“Mama Patricia, did you make this quilt?” She didn’t have to make up the awe in her voice. The quilt covering the bed was handsewn. Stitch by tiny stitch. Each block was detailed, the pieces cut out of old material that had been used until it was faded and worn. She was certain those pieces had been material from her children’s clothing when they were young, and others from her husband’s clothing. This was a masterpiece. A remembrance quilt.
“Yes. Before the boys got me a sewing machine. I used the material from their baby clothes. I saved everything—well, at least the ones I didn’t give to other families that needed clothing. Some pieces are from my husband’s favorite shirts, ones I made for him, or mended over and over because he wouldn’t part with them.” She touched a square. “Our wedding clothes.”
Rubin extended his hands, palms down, about four inches above Patricia’s body. “Jonquille, you two can keep talking about the quilt. It’s very interesting, but I want you to follow my hands with yours. The exact path.”
Jonquille immediately followed his example, stretching her arms out to reach up beside Patricia’s neck. She felt the pull there on her own body. Heat rose in her. Almost without thought, she could feel an alignment that was wrong.
“I love the design of this quilt, using the clothes from when your children were babies and other various ages as well as your husband’s favorite shirts and your wedding clothes. How did you get that concept? Even the way each square depicts an individual story is so unique.”
There’s something wrong in her neck.
Good. Yes. Keep moving your hands down along her shoulder. This is the one she broke in so many places. Keep her distracted. She’s in a lot of pain but refusing to acknowledge it to her sons or to me.
She’s afraid it’s something extremely serious like cancer. Jonquille was reluctant to keep moving her hands when she hadn’t done anything to resolve the neck issue for Patricia, but she kept moving her palms slow and steady along the rounded shoulder.
“A lot of the quilters use their children’s clothing for quilts, or their husband’s if he’s passed for a remembrance quilt. The designs are mine though. Each square I figured out ahead of time, cut it out and sewed it myself.”
Her shoulder is a mess. No wonder she can barely move her arm, Rubin. Can you help her? There’s so much scar tissue built up. Jonquille’s body was warm, not from the energy Patricia was giving off—Rubin was directing that away from her—but from that well of healing inside of her. She felt it growing hotter, wanting to burst open, and that excited her. She’d never been this close to using it.
Yes, we’ll both help her.
Rubin’s voice felt like a caress in her mind.
“I’ve thought about using the sewing machine to reinforce the stitching so it will last longer, but none of the children want me to do it,” Patricia continued. “They love the quilt the way it is.”
“I have to admit,” Jonquille said, “I agree with them. It’s absolute perfection. The sewing machine might preserve it longer, but if my mother had made it, I’d repair any damage to it by sewing it by hand. I’d ask quilt experts how best to care for it.”
Keep moving your hands down her arm. Don’t make the mistake of stopping. With mountain people you rarely have a lot of time to assess. You want to know the worst immediately and then start working on healing as a whole, starting from worst to most minor.
Jonquille could see the wisdom in that. She followed Rubin’s advice, although she did want to linger. Mapping out the damage was easier for him—he had far more experience. She was new at it. She knew anatomy, and that certainly helped, but the images in her mind weren’t the same as seeing them on an X-ray or the results from imaging in a machine. It had taken a few stops and starts to get the images to visualize correctly in her brain.
Patricia beamed at Jonquille. “Quilting is something I’ve always been interested in. I’d hoped to pass the skill to my daughter, but she doesn’t like sewing. She said when she has children, she will welcome all the clothes and blankets I want to make them, but she will not be making a single one. She doesn’t have the patience.”
“I’d love to learn,” Jonquille said. “I sketch. I’m not a great artist, but I particularly love nature. Someday I hope to have my own garden with as many healing herbs and flowers as I can grow. My own natural pharmaceuticals. I always imagined living off the grid somewhere, growing my own food and living free. I’ll have to add quilting to my list of things I want to learn.”
The bones in her arm are twisting because the shoulder has locked up. The arm is trying to compensate. The neck is doing the same thing. When we get to her hip, you’ll see that it’s doing the same thing. Everything on that side of her body is working to keep her from falling or being off balance because she’s in such pain. She can’t lift that arm over her head. Or stretch it out in front of her. Not without excruciating pain. The entire body is trying to compensate.
“I’ve been working on quilts for all the children,” Patricia confided. “If you’re here for any length of time, you’re welcome to come and work on squares and learn.”
That’s a huge concession, Jonquille. Huge.
“Mama Patricia, I can’t thank you enough. No one has ever made me such a kind offer.” Jonquille had to look away. Tears burned behind her eyes. She was getting too emotional around these people. They were too nice to her and she wasn’t used to anyone treating her with respect or being kind.
Patricia’s gaze jumped to Rubin. “She’s a good girl, this one, Rubin. You were right. She is extraordinary.” She squirmed a little on the bed. “Are you nearly finished?”
“Is it difficult to lie in that position?” Rubin asked.
Patricia hesitated.
“I am your doctor,” Rubin reminded gently. “You have to tell your doctor the truth. Forget that I’m your adopted son too.”
Jonquille had reached the end of Patricia’s arm and hand and was moving as quickly as possible along the rib cage and down to the hip and leg, following Rubin’s sure hands. He never hesitated and his arms were steady, not trembling, although he’d had them extended for a period of time. She needed to work harder on stamina. Rubin was putting her to shame.
“Yes, I’m uncomfortable lying in any position,” Patricia admitted in a small voice. “Back, either side, even my belly now. I don’t know why.” There was worry in her voice. “Jane Rolly, you remember her, she got so she couldn’t sleep much, her body hurt all the time. She got the cancer, Rubin, and she was dead in three months.”
“You don’t have cancer, Patricia,” Rubin stated. “You’re not going to die, so you can put that right out of your mind. You’ll be cooking for those sons of yours, Diego and me, and now Jonquille, for many years to come. Probably old man Gunthrie as well. Has he been around?”
Jonquille knew the last question was asked partially to distract her so she could finish the examination. Rubin already had his palms so close to Patricia’s neck Jonquille almost abandoned the last of her inspection of the leg and ankle, but she forced discipline and then hurriedly followed Rubin.