole point of the past week. She needs to be free of the weight of her parents’ expectations. “That will never happen.”

With a decisive air, she shoves the lamp into a trash can. She looks at me for a long time, her stare penetrating. I try to offer a reassuring smile. She
doesn’t smile back. Instead, she says, “I’m worried about you, Mom.”

It’s the last thing I expected to hear. “Worrying is my job.”

“No, I mean it. We’ve had our moments, but you know I think you’re great. The thing that worries me is what you’re going to do now that I’m gone.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll do what I’ve always done.”

“What you’ve always done is be my mom. You need to figure out something else now.”

“There’s nothing to figure,” I say reassuringly. “I have a fulfilling life, great friends, a loving husband. I never defined myself as a mother and nothing else. I have other roles to play.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Lots of things. I just have to figure out which roles to pursue. I’ve been thinking of doing more volunteer work.”

Molly clearly notices my lack of enthusiasm. “You should do something you love.”

What I love is being your mom. I bite my tongue. I will not lay that on her. Setting my jaw until my back teeth ache, I take out her alarm clock and set it to local time.

Soon we’ll be living in different time zones.

“Mom, didn’t you used to say you wanted to finish your degree?”

“Yes, but I put it off when I—”

“You put it off,” Molly prods.

“I was so busy with everything else, it just wasn’t practical. Now it’s not important.”

“Are you sure? When was the last time you thought about it?”

“Say, I’ve got an idea—I could get my degree here, while you’re here. We could even get an apart—”

“Very funny.” Molly’s face flashes panic—no doubt she senses I’m only half joking. “Anyway, what’s stopping you now?”

“I’m not sure. Lack of ambition, maybe.” But there is something I do want, something I have only begun to believe in. “Your dad liked the idea of me taking over Pins & Needles.”

“Of course he liked it. It’s a perfect idea, are you kidding? You can do anything, Mom. I love the thought of you running the fabric store. I totally love it. I hope you go for it.”

Fear and uncertainty turn to something else— Hope. Excitement.

She takes out a small stack of framed pictures, gazes at a shot of her dad with Hoover.

“I know he wishes he could be here,” I tell her.

“No, he doesn’t. You think I don’t know why Dad didn’t come?” Molly is incredulous. “You think he stayed home because he doesn’t care? He’s my father. He didn’t come for the same reason he didn’t go to the vet with you last spring when Hoover was so sick. It’s not weakness or that he doesn’t care. It’s that he cares too much.”

“You know your father well.”

“You don’t need a college degree to figure Dad out.” She sets the photograph on a shelf in her dorm room and her gaze lingers on it. “Look what you’re going back to, Mom. How can you not be happy?”

The tension in my chest unfurls on a wave of lightness. I am married to a man with a great heart. My daughter and I both know it.

“Where are you going to eat tonight?” I page through the orientation booklet. “The freshman dining room’s in Memorial Hall—”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t starve. I’m still full
from lunch. I might just settle for granola bars and juice.”

“You should go to the dining hall, even if you’re not hungry.” I bite my tongue. I have to stop with the you-shoulds.

I take out the quilt, which I’ve carefully folded and tied with a ribbon in her high school’s colors. “I want you to have this, a reminder of home. It’s not really finished, though,” I point out. “There’s a lot more I wanted to do to it.”

“It’s great.” She unties the ribbon and wafts the quilt over the bed. Sunlight falls across the crazy patchwork, the loopy quilting with its hidden messages.

“It’s not finished,” I say again, feeling a thrum of panic all out of proportion with the situation. “I thought I would finish it during the trip, and we’re here and it’s still not done.”

“It’s beautiful, Mom. I love it.”

“I still have to—”

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe you could bring it home at Christmas break and I’ll work on it some more then.”

“Mom, would you stop?” Her sharp tone brings me up short. Out in the hallway of the dorm, we hear a clatter. Then someone shouts, “We need a
cleanup on aisle one! I just dropped a blue raspberry slushie.” More noise and laughter ensue.

Very slowly and carefully, her hands brushing over the fabric, Molly folds the quilt in half, and half again. And again, revealing the soft, faded underside. She makes a perfect bow with the colored ribbon. “Listen, Mom, don’t freak out, okay? But this doesn’t belong here, in a dorm room.”

“What?”

“I mean, I appreciate it and all, but this is a dorm room. And the quilt is a wonderful, one-of-a-kind work of art. I don’t want it to get damaged. I don’t want it being used to mop up spilled beer or whatever, not that I would do that but who knows about other kids?”

“You should have it, Moll. See, all the fabric comes from things that are familiar to you, stuff I’ve saved over the years. It’s a keepsake. A picture of your life so far.”

“I know, Mom. Believe me, I know. And I love it for that reason,” she says. “I love you for making it. That quilt is incredible.” She takes a breath, regards me with a wisdom I never knew she possessed. “But it’s not my story, Mom. It’s yours.”

The clarity and wisdom of her words fills me up completely. She’s looked at the big picture and
seen what I never could. I was so focused on each tiny stitch and detail that I didn’t realize what I was creating. What a nutty idea, thinking I could stitch together some kind of patchwork picture of Molly’s life so far. It’s arrogant, too, to presume to tell her story. Because like she says—it’s not a picture of her life. It’s a picture of mine. The best part of mine.

“What do you want me to do with it?” I ask her.

“Just don’t leave it here where it could get ruined or lost. Keep it for you and Dad…I don’t know. Mom, it’s so beautiful. It doesn’t belong here. Seriously, you know I’m right.” She holds the folded quilt out to me, handling it with reverence and respect. “You decide.”

I hesitate, then take the quilt from her, holding it against me, knowing my heart is stitched into every square inch of the piece. Each bit of fabric comes from a vanished but fondly remembered moment in time. All along, I thought it was about Molly, but ultimately, it is about me—the mother I was, the moments I remember, the hopes and dreams in my heart.

But bring it home? What will I do with it then? It’ll just end up in the old cedar chest, stale and forgotten. For me, the joy of the quilt was in its
creation, not in
having
it. But that doesn’t mean Molly’s obligated to drag it around.

The last thing she needs is the smothering burden of this blanket I’ve patched together, covered with messages from the past. She wants to create her own story, in her own way, on her own blank canvas.

That’s the daughter I raised.

“Then…” I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “I guess I’d better hit the road.”

Alarm flashes in Molly’s eyes. It’s finally real to her. I’m leaving, and she’ll soon be all by herself. But she visibly conquers her fear, squelching panic with steely resolve, evident in her posture and the set of her jaw. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

I turn to conduct one last survey of the place that will be her home for the next year. The room isn’t ready. The furniture arrangement isn’t ideal. The book case is too close to the radiator, and there aren’t enough outlets. With every fiber of my being, I
want to stay here and fix things, make adjustments, improvements. I force myself to turn away.

The hallway smells of bleach and fresh paint. Someone is mopping up a spill on the floor. Other parents and kids are moving in, some in weighty silence, others with caffeinated chattiness, a few engaged in low-voiced arguments.

“You’re not going to lose it, are you, Mom?” Molly asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I might.”

Molly looks startled. She’s used to being protected, shielded, having troubles glossed over and smoothed out so they don’t snag on her. But as she pointed out to me earlier, she is a young adult now, old enough to know her mother is not infallible. She swore she didn’t need me running interference for her at every turn.

“Check it out,” she says, bracing her hands on the windowsill. A cluster of students has gathered in the old yard below. “I think that’s the meeting point for the orientation groups. It’s geeky, but I kind of want to go.”

We step out into the sunny afternoon. I feel a piercing sweetness deep in my heart. A barely dammed river of tears pushes against my chest.

“If you cry,” Molly warns, “I’ll cry, too.”

“Then we’ll both cry.” And we do, but somehow we manage to stop, regaining control by focusing on the long line of departing cars.

“I’ve got that orientation meeting,” she says, pressing her sleeve across her eyes.

“And I need to get going, too. Maybe miss the traffic heading out of the city.”

“That information packet lists some local places to stay,” Molly points out. “I mean, if you don’t feel like a big drive today…”

“I’m kind of eager to head back to your dad and Hoover,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is that I can’t face a night at the Colonial Inn with its stupid plaster lamplighters in three-corner hats, knowing Molly is only a short walk away. The temptation to go check on her would be too great and prolong the pain of separation. I plan to drive a couple hundred miles, take a long soak in the hotel hot tub, then phone Molly from a safe distance.

The breeze that sweeps through the quadrangle smells of autumn. A few yellow leaves flutter down with lazy grace. Students and statues populate the ancient, broad lawns laid out centuries before by idealists who embraced order and harmony.

The grassy yard is crisscrossed by walkways littered with new-fallen leaves. Long-bodied boys lie with their heads cushioned on overstuffed backpacks, their noses poked into dog-eared novels. Girls with sweaters draped over their shoulders sit cross-legged in small groups, engaged in earnest debate.

All up and down the street, there is the sound of car doors slamming shut, farewells being called out.

Molly and I walk to the SUV, which is now as mpty as an abandoned campsite. My lone suitcase lies in the back alongside the parcel filled with my new clothes. I place the quilt back in its bag and set it down next to the glossy sack from the department store. The thing is coming home with me after all, it seems. Maybe I’ll finish it this fall.

“So, okay,” Molly says uncertainly. Her eyes dart here and there; she does not look at me. “Thanks for driving with me, Mom. Thanks for everything.”

“Sure, honey. Promise you’ll call if you need anything, anything at all. I’ll have my cell phone on, 24/7.” I touch her arm, feeling its shape beneath my fingers. Then I give up pretending to be
casual. No point trying to minimize the moment. “Oh, baby. I’m going to miss you so much.”

“Me, too, Mom.”

Everything I need to say crowds into my throat—eighteen years of advice, guidance, warning, teaching. And it overwhelms me. It is too much…and not enough. Have I forgotten something important? Have I taught her to do laundry and balance her checkbook? To write thank-you notes by hand? Turn off the coffee maker when it’s done? To fend off a horny guy and to contest an unfair grade? To look in the mirror and like what she sees?

There is so much to say. And so I say nothing. There was a time when eighteen years felt like for ever, or at least more than enough time to cover every possible topic, but I was wrong about that. I can only hope Dan and I equipped her to make the right choices.

I am amazed to feel something new. I don’t want to spout out any more advice or commentary. I want life to happen for Molly in all its pain and joy and richness, revealing itself moment by moment, unfiltered by a mother’s intervention. An unexpected, settled feeling creeps in. There are things
she knows that will hold and keep her, whether or not I am there. Finally, I’m starting to trust that.

I want her to be on her own. This is what she is supposed to do. It’s the natural progression of things. Dan and I have given her everything we have. Now it is time for her to fly, seek new mentors, find her place in the world. I think about all the things that will happen to Molly. Things that will bring her joy and break her heart, make her laugh, cry, rage, exult. I wish I could protect her from the rough parts, but I know I can’t. And really, I shouldn’t.

The essence of life is the journey, unblunted by an overprotective parent. There is a richness Molly will find even in the deepest sadness. She has a beautiful future ahead of her. Sticking around, interfering and shielding her will rob her of something she needs to figure out on her own. I don’t want to stand in the way. Life as it unfolds is just too incredible.

She knows we will always be here for her. Our lives are forever entwined. And yes, she’s going to suffer a broken heart and face disappointment and make bad decisions and do all those other things we humans do, but she’ll survive them. She’s smart
and big-hearted and deeply resourceful, probably more than I know, though on this trip I’ve seen glimpses.

“You’re going to be incredible,” I finally say. “I’m so happy for you.” I am, but I had no idea happiness could hurt so much.

This is it. This is really it. This is goodbye. Suddenly I don’t care that there are people all over the place, people who are going to be Molly’s friends and neighbors for the next four years. I take my daughter’s face between my hands and stare into the eyes I know so well, into a soul that is as bright and clear as the September sky.

She’s going to soar, I’m certain of it. Higher than she or I can ever imagine. “Goodbye, Molly,” I say. “Goodbye, my precious girl.”

Smiling mouth. Trembling chin. “’Bye, Mom.”

I kiss her soft cheek, and we embrace, a long strong hug, filled with the wistful scent of autumn and of herbal shampoo. “You are golden,” I whisper to my daughter, quoting one of our favorite songs. “You are sunshine.” We pull back, smiling, eyes shining.

“I’ll call you tonight, okay?” I tell her.

“That’d be great, Mom.”

One more kiss. A squeeze of the hands. With slow deliberation, I climb into the truck, roll down the window. We hold hands again while I start the engine. Then I put the car in Drive and let go. Our fingers cling for a heartbeat, then slide apart.

In the rearview mirror I can see Molly standing on the sidewalk, as slender and graceful as the turning trees of the old college yard. Golden leaves fly upward on a gust of wind, swirling around her lone form. My daughter stands very still, and just as the truck turns the corner onto the busy avenue, she raises one hand, waving goodbye.

Tapping the horn to acknowledge the wave, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I set the iPod to a mix of quiet songs. The first one is a classic, from my dating days with Dan. As the music plays, I head for the interstate, tears still escaping to soak into the neckline of my sweatshirt. I flex my hands on the steering wheel, set my jaw. So what if I’m crying. I’m the mother. I get to cry if I want to.

The traffic flows like a viscous liquid, undemanding, carrying me swiftly away from the city, the car a fallen leaf in a rushing stream.

As the city fades away behind me, I picture
Molly in her freshly painted dorm room, unpacking her belongings, putting her new sheets on the narrow iron-frame bed, propping up snapshots of her friends and family, her dog and Travis, shelving books and supplies, plugging in the computer, organizing her things. Eventually she will come across the covered plastic box I filled with her favorite snacks—microwave popcorn, granola bars, Life-savers, pecan sandies, canned juices, cinnamon-flavored gum. Inside she will find a familiar note scribbled on a paper napkin: a little smiling cartoon mommy, with squiggles to represent the hair, and a message that will remind her of all the homemade lunches of her childhood: “I
U. Love, Mommy.”

I think about giving Dan a call and I will, but not just yet. This moment is too raw, but it’s mine to feel—the bittersweet triumph, the sadness, the hope. On this leg of the journey, there will be no detour or scenic route as I make my way home. Home, to Dan, who said he can’t wait to see me.

Home, to a life that is open like the pages of an unread book.
Yes.

I’m ready to live my life. Okay, maybe I’m a little
scared, but in a good way. I want to discover who I am on my own, what I love beyond the obvious, and what I really want for the rest of my life.

At the west end of the city, I pass a suburban strip mall I remember from the day before, with the Crowning Glory Salon, the delicious-smelling Sweet Dreams bakery and the charity called New Beginnings. The charity is closed for the day but there’s a big metal donation box in the front. Under the Web address for the charity is its slogan: “Comforting women and children in need.”

On impulse, I turn into the parking lot, go around to the back of the Suburban and open the gate. Molly’s observation drifts back to me: This is about
your
life, Mom.

I stand there for a minute, thinking about the woman I’ve been for the past eighteen years and wondering who I’ll be for the next eighteen. It’s a bit scary to contemplate, but exciting, too.

When I grab the parcel, my resolve wavers. Then I think, go for it. The true meaning of charity is to give freely, no strings attached. I have to let go, only trusting that my gift will be out there in the world somewhere, doing whatever it’s bound to do.

And then I push the bag into the drop box,
having to shove its soft bulk inch by inch through the narrow slot. At first I worry that it won’t go down the chute, and I have to push hard. Then the last bit slips through easily and disappears.

Stenciled under the chute are the words, “Thank you for your donation.”

I return to the still-running car. Something stirs inside me, a sensation as empty and light as the curling, cup-shaped leaves lifted by the autumn wind.

Stopping at the last red light before the on-ramp to the interstate, I catch the blinding beam of the late afternoon sun in my eye. The days of summer have grown shorter. The year is getting old already.

I flip down the sun visor, and a stray slip of paper drifts into my lap. Picking it up, I unfold it and see a little smiling cartoon face, corkscrew squiggles for hair, and a note that says, “I
U. Love, Molly.”