The Giving Quilt (23 page)

Michaela summoned her courage and took her position. “One, two, down, up,” she called, and they lifted her smoothly into the air and high above their heads, each foot planted firmly in the hands of one of the two cheerleaders. She raised her arms in a V and smiled.

Then, suddenly, the firm pressure beneath her feet inexplicably vanished. The men took the smallest of steps away from each other, and she was falling into empty air, with no one there to break her fall. She tried to control her landing as if she were dismounting from a cheerleading pyramid, but the height was too great and her descent too unexpected.

She hit the mat, hard, and crumpled to the ground. A shooting pain fired up her right ankle and she felt the strangest tearing sensation around her anklebone.

She heard the crowd cry out. She glimpsed Emma fighting the through the audience, climbing down from the bleachers, trying to get to her. And yet it all seemed as frozen and silent as a photograph, a picture taken at the moment she knew that it was over, that she'd been cheated once again, that it wasn't fair, and that there was nothing she could do about it.

She knew better than to try to stand.

Later, at the hospital, Emma held her hand and tried to comfort her when the doctor showed her the X-rays and explained that her fibula was broken, the ligaments torn. Shortly after her parents arrived, she learned that even after her injury healed, she might need surgery to repair delicate structures in her ankle.

“If I need surgery,” Michaela asked carefully, as if choosing the correct words would shape the diagnosis, “when would it be?”

“Not until autumn, so you won't have to wear a cast during the hottest months of summer and miss out on all those sunny days at the pool.”

He meant to be encouraging, but Michaela's heart plummeted. “If I have surgery in the fall, how long until I'll be able to do gymnastics again?”

The answer brought tears to her eyes. Eight weeks in a cast, then two months with no physical activity more strenuous than walking, swimming, or biking.

If Michaela had to have surgery, she would not be able to try out for cheerleading next year—and that would be her last opportunity.

Afterward, as she sat in the lobby in a wheelchair waiting for her father to return from the parking garage with the car, she said, “I think this is the worst day of my life.”

“I think it's theirs too,” said her mother quietly.

Startled out of her sulk, Michaela peered curiously at her mother, then followed her line of sight across the room, where a man and a woman sat near a child in a wheelchair like Michaela's, except that four brightly colored Mylar balloons with
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
! printed upon them were tied to the armrests. The chair's tiny occupant was a little girl about eight years old, thin and bald and hooked up to an IV. As Michaela watched, a nurse approached with a clipboard, greeted the parents like old friends and the girl like a favorite niece, and proceeded to check them in.

“Thanks, Mom,” said Michaela glumly. “Perspective obtained.”

Her mother smiled sympathetically, stroked her hair, and kissed her on the cheek.

Michaela endured the rest of the semester on a campus full of people who seemed all too satisfied when they spotted her hobbling across the quad on crutches. Summer break brought a blessed escape from the glares and smirks and obnoxious remarks, but instead of heading off to the Poconos, where, pre-injury, she had landed a job as a counselor at a gymnastics camp, she went home. She spent the first week of her vacation moping, the second moping and looking for work, and the next few weeks helping her mother in the garden. In June the cast came off, and Michaela gladly accepted a job at a tutoring center, working with kids who were struggling through summer school to avoid being held back a year. She figured it would look good on her résumé when she started applying for student teaching positions, and although it wasn't coaching, she found that she enjoyed it much more than she had expected.

As August approached, Michaela considered transferring to another college. Her parents told her they would support her no matter what she decided, but she knew they wanted her to return to St. Andrew's College with her head held high. She didn't want to disappoint them, nor did she want to let Emma down. They had arranged to be roommates, and if Michaela withdrew from the dorm, Emma would get stuck with some random freshman instead. She toyed with the idea of cutting her hair short and dying it red, hoping that without the crutches and the bouncy blond curls, she would be all but unrecognizable to anyone who didn't know her well. Ultimately, she decided to go back rather than let anyone think they had chased her away in shame. She refused to give anyone the satisfaction of thinking she regretted trying out for the Tartan Crusader. In hindsight, she knew she never would have been chosen, even if she had been far and away the best candidate. But she wasn't sorry she had tried. Her only regret was that she had not made a safer landing when the guys dropped her.

September found her back on the St. Andrew's College campus, taking classes in her major and attending physical therapy once a week at the same hospital where she had been treated after her fall. Occasionally, on her way out, she would take the long way past the atrium garden near the children's cancer ward. She often wondered what had become of the little girl she had seen the night of the mascot tryouts. Michaela hoped she had been completely cured and was at that moment playing in her backyard with her parents, and maybe a little sister and a puppy. She hoped never to spot that little girl among the other pale, fragile children working on craft projects with hospital volunteers or reading books or playing computer games in the cancer ward. Sometimes she stopped to watch them in the common room, transfixed by a radiant smile or a burst of joyful laughter. How could she gripe and complain about her stupid ankle when children half her age suffering from far more serious ailments could find reasons to laugh?

One day when she passed by the wall of windows, she noticed a pair of women wearing quilted jackets distributing gifts of brightly colored quilts to an eager group of children, some in wheelchairs, most hooked up to those ubiquitous IV poles. The children embraced their quilts, and snuggled them, and wrapped stuffed animals in their soft folds, and wore them as superhero capes, and altogether behaved as if the quilts were the most wonderful presents they had ever received and the two ladies some magical combination of rock stars and Santa Claus. She lingered, smiling as she observed the happy scene, touched by the new hope and thankfulness she saw in the parents' eyes. When the quilters departed, Michaela caught up to them and asked if they worked for the hospital. They explained that they volunteered for Project Linus, and they made quilts for children at the hospital and many other places.

As soon as she returned to the dorm, Michaela Googled Project Linus, found their website, and made a quick but thorough study of their mission. Every St. Andrew's student was obliged to complete a community service project before graduation, and Michaela's weekly glimpse of the children at the hospital and her memory of the little girl who had celebrated her birthday by checking into the cancer ward made her want to do something to make their hospital stays a little more bearable.

Then she stumbled across a link that took her to the Elm Creek Quilts website, a name she recognized from her mother's week at quilt camp a few summers before. When she read about Quiltsgiving, she knew she couldn't miss it.

Her adviser signed off on the cause, and her professors agreed that she could miss class without penalty as long as she made up the work. Looking forward to Quiltsgiving and making cozy, cheerful quilts for children like those she saw at the hospital brought a rare moment of happiness to her fall semester. The whole mascot debacle had blown over in early October after a cheating scandal erupted in the business school and diverted everyone's attention, but Michaela's doctor had informed her that she would indeed have to have surgery, something her limp and persistent discomfort had already made obvious to her, as much as she hoped she was mistaken.

She had outpatient surgery on the last weekend of October, and a new fiberglass cast became a long-term addition to her fall wardrobe. Back on crutches, she was once again noticed and remembered as the girl who had defied beloved tradition and tried to become the Tartan Crusader. Most people seemed to think she had gotten what she deserved.

Michaela didn't care what they thought. She almost felt sorry for her detractors, that they had nothing more important to worry about. Then it occurred to her that maybe they were the lucky ones, though, to have nothing more important to worry about. It didn't seem fair.

Her brief, failed career as a college cheerleader was over before it had really begun, and the coaching career she had dreamed of and worked for so long seemed suddenly, irrevocably unattainable. Her plans were in disarray, her future uncertain—but she had family and friends who loved her and other skills she could bring to bear. She would figure things out, and in the meantime, the least she could do was make a kid's day a little brighter with the gift of a snuggly quilt.

Michaela figured she owed it to them for their gift of perspective, for reminding her how much she had to be thankful for even on her very worst day.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jocelyn

A
fter another delicious supper with her new friends, Jocelyn hurried back to the classroom to finish her Giving Quilt top before the evening program. Since the concert would be held on the dais in the ballroom, campers would not be able to use the sewing machines that evening because the noise would drown out the musicians. “You really should take a break and enjoy the music instead,” Sarah had said with a smile. “It's good for you to rest your fingers and your eyes for a while. You'll feel more energized and refreshed when you sit down to sew again.”

Jocelyn knew it was sound advice. The back of her neck ached from sitting still for so long, and her wrists were sore from feeding fabric beneath the needle of the sewing machine for hours on end. Even so, she wouldn't let a little discomfort deter her from finishing her quilt top in time for class the next day, and since the alternative was to return to the classroom after the evening program and sew late into the night, she was determined to finish her quilt well before the Waterford College Chamber Ensemble took the stage. When she arrived in the ballroom, she learned that she was not the only student to have made the same resolution. Nearly every sewing machine had a quilter sitting before it, some stitching together rows of Resolution Square blocks, others working on projects they had brought from home.

Her quilt blocks and supplies sat undisturbed where she had left them before breaking for supper, so she quickly settled back down to work. She had been sewing for a few minutes when Karen appeared by her side. “Do you want some help?” she asked, tucking the long strands of her straight, fine chestnut-brown hair behind her ears. “I'm just killing time until the show.”

Jocelyn glanced at the clock and gratefully accepted, her original plan to finish the quilt entirely on her own abandoned in the race against time. While Jocelyn sewed, Karen pinned together rows and setting triangles and passed them to her. On the other side of the white partitions came the sounds of folding chairs being arranged on the ballroom floor, increasing the quilters' sense of urgency. In good time Jocelyn attached the last of her block rows, and while Karen pressed the seams, Jocelyn cut long strips for her borders. Adding mitered borders turned out to be more complicated than Gretchen's demonstration earlier that day had led her to believe, but Karen talked her through the process and offered a few clever tips of her own that made her measuring, cutting, and sewing much more accurate.

Thanks to Karen, Jocelyn was able to finish her Giving Quilt top and put away her supplies with plenty of time to spare. She made a quick stop back at her room to freshen up and call home to speak with her daughters and her parents, who were staying with the girls in Jocelyn's absence. As she hurried back downstairs, it occurred to her that Elm Creek Quilts had missed out on an opportunity to add a wonderful teacher to the faculty when they had decided not to hire Karen all those years ago. As a teacher herself, she recognized that Karen had a gift. The Elm Creek Quilters' loss was surely the String Theory Quilt Shop's gain.

Michaela had saved Jocelyn a seat, so she quietly slipped into the audience while the musicians were warming up. She always felt a thrill of expectation at that moment of cacophony, a jumble of instruments calling out trills and runs and arpeggios like birds in a rain forest. Whenever brief motifs from the concert pieces suddenly stood out from the random notes, Jocelyn felt as if she recognized the voices of friends amidst a crowd of strangers. Then came the moment an oboe played an A, sonorous and strong, rising above the din, and all the other instruments would tune to it until the many voices became one beautiful and perfect note. Jocelyn loved that moment of anticipation before the music began, when anything was possible, mediocrity or transcendent brilliance, and no one knew but everyone hoped.

Jocelyn took her seat just as the oboist sounded the tuning note. “Did you finish your top?” Michaela asked in a whisper. When Jocelyn nodded in reply, Michaela beamed, bounced in her seat, and made wild motions of applause so comically that Jocelyn had to stifle laughter. Michaela seemed to be one of those rare people who were genuinely happy for the good fortune and blessings others received. She too would make a wonderful teacher.

Jocelyn settled back into her folding chair and let the music envelop her, drinking in the beautiful, familiar Christmas carols she had loved longer than she could remember. Tears filled her eyes when the first haunting notes of “O Holy Night” played, and as the music swelled they spilled over upon her cheeks and she made no move to wipe them away.

This would be her second Christmas without Noah, and it already felt lonelier than the first.

* * *

When Jocelyn arrived at the classroom the next morning, every ironing station was occupied and two quilters were seated at sewing machines feverishly putting the last stitches into their mitered borders. Michaela, Pauline, Linnea, and Mona were sitting in the front, their finished quilt tops neatly folded on the table before them. Karen's Giving Quilt top hung upon the design wall, where she and Gretchen were engrossed in conversation. They both took turns tracing designs on the surface of the sample quilt with their fingers as if they were debating patterns for quilting stitches.

Gretchen soon called the class to order, but although the two stragglers had finished sewing, they were still hastily pressing the seams. “There's no need to rush,” Gretchen assured them. “We have to take turns with the longarm, so if you're not quite ready, you can simply sign up for a later time slot.”

“Thank goodness,” one of the quilters declared, unplugging the iron and heaving a sigh of relief.

“Why didn't you tell us that yesterday?” grumbled the other, blinking as if she were running on too little sleep and too much caffeine.

“If I had,” replied Gretchen mildly, addressing the entire class, “how many of you would have procrastinated instead of trying your best to finish your top by this morning?”

Laughing, more than two-thirds of the students raised their hands, Jocelyn among them. Karen merely smiled and folded her arms over her chest, and Pauline shook her head as if scandalized by the very thought of not finishing by the deadline on the syllabus. Last of all, the grumbling quilter sheepishly put her hand in the air too, and then she offered Gretchen a rueful, apologetic grin.

“Ready or not, the time has come,” said Gretchen cheerfully. She invited the students to gather their quilt tops and backing fabrics and to follow her to the opposite side of the ballroom, where more moveable partitions created a separate workspace for the longarm quilting machine. As they followed Gretchen into the nook, some of the quilters pushed to the front eagerly, while others, including Jocelyn, hung back. The quilting machine resembled a greatly oversized, aluminum sewing machine, longer and narrower than the standard machines the campers had used to piece their quilt tops. Two black handles curved away from the head of the machine above the needle, and two more jutted out from the base. The machine sat upon a rectangular table that looked to be about fourteen feet long, partially concealed beneath what appeared to be a modified quilt frame. Completing the scene were tall cones of thread, a long piece of white plastic that resembled a stencil, and other gadgets whose purpose Jocelyn could not discern.

“I'm officially intimidated,” Mona said under her breath, taking a step backward.

“You're not the only one,” Jocelyn murmured. She thought wistfully of the lap hoop she had brought from home, purchased at the recommendation of the clerk who had buzzed around her quilt shop excitedly helping Jocelyn gather the items from the supplies list the Elm Creek Quilters had mailed her a few weeks before Quiltsgiving. Hand-quilting supplies were included only as “optional” items, not as required items for the Giving Quilt class, but the eager clerk had insisted, much as Karen had, that if Jocelyn wanted to learn hand quilting, Elm Creek Manor was the place to do it, and she ought to be prepared.

“Let's hang out in the back and try not to draw attention to ourselves,” said Mona. “Maybe she'll call on someone else.”

“I'm not so sure. Those are the students I always call on first,” Jocelyn warned her, but she couldn't think of a better idea.

Just then Gretchen asked everyone to gather around the table, spacing themselves so everyone had a good view. “I'll demonstrate how to put your quilt top, batting, and backing onto the rollers,” she said, “but when it's time for your session, we don't expect you to go it alone. An Elm Creek Quilter will be here to assist throughout the day.”

Jocelyn was not the only student to sigh with relief at the news.

“Have any of you used a longarm machine before?” asked Gretchen.

Karen, Pauline, and a very few others raised their hands. When Gretchen asked Karen if she would be willing to go first, Karen brought her quilt top and backing to the long edge of the roller bars opposite the machine, and as Gretchen narrated and assisted her, she demonstrated the steps. First they placed the fabric Karen had selected for the back of her quilt onto the rollers, the wrong side facing up; then the fluffy inner layer of batting; and last of all, the quilt top, right side up. When the quilt was perfectly in place on the frame, straight and square and smooth, Karen grasped the handles on the head of the quilting machine and made one long, straight basting stitch along the edge of her quilt top, not only to secure the three layers but also to get a feel for the machine.

“When you stitch with a standard sewing machine, the needle remains stationary and you move the fabric beneath it,” Gretchen explained as Karen demonstrated. “With a longarm quilting machine, it's the opposite. The quilt layers stay in one place and you move the needle over the surface. To me, it feels like drawing upon the quilt.”

Nodding and craning their necks to see better, the students watched while Karen created a delicate stippling pattern as she quilted the outer border. Gretchen described freehand quilting, and quilting in the ditch, and allover patterns that could be drawn by following a template—the item that resembled a stencil—by tracing the pattern with a device like a laser pointer built into the machine. The machine clattered loudly as Karen steered the handles in loops and swirls and scrolls, the needle speeding up or slowing down in time with her movements.

“Okay,” Mona remarked as Karen deftly quilted a twining vine in the inner border. “I'm feeling significantly less intimidated now.”

Jocelyn too felt much more confident after seeing the machine in action—and it helped to know that an Elm Creek Quilter would be there to guide her when her turn came. Even so, when the clipboard holding the sign-up sheet came her way, she chose a session after lunch, hoping that Karen wouldn't mind if she stuck around to watch her work and perhaps pick up a few more tricks of the trade.

She was at long last learning to quilt, although this was not at all how she had imagined her lessons would be when her interest in traditional art forms had been sparked by her love of history and her wish to share them with her students.

She knew all too well how drastically life could change in a moment.

* * *

Eighteen years earlier and a lifetime ago, Jocelyn and Noah had met as students in the School of Education at the University of Michigan. Jocelyn, born in Pontiac and raised in Lake Orion, had been class secretary and editor of the school paper for all four of her years at Pontiac Catholic High School; Noah, a Detroit native, had been the valedictorian of his public high school class and a two-time state champion in the four-hundred-meter dash. Jocelyn's parents and maternal grandfather were Michigan alumni, and from a very early age she had planned to follow in their footsteps. Noah was the first person in his family to attend college, thanks to a combination of athletic and academic scholarships.

They first became acquainted at a Black Student Union mixer in Noah's junior and Jocelyn's sophomore year, but they were both dating other people at the time and were content to become very good friends. As they spent more time together—in classes, at church, through campus activities—the other relationships fell away, their mutual respect and admiration deepened, and they fell in love.

After graduation, two years with Teach for America for Noah and graduate school for Jocelyn kept them apart for a time, but with hard work, faith, and a healthy dose of good luck, they managed to find jobs in the same city, and then, shortly after their marriage, in the same metro Detroit middle school.

Noah had often remarked that Westfield Middle School reminded him of every school he had attended until college—overcrowded, underfunded, staffed by dedicated teachers fighting to do the seemingly impossible with very limited resources. Like so many other communities throughout Michigan, Westfield had been devastated by the collapse of the American auto industry and had never quite recovered. Students—and their parents—ran the gamut from indifferent to intensely focused on acquiring the best education they possibly could and making something of themselves.

Although Jocelyn hoped to inspire and motivate all of her students, she found herself drawn to the most determined among them, those who worked hard to learn whether they were considered gifted, average, or learning disabled. As the adviser for the school paper, she encouraged her students to observe the world and write about it, to shine the light of truth upon injustice and inequity, and to never ignore an opportunity to make their community and the world a better place. In the classroom, she tried to bring history alive by inviting veterans and civil rights activists as guest speakers to talk about their experiences during those crucial eras in American history, and she assigned oral history projects in which her students interviewed elderly family members or neighbors. She played recordings of music from the historical periods they studied and scheduled time in the Family Consumer Education lab—once known as the Home Ec kitchen—so her students could prepare and taste traditional foods. She encouraged her most promising students to take the Advanced Placement exam in history and led an after-school study hall to help them prepare. Sometimes she felt as if she were making little headway, but she persisted, finding hope in her students' progress, however small the increments.