The Scarlet Thread

  One of the church ladies sang, “‘Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee. . . .’”

  Numb with grief, Sierra stared at her mother’s picture on the linen-covered table at the front of the sanctuary. She would have chosen a different photo. On each side were vases filled with bright-yellow daffodils. In fact, the sanctuary was full of flowers—not funeral wreaths, but spring arrangements bursting with color and a mood of celebration.

  “It was your mother’s wish,” the pastor had explained upon their arrival and her question. “She brought me this picture several months ago.”

  Far from the usual formal portrait used in solemn services, her mother had chosen one when she was years younger, laughing, with a bucket of yard trimmings in one gloved hand and her clippers in the other. She’d left a note as well. “Rejoice with me.”

  Finishing his homily, the pastor opened the service for sharing. One by one, friends stood and talked about Marianna Clanton and what she had meant in their lives. Some of the stories were funny, making people laugh. Others brought a hush and quiet tears. When all who wished to had spoken, Melissa went forward and spoke briefly on behalf of the family. More hymns were sung by all. Her mother’s favorites. “Amazing Grace.” “Ave Maria.” “Standing on the Promises.” And last, drawing tearful laughter, “Father Abraham.” Everybody was on their feet, waving their arms and turning around. Even Sierra pretended to join in the spirit of rejoicing.

  “Rejoice in the Lord always,” the pastor said in benediction. “Again I will say, rejoice. Let your forbearing spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near.” Sierra felt him looking down at her as his voice softened. “Be anxious for nothing, beloved, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, shall guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

  A reception followed in the social hall.

  Steeling herself against her inner turmoil, Sierra smiled and thanked everyone who came through the receiving line. The kind words slipped like water off a duck’s back. She couldn’t afford to let them sink in. Not now. Not here in front of everyone. Later, when she was alone, she’d bathe in the pool of tears.

  Alex stood beside her, close but not touching. He was like a handsome stranger in his dark suit—polite, distant, but not indifferent. Everyone was impressed with his obvious success. They didn’t know the cost.

  Clanton and Carolyn sat with their three cousins across the room. They talked among themselves, sharing refreshments.

  Sierra was ready to leave before the others. She asked Melissa if she’d mind watching Clanton and Carolyn. She knew the children wanted to visit as long as possible. “Why don’t you let them spend the night?” Melissa said.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  She cut her off with a gentle touch on her arm. “We’d love it. We see so little of them since you and Alex moved south.” As soon as she said it, Sierra could tell she wished she hadn’t. “Just don’t worry about them. You need to rest.”

  Alex had driven his rented Cadillac to the cemetery and church. She debated asking him to take her home and decided against it. He appeared to be deep in conversation with his father.

  She spoke briefly with the pastor and slipped unnoticed out the side door of the social hall. It was beautiful outside, everything in bloom. Her mother would have loved a day like this.

  Three blocks away Alex pulled up beside her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

  It wasn’t concern that tinged his tone, but impatience, anger. He didn’t ask if she was all right. “You were busy.” He was always too busy.

  Alex got out of the car. When he touched her, he did so with gentleness. Then he put his hand beneath her elbow, his expression shadowed with sadness. “Get in the car, Sierra. Please.”

  She did as he said. Putting her head back against the black leather seat, she closed her eyes, feeling utterly bereft.

  “What do you think people are saying about us when you just walk out the door without so much as a word to me?”

  She looked at him. Was that it? Was that why he’d come after her? “Since when did you ever worry about what other people say?”

  “You ought to care. Those people are family and friends.”

  “Don’t worry, Alex. I didn’t tell anyone you only called me three times in the past month.” Ron had called more often than her own husband.

  “The phone works two ways.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? But then, every time I called you, you weren’t home.”

  A muscle jerked in his cheek and he didn’t say anything more. When he pulled into the drive alongside the Mathesen Street house, he turned to her. “I’m sorry. Sierra, I—”

  “Forget the excuses, Alex.” She got out of the car and walked along the cobblestone pathway to the front steps. Fumbling for her key, she shoved it into the lock and opened the door.

  Shaking, she walked along the corridor toward the kitchen. Maybe a cup of coffee would brace her against whatever came.

  The kitchen smelled of lasagna. The Pyrex dish still sat on the butcher block where she’d placed and forgotten it this morning. Sally Endecott had dropped the lasagna off along with a cellophane-covered bowl of tossed salad and a chocolate cake. Every day someone from the church came with food—spaghetti one day, the next a turkey dinner complete with dressing and cranberry sauce. Another brought roast beef and mashed potatoes, creamed carrots, and peas. Other friends brought home-baked apple pies and Toll House cookies.

  No one wanted her to worry about having to cook. No one wanted her to worry about anything.

  Not the least hungry, she measured coffee into the filter-lined holder and slid it in place. As she poured water into the top of the coffeemaker, she heard Alex come into the kitchen. He stood for a moment, saying nothing. When she kept her back to him, he went to the windows. She knew he was looking out at the back porch and garden.

  “The house doesn’t feel the same without her, does it?” he said quietly.

  Sierra swallowed hard. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her mother was still upstairs or down the hall. If she called aloud, her mother would answer.

  But it wasn’t true. She had to remind herself her mother was dead. The ceremony in the cemetery this morning should have driven that fact home. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A few pounds of it equaled a human life.

  One moment she felt numb inside. The next she felt a debilitating anguish and fear.

  Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried not to think about it. “How long can you stay?” she said, hoping Alex would say as long as she needed him.

  “I made reservations for tomorrow.”

  She lowered her hands slowly, despair filling her. Alex had given her three days of his precious time. She supposed she should be thankful.

  “The kids said they want to stay with you.”

  “That’s fine,” she said in a brittle voice. She took down a cup and saucer from the cupboard. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Sí.”

  She glanced back at him and saw he was still staring into the backyard. Maybe her mother had meant something to him after all. She filled another cup and brought both to the table near the windows.

  “Mom and I sat here together only a few weeks ago, before she was too weak to leave her bed.” The cups rattled slightly as Sierra set them down and took a seat. “Roy Lubbeck is coming over at five to go over Mom’s will.”

  Alex sat down across from her. “I’ll stay another day or two if you want me to, Sierra.”

  Sure, she thought bitterly, he’d stay and resent every minute of it. She shook her head.

  “What are you going to do about the house?”

  “Do?” she said blankly, glancing up at him.

  “You’re going to have to rent it out or sell it. You can’t leave it vacant. The place will fall apart. The garden’s already going to seed.”
br />   She could feel the blood flowing out of her face. “I grew up in this house.”

  “I know how much the place means to you, Sierra, but you have no idea what it costs to keep up a place like this. Your mother was working on it all the time.”

  “I buried my mother this morning, and now you want me to give up this house?”

  “Don’t make it sound like it’s my fault your mother died of cancer,” he said, his eyes glittering.

  “I didn’t, but it would’ve been nice of you to wait a few days before telling me I should get on with disposing of my mother’s property!”

  “Está bien, chiquita. Take all the time you need. Stay for another month! Keep the place if you want. I don’t care what you do!” He scraped his chair back and grated out the rest. “Just don’t expect me to foot the bill for maintenance costs and taxes!” He left her sitting at the table.

  A moment later, Sierra heard the roar of the Cadillac’s engine. He revved it loudly and then sent gravel flying as he backed out of the driveway.

  Pushing the cup and saucer back, Sierra put her head in her arms and wept.

  Mike pulled his van into the driveway an hour later. Carolyn and Clanton piled out with their three cousins. After a quick kiss hello, they went into the family room to watch a movie with their cousins. Melissa put her hand lightly on Sierra’s shoulder and then took the lasagna out of the refrigerator and put it into the oven to warm up.

  “Alex drove his mom and dad home,” Mike said, pouring himself a mug of coffee. “He said he was going to stay and visit for a while, but to tell you he’d be back here before five. You told him Roy’s coming by?”

  “Yes.” Sierra kept her gaze on her cold coffee. “I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Everybody understood.”

  Except Alex.

  Melissa came back and took the seat Alex had left vacant. “You look tired, Sierra. Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready.”

  Sierra nodded and rose. She felt her brother looking at her and wondered if he’d guessed how bad things were between her and Alex. If he did, he was sensitive enough not to say anything.

  As she climbed the stairs and walked along the upper hallway, she glanced at the narrow passageway to the attic. She remembered finding her mother there on the day Alex had turned life upside down. It hadn’t turned right side up since.

  She went up the steps and opened the door. Standing there, she looked in, amazed at the change.

  The attic was swept and dusted, new Nottingham lace curtains hung over the four small windows. The old sofa had a new forest-green slipcover and four bright throw pillows, two of a deep golden yellow, two white with embroidered sunflowers and green ruffles. The coffee table had been refinished. On it were several old picture albums. The old brass lamp, now polished, stood between the sofa and her father’s old worn leather recliner.

  The walls had been painted pale yellow, the open-beamed ceiling white. On the south wall hung a dozen paintings and pictures. Sierra took one down. Not recognizing the face, she turned it over and saw that her mother had written the pertinent historical information on a card and glued it to the newly papered back. She smiled. Her mother had always been a stickler for detail.

  The bookcase where her father’s old files had been stored was now full of old books. The top three rows were designated for Mike, among them Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, The Works of H. G. Wells, Earth Abides. The bottom three were for her. She pulled out a worn copy of Little Women and leafed through it. Tucking it back in the shelf, she ran her fingers over Anne of Avonlea, Daddy-Long-Legs, Captain from Castile, The Black Rose and looked away.

  In the far east corner of the attic, standing in a beam of sunlight, was the ornate wood-framed oval mirror. The old braided rug had been cleaned, the trunk of dress-up clothing repainted white with tole-painted flowers and leaves. She opened it and saw everything had been washed, ironed, and neatly folded away. Nearby was a small bookcase with children’s games and books.

  When she turned around, she saw two distinct stacks against the west wall, one for Mike, one for her. Her brother’s red Radio Flyer wagon was neatly packed with other mementos, favorite books, an old worn teddy bear, a baseball bat and glove. Next to it were boxes neatly labeled: “College Texts,” “Trophies,” “Comic books,” “High School Mementos/Block sweater.”

  Her own things were sorted, consolidated, and labeled as well, “Clothing/Prom dress,” “Dolls,” “Scrapbooks/Albums,” “Stuffed Animals.” In one container was clothing she’d tired of but had been unwilling to give away. Mary Kathryn McMurray’s trunk sat next to the new white boxes, a white envelope taped to the top. Sierra was written in her mother’s familiar handwriting.

  Sierra removed it and opened it carefully, extracting the note.

  My dearest Sierra,

  This trunk and all its contents were meant for you. I read the journal before I sent it and couldn’t help but feel you and Mary Kathryn McMurray share a great deal in common. The quilt has a message for you. You may not see or understand it now, but one day it will come to you like a star bursting in the heavens. And what a day that will be!

  I love you.

  Mom

  Kneeling down, Sierra ran her hands over the clean wood and metal braces of the trunk. She could smell the linseed oil her mother had used. Unlatching the top, she opened the trunk. The scent of mulberry sachets rose and surrounded her. The beautiful antique quilt lay on top, cleaned and carefully refolded. Sierra lifted it out and saw the gift wrap–covered boxes beneath. In one was the Indian gift basket. In another were the carved wooden animals with the note saying they were for Joshua. A blue velvet box held half a dozen wedding rings, each tagged with a name of the relative who had worn it. Her throat closed when she found two tied together with a small tag reading, “Brian Philip Clanton, Marianna Lovell Edgeworth, married December 21, 1958, in San Francisco.”

  Sierra put everything back the way she had found it. She folded the note and put it on top of the quilt. Closing the lid, she ran her fingertips over the wood- and metal-braced surface. She walked to the small attic window and pushed it open. A bracing spring breeze fluttered the lace curtains.

  “I’m no farther away than your heart.”

  Grief tore at her, and Sierra went back to the sofa and sat down. She opened the top album. On the first page were two pictures of her father as a young man. One showed him with shoulder-length hair and dressed in worn Levi’s and boots. Right next to it was another picture of him clean-shaven, hair shorn, and wearing a policeman’s uniform. She smiled at the contrast. On the next page were pictures of her mother. In one, she appeared to be dancing in a meadow. Her arms were outstretched, her head back, her waist-length hair swirling. In another, she sat on a beach gazing pensively out at the surf. There were pictures of Mike, a bundled baby asleep on his father’s shoulder, a baby playing in his crib, a toddler playing in the sandbox in the backyard. On the next page were pictures of her, wrapped in a blanket in her mother’s arms, another of her sitting in a high chair with her face covered with spaghetti, yet another of her toddling along the cobblestone pathway in the backyard garden.

  Each year was chronicled in pictures. Stretching out on the sofa, Sierra paged through the albums, seeing her mother and father in the early years of marriage. She smiled over pictures of Mike from infancy to his wedding. She went through her album, reliving memories as she saw herself in the garden with her mother, playing dress-up with friends in the attic, swimming at Memorial Beach, playing baseball, wearing her cheerleader’s uniform. She came across a picture of Alex in cap and gown. She was standing with him, and they looked at one another with open adoration. Young love in full bloom. She had forgotten her mother came to the high school graduation ceremony. Her father had ignored the invitation. On the next page, she saw herself in the full bloom of her first pregnancy. The next picture showed her in a hospital bed, looking tired and happy, Clanton
in her arms. María and Luís were on one side of the bed, her mother and father on the other. Beneath the picture was written, Reconciliation.

  Outside the attic window, a nest of baby birds chirped excitedly. Sierra laid the album against her breast and listened. She knew when the mother bird was close and when it flew away by the sounds of the chicks. Closing her eyes, she drifted.

  “You can’t let it go.” Her mother smiled at her as they both worked on their knees in the garden. “You need to take notice each day. See how they’ve come up already. If you give these weeds a day or two, they’ll begin choking the flowers.” She sat back on her heels and brushed strands of dark hair back from her temples. She looked young again, healthy and happy. “It’s like that with life, too, honey.”

  Sierra awakened abruptly when the album was lifted from her chest. Alex stood over her. “Roy Lubbeck is downstairs.”

  “Oh,” she said sleepily.

  Alex closed the album and put it back on the coffee table. He moved away slightly as she pushed herself up and raked her hands back through her hair. She felt unkempt. Her church dress was rumpled and creased. “I need to freshen up before I come down.” She was so tired. She wished she could lie down again and sleep here in the attic, where she was surrounded by happy memories. Maybe she’d dream of her mother again. Meeting with Roy Lubbeck would merely drive home the fact that she was gone.

  Staring out the window, Alex shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

  Sierra didn’t want to talk about it. “I can’t make any decisions yet, Alex.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “I grew up here.”

  “I know.”

  His response was clipped, neutral. The wall was still firmly in place between them. The first brick had been laid when he took the job in Los Angeles. More had been added since, day by day, month by month, over the past two years. She didn’t even know anymore who was inside the wall and who was outside.