I snapped my gaze to his but didn’t see anything condemning in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Then why are you avoiding doing this project her way? You’re rushing through it using the excuse that you’re not already an expert so therefore you can’t do it to the best of your ability. Do you think that’s what she wanted?”
No. But I’d already messed it up. I’d already hacked at the fabric Ida’d left me. Just like everything else in my life, I’d made a mess of it. Tears I didn’t want burned my eyes and slid down my cheeks.
“I’m not trying to berate you, Casey. I’m trying to show you what I see and, well, what I think I’m being led to tell you.”
I ignored that last part. This man might be insightful, since that was probably a necessity in his line of work, but that didn’t mean God had spoken any specific words meant for me. I swiped the wetness from my lashes. “I’ve already messed it up.”
His smile warmed some cold place deep inside me. “There’s nothing too messed up that it can’t be fixed. It may take time, patience, and determination, but everything can be fixed.”
Even me?
The thought sprang up from nowhere, and I tried to push it down, but it refused to drown. Could this process, this working through my grief for Ida and everything else staining my life make me better in the end? New?
A yearning welled in my heart that I couldn’t ignore. I wanted to be different. I didn’t want to live in constant fear of failure. Of never being good enough for anyone. I’d been enough for Ida simply because of who I was, not because of anything I’d done or not done. I wanted to learn to be myself without being crushed by other people’s rejection.
But how?
Ryan fished something out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “Something tells me you probably need this now.”
I took the envelope from him and ran my finger over my name in Ida’s shaky script. Why? Why did I have to lose the one person in this world who wanted me?
Ryan placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Need me to help you upstairs?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think my ankle is that bad. Besides, I’ll probably stay down here awhile.”
After he gave me another squeeze, he fished a paper out of the junk drawer and scribbled something on it. “This is my number. Call me if you have any problems.”
I nodded absently.
Ryan crouched down in front of me and forced me to meet his gaze. “I mean it. Don’t fall down the stairs or anything stupid because you’re too stubborn to ask for help when you need it.”
Mouth suddenly dry, I swallowed deeply. His words carried more layers than I cared to admit. I offered a weak smile. “Promise.”
He probed at my ankle but, not finding any swelling or bruising, declared I’d probably only twisted it. I almost quipped something about that being proof I was fine and obviously didn’t need him after all, but I swallowed it down. Score a point for me for not being rude.
After promising to pick me up in the morning to go get my car, Ryan let himself out.
I stared at the letter in my hand, alone again with the silence and the ghosts of Ida’s memories.
8
My Father’s Friend
Procrastinating wasn’t always avoidance. At least that was what I kept telling myself as I hobbled around the kitchen smelling leftovers from Ida’s memorial and lamentably throwing most of the remnants in the trash. A shame I hadn’t thought ahead and put the containers in the freezer.
Ida’s letter sat on the table like the proverbial elephant in the room, simultaneously calling to me and mocking me. Things must be pretty bad if Ryan deviated from Ida’s instructions and gave me the letter before I’d finished the quilt. I scraped a few bites of chicken spaghetti in the trash. The sour milk smell couldn’t be denied. Pity. It had been pretty good. All of Nancy’s bread had already settled around my hips.
The lady’s postponement of our baking appointment disappointed me, but she probably had better things to do. I surveyed the fridge. A half-gallon of milk two days past its best-buy date, a carton of eggs, one piece of lasagna I was pretty sure was still safe to eat, and an array of jellies and condiments completed my choices for dinner.
Lasagna it was. Eggs for breakfast and lunch tomorrow, and I could probably scrounge up some canned goods in the pantry. I could survive a bit longer. But first thing tomorrow I had to get to the lawyer’s office and figure out what probate and the transfer of Ida’s accounts meant. I’d starve waiting around for him to call me with more instructions.
My ankle spurted little flicks of pain up my leg, but I’d felt worse. A lot worse, actually, and still worked a ten-hour shift at Bistro. As long as it held my weight, I could deal with the discomfort. A cup of ice water and lack of reasonable excuses later, I had Ida’s letter in hand as I limped toward her overstuffed couch in the parlor.
A crocheted afghan covered the back of the couch and scratched my neck. I gently folded half of it back and sank into the caramel-colored cushions. It still smelled like the lavender fabric spray she used on the furniture. I pulled the lever to pop the recliner on my end of the couch, elevating my injured ankle.
The letter trembled in my hand. What was wrong with me? Why did I fear what the letter contained? Ida wouldn’t know how badly I’d botched the quilt even though Ryan did. He might be a man of God, but even he didn’t have that kind of access. I wouldn’t get a reprimand. Just another piece of this weird puzzle.
The letter slid out of the envelope covered in the same blocky type of the ancient typewriter. Ida’s voice filled my mind as I began to read, causing an ache in my chest.
Casey,
I’m so proud of you. You stepped out of your comfort zone and did something new. I know that’s not easy for you. Now you have something you can treasure and pass down to future generations, should that be in God’s design. The quilt represents the combination of the past and the present. Me and you. You and your parents. It means so much to me that you poured your heart into the project. Stitching those memories isn’t always easy, but it takes knowing where we came from to understand our past. And sometimes God can use those memories to heal our hearts in the future. Congratulations on finding old memories and turning them into something you can be proud of.
My heart sank. I hadn’t found any memories. I must have missed something. And I hadn’t done anything to make Ida proud. That mess I’d barely threaded together couldn’t even be counted as half-effort. My heap of mismatched fabric with uneven edges wouldn’t hold together for generations. Not that I held out any hope of ever having a family of my own. That idea had died on my thirty-fifth birthday when my gynecologist said my maternal clock was ticking and, if I wanted children, I had better start trying right away. No way would I bring a kid I couldn’t provide a good life for into this world. I knew what that was like.
I pushed away melancholy thoughts of spending the remainder of my life alone. How bad could it be? Free to do what I wanted without other people depending on me made things much easier. No one to fail or let down or abandon me. Easier.
No one to pick you up when you fall down, though, either.
Shaking my head against the inner voice, I returned to the letter.