The Quilt (15 page)

“Do you require a return ticket?” asked the woman in an Air New Zealand uniform at the airport.

“No
just one way,” Joanne replied a little too firmly.  

“Here are your tickets.  You will have to be at the check in one hour before the time of departure
.” 

It was one thirty in the afternoon.  She had three hours to sever her ties with Nelson city.

For the thir
d time in an hour her cell rung out its desperate plea to be answered.  Caller ID confirmed it was Stephen ringing from his mobile.  She played back his desperate message with detachment.

“Joan
ne, where are you?  I went to your office again and that fat boss of yours told me you had gone to hell.  What is that supposed to mean? Come on please pick up or ring back, we need to talk!”

His voice then became silky and smooth
.

“I’ve gone to The Cellars and purchased
two bottles of that 2003 Pinot you are so fond of.”

She turned off her phone.

“I would just like
to clarify.  You would like to cancel the automatic payment described as rent?  Including the one due to be processed next week?” the bank teller smiled but looked uncertain.

“Yes
, that is correct.  I would like it to be cancelled immediately.   I will also be organizing for my account to be transferred to another branch within the next few days.”

Joanne returned the teller
’s smile, trying to convey confidence.

Joanne signed the necessary forms. 

The rental agreement, telephone and power account were lodged under Stephen’s name but the payments had always been drawn directly from her personal account.  It was a simple formality to have them cancelled prior to any further deductions being made.

By nature
, family law often resulted in bitterness.  Occasionally, anger was directed at the solicitor responsible for the actions.  It was good practice to keep traceable amenities unconnected to the lawyer’s personal address.

With
satisfaction, she realised Stephen would now have to meet his own financial responsibilities.

Joanne went into the local newspaper and placed the following advertisement in bold print in the personal column.

‘
Due to sudden and unforeseen family circumstances it has been necessary for me to resign from my current position as a solicitor in the practice of Wade, Hulme, O’Donnell and Associates. 

I
sincerely apologize to my clients for any inconvenience this may cause and thank them for their business, loyalty and trust. 

I can assure you your affairs will continue to be handled with discretion and pro
fessionalism by an alternative solicitor.

Please contact the office if you have any questions or concerns
.

Sincerely
Joanne Kyle,

Attorney at Law’

Would this day ever end? Was there any other part of her life left to unravel? Joanne felt emotionally drained when she drove on to the forecourt of Baker and Phillips, the largest car dealer in the Nelson area. The company did not have the best reputation but Joanne knew they would be happy to do a deal and she had originally purchased her car from them so the transaction would be quick.  She glanced at her watch; there was no time to shop around for the sake of gaining a few dollars. 

“Do you want to trade?”

The salesman pointed hopefully a late model sedan.

“No
, thank you.  I am leaving the area.”

She acc
epted the ridiculously low offer for her immaculate and sensible, little car.   

The salesman dropped
a forlorn looking Joanne and her one sad little bag at the departure doors of the airport.

Joanne settled into the comfortable chair and sipped a chilled glass of wine to calm her rattled nerves.  As soon as she had arrived at the airport Joanne had checked through to the area designated for passengers only. 

She wanted
to avoid any possibility of being confronted by Stephen.  Joanne felt she could relax for the first time that day and switched on her phone.  The screen illuminated numerous messages of desperation. She pressed erase without even a passing interest in listening to the excuses.

Sandy picked up almost immediately.

“Sandy, it’s Joanne. I am sorry to ring with such short notice.  Too be honest it’s been a hell of a day and I have only just realised I hadn’t contacted you. I’m at Nelson airport. Can I have a bed for a few nights?”

“Hell
, yes. You don’t have to ask you know that. What’s up?” 

Jo
anne didn’t answer. She had a quick sip of wine before she spoke.

“What did you think of Stephen?”

Sandy stiffened, what a strange time to be asking that question again. 

“He is
alright. We have had this conversation before you know.  Are you alright?”

It was unlikely her mother would have contacted Joanne regarding the tests. 
No, she would never have chosen Joanne to ring?  If she had, Joanne would have been in touch to ask questions and offer support, to make it better.  Sandy dismissed that idea.  Her mother considered Joanne was involved, if not responsible, for Sandy being expelled from school.  She was hardly likely to confide in her.  

“
I think I’d better tell you something before you arrive.” 

It w
ould have been much easier if Joanne had returned her calls.  She had left enough messages on the answerphone and with Stephen.  Now, with an unexpected visit and appointments in the next few days, there seemed little option.  What a thing to have to tell her best friend after weeks of not speaking, but it would be easier over the telephone. 

San
dy crossed herself, shuddering, as she realized her actions were imbedded so deeply this had been done automatically.

“
Joanne.  I have breast cancer.”

“Shit
, Sandy why didn’t you ring me!  Are you sure?  That can’t be right.  Have you caught it early?” 

T
he words spilled out without thought.

“
I did call and left messages for you to call me back.  Yes, of course I’m sure.  Well, not exactly.  Yes, I’ve caught it early.”

Joanne downed the last of her wine hoping it would sooth the fist that grabbed and twisted in her stomach.  Why the hell hadn’t she taken the time to ring Sandy? 

Joanne’s
entire world had just collapsed.  No home, no career, no fiancée, limited savings and the one shoulder she had to cry on was battling problems far worse than her own.

The mobile dropped on to the table
with a clatter. Joanne felt the colour drain from her face.  She picked it up, hoping Sandy was still connected.

“Sandy
, I’ll be there soon.  I promise we will get through this thing together.  I’ve got to go.  They are calling my flight.”

Joanne fled to the rest room
s where she slid down the wall and sat heavily on the cold hard tiles. 

Twenty minutes later she
walked on to tarmac and boarded the plane without glancing back.

Sandy put down the telephone and shrunk down into her chair guiltily.  Years ago she had lied to Joanne when she had been caught scanning her roommates study notes.

She still remembered the empty feeling and the vow she
had made.  This was the one person she would never intentionally deceive again.  Within the last few minutes she had blatantly lied to her friend twice.

Alright was not the term she would use to describe Stephen. 

Had she caught the cancer early?  Something in the doctors eyes had told her no. 

When the telephone rung
, Sandy knew it was Stephen.  She had no idea how but she did.  He spoke casually. 

“Hi Sandy
, is Joanne there or have you heard from her?” 

Sandy smiled and slowly placed a cigarette between her lips.

Joanne had left him.  She smiled, savouring the moment. 

“Sorry
, who did you say was calling?” 

She played with the cable as she toyed with Stephen. 

“Sandy, it is Stephen.” 

“I can’t
imagine why you would have to ask me where your fiancée is.  Have you misplaced her under the pile of other woman?”

She heard him suck in his breat
h.

“
Stephen, you would never have held on to a woman like Joanne.  She was bound to see through your extraordinary arrogance.  You have nothing to offer her, nothing.” 

S
he smiled, not giving him enough time to respond.

“If I had heard from Joanne I would never te
ll you.  You, Stephen, are a manipulator and could never be good enough for her.  You lay claim to success but that comes with more than one canvas.”

“Never ring this number again!  Do you understand that?” 

Her silky voice had risen to a shrill screech.

“Stephen.  Fuck you!”

H
e seemed to have been stunned to silence, his breath was clearly audible through the phone and was coming in short, agitated gasps but his mind was not operating quickly enough to find a retort in response to Sandy’s outburst.

Sa
ndy inhaled deeply on her cigarette. She then placed the smouldering end directly under the smoke detector.  It omitted a high pitched shriek.  She held the receiver as close as possible to the offensive noise. Protectively, Stephen put a hand over his ringing eardrum at the same time as the line went dead.

Stephen hunched forward in frustration and turned towards a black framed photograph.  It showed the couple embracing.  They were standing barefoot on the deserted sand.  Behind surf kicked up by a summer storm broke in towering lines on to the shore.    Cradled by the pillow, Joanne’s charcoal watched him from its canvas.  The sad, accusing, almond eyes bore deeply into him. He slammed his fist into the wall and addressed the picture in a voice raised in anger.

“
Your friend is a bitch!  Thank goodness, I didn’t waste my time sleeping with her.”

The
face stared back.

He picked up
both the photo and charcoal portrait and as he placed them in the drawer his eyes fell on the tiny, discarded engagement ring.

Panic ripped at his throat and he
pulled back the wardrobe doors. Joanne’s personal belongings were gone, everything. 

Stephen’s throat constricted and he stared in disbelief.
Joanne was never coming back.

Chapter 13

“Lucky Lady”

Sandy couldn’t remember, exactly, when she had first noticed the pea-shaped lump in her right breast. 

Perhap
s it was two, or maybe three, months before she had visited Joanne and Stephen in Nelson last summer. It could have been, and it probably was, even longer.

She hadn’t been particularly concerned
and therefore she hadn’t bothered to make any record of timeframes.  After all, there was no family history of breast cancer and it was a disease that primarily affected elderly people.   She was in her twenties and so there would only be a negligible chance of anything sinister. 

Although she didn’t have the ideal lifestyle as far as diet or ha
bits were concerned she felt healthy – nothing had changed apart from the appearance of the tiny, hard lump.  She took a long drag on her cigarette.  When she was much older she would reduce her smoking and alcohol consumption.

She had listened to and read the stories about lumps during hormonal changes or fatty cysts and the woman who had over reacted to them.  That had resulted in uncomfortable biopsies for no reason. 

She certainly wasn’t about
to worry herself unduly or schedule an appointment specifically to have a tiny, annoying defect examined.

Although Sandy managed to put the little intruding lump to the back of her mind it did occasionally play on her thoughts and imagination.  When Sandy felt stressed or concerned she reverted to several habits none that were healthy and some that were clearly dangerous.

She
had rung Joanne on several occasions.  She wasn’t sure that she wanted to discuss the offensive lump with her.  It seemed a little neurotic to involve someone else when there really wasn’t a problem.  She guessed Joanne would be one of those woman that would over react and march her into a doctors surgery.

For the last few months the phone calls
had been less frequent than any other time in their friendship.  Joanne was hardly ever at home and when she did occasionally answer the telephone, it was obvious she was busy. Although, of course, she tried not to make Sandy feel as though her calls were an intrusion. 

T
heir recent conversations were always short and crammed between clients and deadlines. 

Without the familiar
reassurances and advice from her friend, Sandy vented emotions in a diary.  The pages were covered in barely legible sentences expressing fear and thoughts of needles and doctors in clinical white coats. Somehow it helped, it was always available and it didn’t judge her for the nightly chain-smoking, binge drinking, large quantities of dark chocolate and the one night stands with whoever was available at the various Auckland bars she frequented.

Impulse buying was another tactic that
had always served her well.  It took her mind off the adult realities that were proving too large to deal with.  She normally restricted her purchases to clothes, shoes or beads which she added to her already cluttered wardrobe.

It was raining outside, water ran down the door and pooled on the pathways.  There were hours left before she was required at work and although Stephen had taken a message he had obviously not relayed it to Joanne.  

Sandy broke off another piece of chocolate and focused on the
article in front of her.  Reading was still difficult and slow but the word breast cancer seemed to stand out and dance in front of her eyes.  The pictures were easy to understand. They showed terrifying surgical images, options and diagnostic procedures.

Since the l
ump had intruded on her life Sandy had purchased magazines and medical books and often sat morbidly thumbing her way through the endless pages of information and interviews with the woman affected. 

Sandy slammed the book closed.
She needed to stop looking at those pictures.  She needed to find something positive and new.  She needed a distraction that would deny the lump importance. Why did she keep thinking about it? It was like an invisible enemy that had taken over her thoughts and sent her to a dark unfamiliar place.  Why hadn’t Joanne rung her back?

Sandy
bit off another piece of dark, bitter, cooking chocolate.  It was cheap and hard but the only sugary treat she could find in her understocked pantry.  She washed it down with a gulp of cold sauvignon blanc that caused the pasty substance to congeal on the roof of her mouth.

There was no doubt t
he ugly little lump had made her re-evaluate her life.  She had found nothing of permanence to mark her twenty four years.  No relationship, no possessions and no one that would be impacted for any period of time if she was to die tomorrow.

Her parents
would find solace in their beliefs. She had no doubt Joanne would mourn her passing more than any other human being.  The only other breathing creature that would notice Sandy’s passing would be her little dog.  Critter was wire-haired with bulging round eyes,  a pushed in black nose, a foul smell radiating constantly from his compact body and a unendearing habit of humping any available leg or object that remained still long enough. 

She had seen him in a local pet shop
, glaring out from behind the bars of a small cage littered with demolished toys and shredded, urine-soaked newspaper. The other cages contained cross bred puppies, adorable, young and pleading.  Critter was a mature dog with an unknown history and well established undesirable behaviours and habits.

The
pet shop owner had neglected to explain Critter, formally named Puddles, had been returned on two previous occasions by disgruntled purchasers who were unable to manage his disobedience and were fed up with the destruction he left in his path. Without much thought about the practicalities of owning an, actual, living breathing creature Sandy had purchased the little dog together with numerous toys, a blanket and a book detailing canine ownership, training and responsibilities. The book was never opened and Critter had destroyed the numerous toys and the blanket within the first week.

Critters constant yapping soon re
sulted in eviction from the inner city apartment that had once been home to both herself and Joanne.

D
esperate to avoid Critter being returned for a third time, the pet shop owner had convinced his elderly neighbour to waver the no pet’s policy in her rental agreement. 

Sand
y became the lucky tenant of a small, character-filled villa in the leafy suburbs.  

She had to travel further t
o the wine bar for work.  But her hours were often different from the majority of workers so the traffic was not an issue and the lifestyle and fenced garden made up for the inconvenience of commuting.

Sandy hunched over another open book.  How did she arrive here?  Twenty-four years old today and not even a call from a friend or her family to wish her well!  The rain hammered on to the grubby glass window and the words reconstructive surgery danced in front of her eyes. Tears swum blurring the print and then overflowed running down her cheeks leaving tracks in the thickly applied make up. 

“
Happy Birthday to me.” 

Critter glanced up
with vague interest.  A few minutes later he erupted into a string of excited yaps.     

“Yeah
, I know the postman.  It’s too wet for you to run after him today.  You stink enough without getting wet and dragging mud back through here on your paws.” 

As if understanding
, the little dog readjusted himself and settled back on to the worn scuffed leather couch.

“
Perhaps a card or present is waiting for me?” 

Sandy felt
the cloud lift slightly at the prospect.  She didn’t even bother to pull on a coat.  The rain felt cool and refreshing washing the salty tears away as she dodged the puddles that had formed in the uneven concrete.  One small damp envelope greeted her.  She explored the letterbox with her hand in disbelief.

“A
power account!  No one remembered my birthday!”

A fresh wave of t
ears flowed down Sandy’s face. Wet hair clung to her forehead and loneliness clawed in her stomach.  There had to be something more than this.  In a moment of frustration Sandy swatted angrily at the pile of photos scattered across her formica table top. 

Pictures
fell on to the floor, some of a young girl growing up dressed in conservative clothing.  Buttoned high under her chin and purchased by a mother in an effort to hide her daughters erupting breasts.  Some were of her small family on the beach or sitting at the Christmas table overlooked by a morbid painting depicting the Lord Jesus, his forehead encased by thorns.  That image had haunted her as a young child. She had eaten meals with the tortured eyes looking down on her.  Each mouthful had reminded her of his suffering and how so many sacrifices had been made on her behalf.  She shuddered with guilt and began to put the images back in their shoe box.  One day she would organize them in a proper photo album to ensure they were preserved. 

Sandy picked up another photo.  A small
round face with long braided red hair smiled back at her. She looked so happy, secure and content. She was standing beside a fatherly middle aged man, his arm draped casually over her slender shoulders.  Both held fishing rods and the little girl proudly displayed a small rainbow trout.  Their aluminium dingy had been loaded on the roof rack and was visible behind them.  Her mother must have been the one taking this photograph because she was always there when they had gone fishing.  Sandy had no idea why; being on the boat had clearly made her nervous and she hated the icy cold that often blew off the mountains and on to the lake. 

She remembered her mother sitting
stiffly on the hard bench seats, clad in bulky jackets and woollen gloves, frightened and agitated, waiting impatiently for them to pull up the anchor and head back to the safety of the shore.  These were some of the happiest memories of growing up she had, despite her mother’s discomfort.  Sandy remembered smoking the delicious fresh fish in brown sugar and salt and eating the warm fillets and loaves of soft, spongy, white bread with her fingers. 

She remembered tim
es when they had even skipped attending church while on holiday.  Instead, the family had explored the icy cold lake Taupo, spending weeks fishing and enjoying each other’s company like a real family.  That was a different life, a life before her mother had become fanatical, before she had distanced herself and become inflexible in her beliefs.  A time before her father had suddenly grown old and retreated behind a newspaper and his glazed detached expression.

Now it was too much to expect them to
even remember her birthday!

“
I’m going to buy myself a present.  At least it will be something I want!”  Sensing the lift in Sandy’s mood Critter jumped up on to her knee. 

Sandy
reached across and picked up the folded newspaper.  Several boats fitted into the general category but most were too large or too expensive.  One stated there was no outboard included and she discounted the two others that required work. The only remaining boat sounded perfect but was not made from aluminium which was the construction of the boat she remembered her family owning.  She read the advertisement and considered ringing her father.  She decided against it.  He couldn’t even remember her birthday. Sandy read the advertisement again.

“Wooden Boat

5 metre (16.4) Feet

70 HP outboard

Tidy condition and c
omes with good trailer.  Registered and WOF.  Bargain, must sell.

A gruff voice answered the phone on the second ring.

His voice softened when Sandy asked if the boat was still available.

“Yes, young lady, but I don’t think it will be unsold for long. There are people looking at it later today. It’s a good sturdy little boat.  She’s been in our family for years.  Only reason I’m selling is the kids are grown up now and it’s sitting unused.”

“Does it require any work?”

“Not really.  The boat is sound but could do with a decent repaint.” He went on quickly, “I thought about giving it a quick coat myself but then it might look as though I am covering something up.”

If that was all that was needed
, then Sandy was more than capable of taking on the project.
 

The
wooden craft sat on a small, rusty trailer.  One tyre was almost flat and the interior was covered with a blue plastic tarp that had obviously not been removed since the trailer was sent for its warrant of fitness. 

A large cockroach
scuttled away when the sunlight invaded its damp and dark habitat.  There was a bench seat in the rear that looked very similar to the one she remembered in her father’s boat and two tidy upholstered seats in the front. The white hull was in definite need of repainting.  Large chips flaked away revealing another coat of pastel blue.  In several places, the wood was exposed completely but there appeared no sign of rot or repairs. Sandy stood listening with enthusiasm to the portly man and he gushed on eagerly.