Mary's Golden Stitches

“A quilt?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“A quilt.”

“Yes, Rosa, a quilt.”

Rosa stared at her sister from the kitchen, trying to think of something positive to say. She was often trying to think of something positive say. It was proving difficult at the moment.

“Well, ok then,” she managed, turning to the counter to put the groceries down. Her sister lived in a small colonial house. Its kitchen opened into an unstructured living space that led to a hallway housing the stairs for the second floor. Mary sat in the back corner of the room, in a high-back upholstered chair. A few large windows lined the left side of her little nook, casting her in a sunny golden light.

Rosa crossed to her corner and picked up a bolt of fabric at Mary’s feet.

“Do you even know how to quilt?”

“I know enough. Mom taught us a bit.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Rosa said.

She remembered all right. Their mom’s lessons consisted of sewing buttons and how to work the machine for very basic tailoring. But she knew that this line of observation would not be productive. Not in Mary’s current state.

In fact, Rosa knew this state so well, that she had a name for it. The “cheery” state. When Mary was in her cheery state, nothing touched her. Whether this was because she’d obtained some wholistic, invincible enlightenment--as she claimed she had--or because she’d detached to a new kind of denial, Rosa didn’t know. All she knew was that her wall was built so strong, no manner of “big bad wolf” could blow their way in.

Some days--following the not-so-cheery days--this was a relief. But when they strung together for weeks on end, Rosa worried.

“Are you hungry?” she said, putting the bolt down.

“Marigolds,” Mary said, picking up a rich maroon fabric and examining it, “this will be the base, and overlaid, I’ll make the marigold square out of dark green and golden yellow. It’ll repeat in three columns, four rows. I should have enough fabric here,” she finished looking around at her stash.

“Great,” Rosa said, “how long do you think that will take you?” She wanted to know how long this cheery period would last for.

“I don’t know. Some take years. Women in the eighteen-hundreds used to complete several patterns of quilts before marriage. It was part of their dowry. Each quilt symbolized a different stage of life. Marigold meant happiness, joy, optimism. Good luck. Often completed before matrimony.”

Rosa stopped on her way back to the kitchen and turned to look at her sister as she held up one color to another. Was there a break there? A tremble of voice, a crack in the wall? No. Her serene smiling sister gave a deep contented sigh and looked out the window.

“I do believe I’m hungry,” she said, “I’ll have a hearty meal, and then get to work right away.”

“Ok,” Rosa said, for lack of something else to say, “I’ll make some lentil stew. It’ll be ready in about half hour. Oh, and don’t forget that guy is coming to assess the rooms today.”

Mary scoffed. “I can’t believe you’re going through with that,” she said, annoyed.

Rosa said nothing as she began to boil the water and chop an onion for the stew. They’d gone over in detail, why they needed to call someone in. If she was going to stay there, she’d need her own bathroom. Her sister’s had an ensuite, and the other downstairs had no shower.

“He won’t be here long,” Rosa said, looking back to see her sister still staring out the window. There was a strange expression on her face. Uppity. Almost haughty. Peculiar emotions to associate with a renovation guy. “Unless you know how to build me a bath?”

Her sister narrowed her eyes her direction and jutted out her chin. Then she turned back to her fabric and continued assessing.

There. That put a crack in it.

#

What a beautiful day it was. So bright. It was hard to feel down on such a bright day. Mary looked from her view of the street, down at the fabric at her feet and the various cut out shapes. The pattern had been straight-forward enough, but she found herself hesitant now that it was time to do the sewing. She didn’t want to make a mistake. She wanted it to be perfect.

Of course, she was not dumb. She knew the odds she’d make a perfect quilt on her first go were low, and yet if she took her time, she could manage near-perfect enough. She was sure. What else did she have to lose really? Just a bit of time. And she had that to spare.

Truth was, even with Rosa there, there was too much time. Far too much time. Time to think, to ruminate. To wallow. Well not anymore. She was determined. This quilt represented everything about that. It would be her good luck charm. Her talisman of optimism. Her conduit of joy. Already it had provided her with a kind of haven; a way to focus her thoughts and frustrations in a constructive way.

Frustrations like that renovation man. He’d been there a week already and was driving her close to madness with all his bustling in and out. Why on earth her sister was insisting on her own bathroom, was beyond her. It’s not like they’d never shared bathrooms before. And not just anyone could renovate a colonial--it took a skilled hand. A caring hand. But her sister usually got her way, so she knew fighting her would be useless.

Taking a deep breath, Mary loaded her first bit of fabric to the machine and pulled the clamp down on top. Her foot eased the pedal down slowly, and started the needle going. Her heart beat fast as she navigated the material through its jaws, and her fingers shook slightly. But the golden-threaded line moved straight, and she began to relax.

“Ma’am?”

Mary’s eyes shot up and her foot pressed the pedal suddenly, causing her stitches to go off slightly.

“What is it?” she asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“So sorry to bother you,” the man said, his callous hands held out in apology. His accent was thick, Hispanic, and his eyes were dark. “My son is with me today,” he continued, “is this ok?”

It took a moment for Mary to register what he said, but then a young boy, about eight or so, trailed around from behind the man.

“I’m Javier, by the way, this is Ernesto.”

Again, Mary found her tongue tied. Haltingly, she nodded, though she wished she could have found a reason to banish them both for the day. Javier nodded back gratefully, grabbing his son’s shoulder to lead him upstairs.

“Just make sure he’s quiet,” she said snappishly. Then, a bit more composed, “I need my quiet.”

Javier paused and looked at his son.

“Of course,” he said. Then the two of them disappeared through the hall and up the stairs. She waited till their clamoring footsteps receded before reversing her stitching and correcting the line.

#

“Mary?” Rosa called out.

This was the first time in a month her sister was not found sitting in that corner by the windows. They’d set up a table over there so she could do the sewing when the time had come. She hadn’t wanted to do that upstairs in the spare room where Rosa had suggested. Where all the sewing things had been, where there was plenty of space.

Come to think of it, Mary didn’t spend hardly any time upstairs. Rosa wasn’t sure she even slept in her bed half the time, preferring the couch and the blue-light lullaby of the television.

So, she was surprised when she found Mary in her room, standing at the foot of her king-sized bed. Before her, lay the quilt she’d been working on, exactly as she described. The maroon backing was tiled with twelve squares, each featuring its own golden marigold pattern, stitched in gold.

Rosa walked up behind Mary and looked at it closer, grabbing her sister’s shoulders gently.

“It’s stunning Mar,” she whispered. And truly it was. In fact, Rosa found herself quite stunned at how quickly and precisely her sister had made work of this.

But to her surprise, Rosa felt Mary begin to shake in her hands. Before she knew it, she was sinking to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. Rosa sank with her, wrapping her arms around her.

“It was supposed to take longer,” Mary lamented loudly.

“You work quick,” Rosa said, laughing comfortingly, “you can make another one.”

“I don’t want to make another one,” she said, “don’t you get it? This was supposed to be it! It was supposed to help. Help me…move on. But now it’s done and I’m still here! I still have an empty bed. An empty house. And a sister intent on destroying the one thing we built together!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The house, Rosa! We restored this place ourselves. Together. And you bring in this butcher to tear it apart and for what? To add a bathroom? Well, I’m drawing the line. As of today, that brute Javier is gone.”

At her words, a noise sounded from the ensuite, like something had been knocked over. Both Mary and Rosa startled and looked to the door, noticing for the first time it was closed. Rosa crossed to the door and knocked lightly.

“Ernesto?” she guessed.

The door opened slowly, and the face of the little boy emerged. He had his father’s tan skin and dark hair, and he looked up uncertainly at Rosa.

“It’s ok,” she reassured, “it’s ok, she didn’t mean those things.”

“Yes I did!” Mary said.

“Mary!” Rosa reprimanded.

“It’s ok,” the boy said, “I know she is…afligada.”

Rosa looked to Mary unsure. “Afligada?”

“Si, en pena. Pain. Grief.”

“And how would you know anything about me,” Mary spat, her expression both violated and horrified, as though she would die rather than be so transparent to this little boy.

“The marigolds,” he said simply, pointing to the blanket.

Both sisters looked to the quilt, not following him completely, but knowing what he said was profound just the same.

“The flor de muerto, flowers of the dead,” he continued innocently, “we use marigolds in Dia de los Muertos. For grieving. But also celebrating. Their bright color attracts the souls of those you love.”

Mary looked at Rosa, and then back to the quilt, marveling at the duality of its purpose before her. In her attempt to block out her grief, she’d created an item singular to its existence.

“Who was it?” the boy asked, his young face somber.

Mary was silent for a while, but at length she said, “My husband.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully.

“Hang it in here,” he said looking around, “it’s good not to forget those we’ve lost.”

“Ernesto,” Javier said, coming to the room and looking alarmed, “I said make it quick. Tell me you weren’t bothering these women.”

“No, it’s ok,” Mary said, looking at the boy, “he wasn’t.”

Javier smiled tightly and turned to leave with his son.

“Javier?” Mary said, recalling his attention, “how close are you to finishing the bathroom?”

“A day or two. Maybe less,” he said apologetically.

“Take your time,” she said kindly.

Javier looked between the sisters and relaxed slightly, nodding as he left with his son.

“I’m sorry,” both sisters said at the same time.

Rosa wrapped her arms around Mary and kissed her head.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“Neither do you,” Mary responded. After a moment she continued, “where do you think I should hang it?”

Rosa paused for a second and looked around.

“I don’t think you should.”

Then she picked up the quilt and wrapped it around Mary’s shoulders, hugging her tightly as she did.