So I finally phoned Dr. Redfield, who turned out to be not at all what I was expecting. He was almost as tall as me, for one thing, and had the easy laugh and manners of a harlequin. He was fascinated by the remedies on Tabitha’s quilt and agreed to check up on the people I treated, taking the cases I couldn’t solve and making sure the ones I did stayed that way. Once again, my pantry began to fill up with infusions for everything from ulcers to general despair, and the pots on the stove were always bubbling. There is one cure I never show anyone, however. The last jar of Tabby’s green liquid is stowed in the darkest corner of the root cellar, tucked under a shelf, where the glow of it can’t get into anyone’s thoughts. I’m not saying I would never do it again, but ending an existence, I know now, isn’t like closing the covers of a book. It isn’t as simple as folding down the top corner of a page and putting it aside for later.
There are some things in life, however, you can do that with, and the letter I received from Serena Jane was one such item. Bobbie and I hired a private detective to help us find her, and after a few weeks, he hit pay dirt with a working address. “Should we send one letter between us, or separate ones?” Bobbie puzzled, his pulse racing. Salvatore put a calming hand on his shoulder.
I thought about it for a moment. “Separate,” I finally said. “But let’s put them together in the same package when we mail them. And let me be the one to tell her about your father.”
Bobbie wiped a tear from his eye. “Do you think she ever loved him?”
I considered, remembering the circumstances of Serena Jane’s single date with Robert Morgan, followed by her somber wedding. I wanted to lie, but Bobbie wasn’t a child anymore. He deserved to know the truth. I shook my head. “No, I can’t say she did. But I know she loved you.”
“How?” Bobbie scowled. “She didn’t leave any evidence of it.”
I opened my eyes wide and held out my arms. “Why, Bobbie Morgan, of course she did. It’s been standing right here in front of you all along.” Bobbie looked stumped for a moment, and then he broke out into laughter and threw his arms around me.
When I received word back from Serena Jane, it arrived with a postcard. She sent a picture of a beach with a boat heading out to open water and on the back signed
Love, SJ
. I opened her letter and began to read. She had left because she wanted to get lost for once in her life, she said, so she’d bought a Jeep and set off with no maps. She’d figured she’d recognize the Pacific when she hit it. She was hurt when no one ever replied to her letters, but it was understandable, she thought, when she had been the one to leave. Once or twice she thought about coming back, but then she got a job managing wardrobes for one of the studios and met another man, who sadly ended up leaving her a few years ago. I read each and every one of my sister’s words twice—lingering over her descriptions of sand and pelicans, absorbing her continual amazement that in Hollywood, the stars were right there under her feet. Serena Jane’s last sentence ended with a plea for Bobbie to forgive her, to remember that she was his mother, in spite of everything, and that she loved him.
“Are you going to see her?” Marcus asked me after I got the letter. It was still early, the winter light of dawn breaking over us like a wave. I blinked, my eyes rimmed as red as roosters. I thought about the false gravestone carved with my sister’s name and how its edges had yet to be scoured by centuries of wind and rain, how the letters on it were still as sharp as thorns and as black as spiders. No matter what the season or how many flowers I left at the base of it, the stone had never seemed a final home for Serena Jane. Not a proper one, at least. Robert Morgan’s matched it exactly.
“I don’t think so. Not yet,” I replied, and nestled my head into the crook of Marcus’s arm.
“Don’t be sad,” Marcus whispered, nuzzling my neck. “Not today, of all days.” I smiled. It was our wedding day. We were going to be married by a judge in Hansen, and then Bobbie was making us a feast. “Let’s start getting ready,” Marcus urged. “I want to see you in your dress. I don’t care if it’s bad luck.”
I snorted. “When it comes to bad luck, we’ve got nothing on this place. It’s steeped in it.”
“Not anymore it’s not.” Marcus shook his head, and I realized he was right. We had made changes. For one thing, we’d dragged the furniture into new arrangements to suit us and us alone. There were armchairs in the kitchen now, and we’d relegated an old, nicked table to the front hall—giving us a place to dump mail and park boots and where each of us could leave a note for the other, even if we’d only walked out to the windmill to check on the day’s weather. But I rarely do. I don’t care if it rains down molten arrows. There are days like today when the snow is heaped in piles, but I don’t mind as long as I’m with Marcus. At night, the valleys of my body curve around him, creating a geography I never knew existed before, where size is relative and more is always better, and I can’t seem to get enough of it.
I threw back the covers and stalked over to the window, to see three ink-feathered crows perching on the blades of the old windmill, squawking at the sky. I wrapped the blanket closer around my bulk. “Between us, do you think we make enough racket to scare all the crows off this place?” I asked, grinning at Marcus.
He glanced out the window. “No. They were here long before us, and they’ll still be here when we’re gone. This place really belongs to them.”
“I guess you’re right. I guess we’ll have to learn to share.”
Marcus tiptoed up behind me. “Come back to bed for a minute.” His hands were warm on my back. With my eyes closed, it was easy to forget about his scars.
I shook him off. “There’s something I have to take care of. Something I’ve been meaning to do for a while.” I kissed his damaged thumb. “You go start breakfast. I’ll be down in a little while.”
While Marcus went downstairs, mumbling the names of some plants to himself in Latin, I gathered up Tabby’s quilt from the chair in the corner. Over the past year, its flowers had become increasingly worn and faded, but I was so familiar with the design, I could have reproduced it with my eyes shut. I knew each and every bud, all the leaves, and each pointed tip of the black diamond border.
I pulled aside the curtains even farther and rummaged in a bureau drawer for a needle and thread, snaking a long piece through the tiny hole, and then sat myself down in the rocking chair in the corner. To the untrained eye, Tabitha’s quilt appeared to be a full canvas, but I knew better. There were some blank spots yet on it, but not for long. I had already prepared everything, tracing my design with pencil, and now I pulled and tugged the fabric through my hands until I found my drawing. Three interlocking sets of wings spread out along the very edge of the inner border. I took a deep breath, poised the needle, and began sewing.
At first my stitches were uneven and shaky, but soon my hands found the rhythm, and as I pulled the thread back and forth, my mind found quietude. When I was done, I held my work up at arm’s length. Even amid the cacophony of the competing flowers, my handiwork still stuck out. Three sets of wings that pulled all the other ones out of relief and into focus. The first set of wings was for Priscilla. I had embroidered them in purple, for dignity. The second set was for the doctor, and I made those plain black, and for the last set—Amelia’s—I used the deepest blue I could find. From now on, I vowed, everything added to the quilt would be done in full color. Everything would be brought out to the light.
I stuck the needle back in the pincushion and wound the quilt around my shoulders. Moving slowly so Marcus wouldn’t hear me, I made my way downstairs, pulling on my boots in the hall, and wound a scarf around my throat. In my hand, I carried the plain wooden box that contained the ashes of Amelia. For months I had been holding on to them, unable to scatter them, but today was a day for new beginnings. I took a deep breath of the cold air and set out across the fields.
Even though it was the middle of January, the sky overhead was as clear as a June lake. As my boots crunched through the snow, I surveyed the land around me. Across the paddock, the renovations that Marcus was beginning to make on August’s old barn were becoming manifest, and even better, beside the barn, a new structure was starting to rise—glass panes instead of walls stuck up to the sky and strong new beams spanned across them for a glass roof. Eventually, Marcus will have an oasis in the middle of winter. We will have sweet peas and lettuce all season. Roses will scale the windows in February, crazy with heat.
Inside the barn, the foal, Seraph, was tucked up snug in his stall, a pile of fresh hay mounded at his feet. He nickered when he saw me and stamped a foot. In time, he will grow, too, but I will never race him. He is purely a creature of pleasure, made to prance and canter through the fields, streaking the world with momentary beauty. I patted his flank and swung his stall door shut again. I still had one last thing to accomplish.
In the snow, it wasn’t easy to find August’s marker. It had fallen years ago, but after shuffling around, I stumbled on it and cleared it off. Holding my hands steady, I slowly slid open the box lid and reached inside. It was time to lay Amelia to rest—not sunk in the ground and surrounded by Aberdeen’s grim-whiskered ancestors, but scattered by the handful, fodder for the ravens and crows, fair game for the north wind. I reached into the box again and again, finally withdrawing the last handful of silt, letting the grain run across my palm and stick in between my fingers. I will have pieces of Amelia clinging to me forever, ground into the smallest spaces of me, I know, but I will also always be able to find her here in the stubbled pastures I’ve come to love. When dealing with the long lost, I’ve learned, it’s best to let them lie where they will. Some, like Bobbie, find their way home in the nick of time. Some, like Amelia, remain lately departed, and some are so light, so easily replaceable, that their coffins could be holding anyone.
I wrapped the corners of the quilt tight around the ample curves of my arms and smiled. At least I will never have that problem. When the day comes to slide me into the ground, the earth will certainly recognize me. The hole will have to be wide and deep, a veritable canyon, bigger than anyone else’s by far. Then, I’ll know if we’re really joined as one, linked bone to bone like stitches in a quilt. I’ll pull the final thread from my soul and see what happens next.