My Mother's Quilt
They were fighting again. It was horrible. He was drunk, and yelling at her to bend over the couch. I was pretending to be asleep. Once in awhile, a loud noise accompanied his belligerent screams of anger and her cries of terror. She wasn't the only one afraid of him. I heard the distinct sound of him removing his thick leather belt. He knew just how to snap it and never failed to make a clickety-clack-whoosh sound as he tore it from the belt loops of his faded blue jeans. He had already yanked her clothes off and she was standing before him, the vibrations of her shame starker than the stripes she would wear for whatever crimes he had already tried and convicted her guilty.
As soon as I heard the first crack of his belt on her bare skin and her scream of abject horror, I knew I had to escape. I stopped listening. My breathing became slower, deeper, more even, more controlled. I shut my eyes tightly, and went some where else. Nothing existed except the steady rhythm of my labored breathing and the focal point of my choosing. I reached down and fingered the quilt my mother spent the summer and most of the fall sewing. I could see her so clearly, sewing stitch after stitch. She had no pattern or experience making quilts, and it was still the loveliest one I had ever seen. I remembered everything about her sewing that quilt.
One of the ladies from a church she used to send me to when she wanted to get rid of me brought over a box of rags. She must have been embarrassed to give us that, because she just set the box by the door and left. I remember her heels clicking on the porch as she hurried away. Mom waited until she heard the car drive off and went outside to get the box. She had been watching that lady from the window with a strange look on her face. Looking back, I think it was a mixture of anger and envy, but I didn't know that then. Then, I just knew it was a strange look.
It was a pretty big box, and I guess it was heavy, because I remember her huffing and puffing as she dragged it inside. Sometimes I still feel bad for not helping her bring that box in the house. When Mom opened up the box, I was as disgusted as any 15-year-old would be to discover a box full of scraps of cloth, but Mom wasn't. She smiled softly and started looking through all the bits of someone else's rejected pieces of material. For a minute, I remembered the Coat of Many Colors song she sometimes sang to me when I was little, and was afraid she was going to sew a coat from the scraps and make me wear it to school.
"Mom, why did that lady bring us garbage?" I asked with contempt. "You aren't going to keep it, are you?"
"This isn't garbage", she said happily, ignoring my tone, "I'm going to make a patchwork quilt with all these bits of cloth. There should be more than enough."
Mom didn't get excited about things very often, but when she did she had this infectious enthusiasm about her. I couldn't help but actively look forward to what she was preparing to do. When she grabbed a double handful of the cloth and told me to start separating it by color, my earlier disgust had nearly vanished. I was glad to be included, not that I would have admitted it.
For what seemed like an eternity to me, Mom sat in her old rocking chair and did little else but sew and sew and sew. She used to tell stories and sing songs while she sewed. Sometimes she asked me to read to her. After awhile, she would tell me I was disturbing her peace and to go find something else to do. I was disappointed to go when she said to, but I always went anyway. Mom only asked nicely once.
I don't know if she ever knew it or not, but when she'd tell me to leave I would peek around the doorway and watch her while she sewed for a little while. I guess most children think their mother is beautiful and I was no different in that aspect, but I was looking deeper than that. I think I was struggling to find some kind of connection to her. I was searching for the evidence that part of the woman she was, was asleep inside me just waiting to bloom and merge into the woman I was becoming.
Before she started sewing, she would wind her long hair up and stick a knitting needle through it to hold it in place. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and the tiniest tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her full mouth. Her eyes were bright and full of concentration while her dainty fingers danced across the cloth as though her hands were putting on a mini ballet recital.
There was an unfamiliar gleam of pride in her eyes the day she finished the quilt. If I had ever seen her as happy as she was then I don't remember it. Her sense of accomplishment was well founded; the quilt was a stunningly beautiful work of art. I didn't realize until Christmas morning when I opened it that I hadn't seen the quilt in almost a month. Being so touched she gave it to me as a gift, I found myself too choked up to even thank her properly. It meant more to me than anything I'd ever had before and I vowed to keep it forever.
As lost in my reverie as I was, it didn't take very long before I jumped to attention because of the sharp tapping sounds I heard against the window. It was mom. He had ripped her clothes off to beat her and then locked her out of the house. Again.
I went to the pane of glass and put my hand against it to let her know I knew she was there. From the glow of the moonlight alone, I could see she was nude, bruised and bleeding. She put her finger to her lips, and pointed in the direction of the front door. I nodded my head, grabbed the quilt - thinking I could wrap it around her - and crept out of the bedroom; carefully avoiding the creaky places in the floor of the old house.
At that moment, a deep hatred for my mother recoiled in my guts. Her weakness disgusted me. She allowed what happened to her and as far as I could tell, did nothing to stop it. If someone had asked me if I was angrier with my mother or my father right then, I don’t know how I would have responded. I just know that any anger or hatred I felt for my mother didn’t stop me from hurrying through the house to let her inside.
In my haste to bring my mother in from the cold, I neglected to listen for the prominent, grainy wheeze of her husband snoring. As attentive as I tried to be, not listening for the sound of his sleep proved to be an oversight of monumental error. That one mistake changed my life forever.
Just as I opened the door and held the quilt out to my mother, I was pushed forward. He had been hiding just inside the laundry room waiting for me to let her inside. I had been through this time and time again; I was just never caught before. He screamed something about ‘catching me’ and then kicked the small of my back. I was propelled forward, and bounced screaming down the concrete steps, finally coming to a halt at the bottom.
I must have lost consciousness, maybe it was only for a minute, but it was probably longer. At some point, my mother went inside to get dressed. I realized that at about the same time I saw her worried expression and noticed I was unable to move my left arm. I heard erratic sounds stumbling through the old house, and my heart rate increased. I could hear the sound of blood pumping in my ears, I tried to sit up and get away. Mother pushed me back down and told me to lie still. I guess it didn’t matter to her he was coming back. I closed my eyes; maybe he wouldn’t notice me. Maybe he would leave us alone. Maybe his liver would finally give out and he would die. Then he’d leave us alone.
“She awake yet?” His words slurred like water sloshing in a bucket, he was still too drunk to make much sense.
“Yes, but she has to go to the hospital. I think her arm is broken. She probably needs stitches, but there’s so much blood I can’t tell where.”
“Bullshit! She just wants attention. You know what a drama queen she is. You’re not going anywhere.”
Mom straightened her back and faced him directly. In a tone of voice I’d never heard her use with him before, she said, “I will be taking her to the hospital. We are going now.” Her words were sharp and controlled. She clipped the end of each word off for enunciation and the words rolled from her tongue with a stern finality.
I could tell by the look in his eyes whatever happened next wasn’t going to be pretty. I began shaking and tried to spread the quilt over me as best I could with one arm. As he flew at her, he grabbed the quilt off of me and threw it over her.
With the quilt momentarily distracting her, he used the opportunity to seize her. As she flailed about in attempt to get away from him, he was twisting the quilt around her more and more tightly. Using what seemed to be the strength of ten men, he picked her up and literally threw her at least five feet, screaming something about her daring to talk back to and disobey him.
When her body landed on the ground with an unceremonious thud, I saw the glint of a lighter in his hand. “No!” I screamed, “Mom! he’s going to set you on fire! Move! Go! Get up!” I sobbed and sobbed, screeching warnings at the top of my voice. I remember really inane thoughts running through my head at the same time, too. One of them was not wanting him to burn the quilt. My God. The man was getting ready to set my mother on fire and all I could think of was that I promised myself I would keep that quilt forever. It all happened so fast, though.
He was still yelling at her, using one foot to hold my quilt down so Mom couldn’t get up and the other to kick her. When he bent over, I heard the flick of the lighter and saw a spark. I was screaming and screaming. Luckily, Mom was rolling around frantically, and in his drunken state, her movement caught him off guard so he toppled over. Another inane thought I had at that time was something about the “Stop, Drop and Roll’’ method really working. I think I almost laughed then, or would have, had I not been screaming so loudly.
Everything was so still and quiet for what was probably only the next few minutes, but I aged 30 years in that time frame. This next part is cauterized into my brain. The memory of it will follow me through this life, and will haunt my soul through all the lives’ I’ll have after this one is over.
Mom struggled free of what had been intended to be her fiery blanket. Her first attempt to stand failed, and she fell to her knees. I think she vomited. I’m pretty sure it was nothing but blood. After stomping on the blanket, which never really caught fire she ran to me, saying, “Don’t worry. There’s only the tiniest of scorch marks. I’m sure I can fix it.” I was glad to hear I wasn’t the only one with odd thoughts at a time like this.
She said she had to get me to the car and tried to lift me. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her face was so very pale, and had adopted a gray sort of undertone. “Honey”, she said, “I’m very afraid. You--Both of us need to get to the hospital. You have to get up. I wanted to carry you, but I can’t. Get up and we can help each other to the car.”
Just as I got to my feet, we heard the rustle of body movements in the grass. Looking to where my father was, I froze in fear, once again the blood sounded in my ears. His words shuffled out like a well-used deck of cards, making noise but no sense. Mom and I clung to one another sobbing. Luck seemed to be on our side, he had clearly passed out in a drunken stupor.
I don’t remember how we got to the car. I just remember opening my eyes because I heard a strange gurgling sound coming from the driver’s seat and looking over at my mother. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel and her body seemed to be rocking back and forth. As the car progressed to the top of the hill, Mom whispered, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry”, and a terrible odor filled the car.
“Mama, did you just have an accident?”
She turned towards me as if in a dream. The look on her face was so strange, and she nodded her head affirming her incontinence. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I knew I had to say something to make it ok. Something like that was likely to devastate my mother.
“It’s ok, Mom. We’ll take care of that. Why don’t you pull over and rest, please? I don’t think it’s safe for us to be driving right now.”
Almost as soon as I finished saying that, the car reached the very top of the hill and she slumped forward, falling into the steering wheel and depressing the gas pedal to the floor. With certain reality, I knew my mother had just died. I hoped by the time the car stopped I would be dead, too.
I was completely numb, and watching everything as though it were through a movie screen. The car seemed to maintain a straight line for quite a ways before it veered to the left, heading for a large oak tree. I couldn’t hear anything, but my sight seemed to be enhanced. Even though the car was gaining speed, I felt as though we were going very slowly because I could clearly see all the things by the road side as if we were almost at a standstill.
I woke up what seemed to be only a short time later in the sterile crispness of a cool hospital bed. The man who had caused the injuries that killed my mother was sitting on a chair next to me and I glared at him darkly.
“I’m so glad you’re....” he started.
“Murderer.” I spat at him ominously. His face paled and his slinky eyes bulged.
“What are you talking about?” He asked as he stood over me. Looking over his shoulder and seeing no one, he leaned over me. His mouth twisted in anger, but his eyes betrayed him. He was scared to death I was going to talk. Before he could touch me, I grabbed the call button and triumphantly showed him it was in my hand.
“You Bastard. Your days of controlling my every move are over.” I said as I was wrapping my fingers around his throat. With a strength I would have never thought possible, I pulled his face close to mine. “You can’t threaten me. I own you now.”
Before I could say anything else, two uniformed policeman entered the room. I moved my hand from my father’s throat down to his shoulder, and looked at him lovingly while giving him a kiss on the cheek. As far as they were concerned, they had just walked in on a tender moment between father and daughter.
A nurse quickly ran in behind the policemen, trying to stop them. “I told you, she isn’t even awake yet. She can’t have visitors. You’ll have to leave.”
My father glared at them sternly, saying, “Haven’t we been through enough? I gave you a damn report, it was an accident. Can’t you leave us in peace?”
“We just have a few questions for the young lady, if she feels up to it.”
“Well, she doesn’t feel up to it right now. Now get out of here and let...”
“It’s ok, Daddy. I just want to get this over with so I’ll talk to them now. What do you want to know?”
“Well, if you could just tell us what happened...”
“Ok”, I broke in, “Well, after I went to bed I remembered some clothes I had forgotten in the washer so I went to put them in the dryer. The laundry room is just to the left of the front door and I thought I heard something outside, so I went to the door to look, but I couldn’t see anything. I don’t really know what was out there, because my feet got tangled in the quilt I had wrapped around me and I fell through the door and down the stairs. I think Mom must have heard the noise, cause she came outside and found me lying there. She helped me up and put me in the car. I kept trying to fall asleep, but she wouldn’t let me--she just kept talking to me and--and I told her I hated her...” I paused for dramatic effect and burst into tears. “It’s all my fault.” I gulped out the words and sobbed inconsolably.
“Shhh, hey, take it easy there. Nothing is your fault. No reason to get so upset, just try to tell us what happened” One of the officers said soothingly.
“Well”, I started again, “She just kept talking to me, making me tell her what day it was and stuff like that. I just wanted to go to sleep, and she was looking over at me, trying to keep me awake. I told her there was something in the road, and she swerved to miss it, but hit the tree instead. The last things I remember are hitting the tree and knowing she was--dead and then I woke up here.”
The officers looked at one another with raised eyebrows, and then one of them turned to me. “I know how difficult this must be for you, but it’s best to get these things out while they’re still fresh. Amanda, your mother went through the front windshield, but she had bruises on her back, buttocks and thighs. We are pretty confused about that.”
“Well, a few days ago, I think it was Saturday - no, it was Friday, because she went to the chiropractor on Saturday, she fell off her horse. She was tumbled between his hooves and the ground for quite a ways.”
“I see” he said with a shrug to his shoulders. “Well, I think that’s all we need here. Thanks again for talking to us, Young lady. You rest and get well soon, y’hear?”
“Yes, Sir” I replied weakly.
The officers turned on their heels and left the room as quickly as they had entered. The nurse followed them out, telling us she was off to find the doctor and would be back to check my vitals after she made the call.
My father turned to me, his eyes filled with emotion. “Mandy”, he said, and reached for me.
I glared at him with the fury of 1000 angry wasps and shrank back from him, turning my face away. “Murderer.” I spat at him again.
That time passed quickly. I was released from the hospital just in time for my mother’s funeral. Two months later, I turned 16 and got a brand new car for my birthday. My father stopped drinking. He tried to be a new man, and I used that to my advantage while ceaselessly reminding him he was a murderer. I would never forgive him.
A year later, I was sending off college applications and filling out scholarship forms. I had to write an essay for one of them about the person who had most impacted my life. The irony of it is, I made it a loving tribute to my father and was awarded the whole $15, 000 scholarship. He cried when he read it, and put it in a frame to set on his desk at work. He had no idea that essay would be the greatest catalyst for my innocence in the events to come.
For my last assignment in the drama class I was taking, I had to write a screenplay. I told my father about the assignment and asked him to help me. What he didn’t know is that I had written two, one of which would be completely destroyed.
“Sure I’ll help, Sweetie. What can I do?”
“Well, Daddy, I’m having trouble with one of the scenes. Something just isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it.” As I said that, I reached nonchalantly into the pocket of my jacket and rested my finger on the play button of the tape recorder. “I thought maybe if I could hear it read aloud I would be able to tell what’s missing.”
“Ok, no problem”, he said with a smile, “there was a time I was quite the thespian myself.”
“Oh good, then you’ll be able to make it sound convincing.” With that, I handed him the script and pointed to the scene I was referring. “Why don’t you get comfortable with the lines and I’ll come back in a little while? Oh, and Dad, it has to be done perfectly. I‘m going to record it so I can listen to it and work out how to make it sound natural. Make sure you follow the prompts, voice inflections...just all that kinda stuff, ok?”
“Sure thing, Kiddo. I’m happy to help. Give me twenty minutes or so to look this over.” He replied blissfully ignorant that the suicide scene he was going to read aloud for me and my tape recorder was to be his last. ‘Poor Daddy’ I thought to myself as I went to make his last meal complete with enough drugs for his overdose. My mouth twisted in a wry smile. Soon I would leave this life behind in favor of a new one. All old ghosts were about to be vindicated and finally laid to rest.
