The Goodbye Quilt

Author:Susan Wiggs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2011-06-17T16:00:00+00:00

In the passenger seat of the Suburban, I dart my needle into the heart of the fabric, quilting it with the words, “Be audacious.” The cornflower-blue fabric is like new. Molly never wore the dress again.

She didn’t give up piano, though. Following the recital, she walked into the house, went straight to the piano and played the Bach flawlessly, every note ringing sweet and true through the empty rooms. “Just to make sure I could,” she said.

Glancing over from the driver’s seat now, Molly notices me working the blue piece. “What’s that one?” she asked.

I angle it toward her. “Your first piano recital.”

“I don’t remember that dress.”

“Bach’s ‘Minuet in G Major.’” The name of the piece usually jogged her memory.

“I’m blanking. Cute fabric, though.”

Funny how the heart holds its memories, or lets them go. Each detail of that day is etched into me. I can even remember the flavor of ice cream we got afterward—maple walnut with chocolate sprinkles. Yet Molly has cast the nerves and trauma of that day from her mind. They are not important to her.

“Remember that red silk charmeuse you wore to your senior adjudication last January?” I ask her.

“Of course. I brought it along to keep you from cutting it up,” she says, her urgency making me smile. “I love that dress.”

“I know. I figured you’d want to wear it again.” Unlike the flounces and sashes of her childhood, the red dress makes her look truly grown-up, slender and elegant. Maybe even sexy, with its clinging shape and single bare shoulder. In the same auditorium where she’d once stumbled through a minuet, she had performed last on the program. Supple as a ribbon of scarlet silk in a breeze, she had swayed through a grand, emotional rendition of Chopin’s “Nocturne in C Minor,” a piece he composed when he was seventeen, the same age Molly was.

Mrs. Dashwood, scarcely changed from the no-nonsense teacher we’d known for years, had handed her a tube of Chanel lipstick and declared her one of her most accomplished students ever.

The adjudicator gave Molly the highest possible marks and pronounced her the winner of the competition. Had she played better than the other students? It was hard to say. The adjudicator was Italian, a retired professor from the state college. All the other competitors were boys. It was hard not to miss the professor’s enthusiasm for a pretty, talented girl in a red dress.

Still, I believed she had outdone the others in more than just looks. She had a gift. That nocturne sang with feeling. She knew how to take a heartfelt emotion and fling it wide for all to hear.

I’m kind of glad she doesn’t remember the first disastrous recital. But I’m also glad I pushed her to do it. It occurs to me how much simpler it is to push your child in the right direction rather than yourself.

Molly flicks on the turn signal and drifts over to the right lane.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Thread, remember? You need thread.

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