us,” Mom said.
“I’m not keeping anything from you. But at my age, I don’t think I should be bothering you with all my little problems, that’s all.”
I heard a snuffly bleating noise, like a sheep with the croup, and pictured my mother on her big canopy bed with her shoes off, leaning back on two ruffled red paisley pillow shams, the way she does during long phone conversations, pulling a tissue out of the box with the white crocheted cover that sat on her nightstand, and dabbing her eyes.
“Since when have we ever considered you a bother? You’re our little girl.”
“And you always will be,” Dad said. “Don’t you ever forget that, Bunny.”
Bunny is my father’s pet name for me—short for Chubby Bunny. My pre-teen pudge disappeared twenty-five years ago when my body stretched like a piece of gum until I reached the man-repelling height of nearly six feet. I haven’t been a Chubby Bunny for a quarter century, but Dad never seemed to notice.
“It’s Arnie, isn’t it? Is he seeing someone else?”
Mom didn’t wait for me to answer her question, but she didn’t have to. Somehow she already knew. How is that possible? Is that just part of being a mother?
“Don’t you worry, Margot. Arnie Kinsella isn’t the only fish in the sea.”
“Maybe not. But all the ones I haul into my boat seem to be bottom feeders.”
“Stop that. You can’t give up,” Dad said with his usual bull moose optimism and then paused, as if reconsidering. “You still look pretty good … for your age.”
Ouch.
“You know what I think?” he asked in a brighter tone before answering his own question. “I think maybe your husband’s first wife hasn’t died yet.”
“Werner!” My mother gasped, but why? Was she really surprised?
“What?” Dad sounded genuinely perplexed. “At her age, a nice widower is probably her best shot at getting a husband. I’m just saying …”
“Hey, guys, it’s sweet of you to call, but I need to get ready to go.”
“Are you going out with friends? Are they throwing you a party?” Mom asked hopefully and I knew she was wondering if my friends had thought to invite any bachelors to the celebration.
“I’ve got a meeting.” Not for two hours, but they didn’t need to know that.
“On your birthday?” Dad scoffed. “Margot, they don’t pay you enough at that quilt shop to make you go to meetings after hours. I keep telling you to get a real job.”
Yes, he does. Every chance he gets.
I used to have a “real job” according to Dad’s definition. I worked in the marketing department of a big company in Manhattan, made a lot of money, had profit sharing, a 401(k), and health insurance, which I needed because I was forever going to the doctor with anemia, insomnia, heart palpitations—the full menu of stress-related ailments. After I moved to New Bern and started working in the quilt shop, all that went away. Insurance and a big paycheck aren’t the only benefits that matter—I’ve tried to explain that to Dad. But there’s no point in going over it again.
“It’s a church meeting. I’m on the board now. Remember?”
“Oh. Well, that’s different, then.”
My parents are very active in their church. Mom has taught fourth grade Sunday school since 1979. When there’s a snowstorm, Dad plows the church parking lot with the blade he keeps attached to the front of his truck and shovels the walkways. No one asks him to do it; he just does. That’s the way my folks are. They’re good people.
“What a shame they scheduled the board meeting on your birthday,” Mom said.
“This is kind of an emergency thing. We’ve got to pick a new minister to fill in while Reverend Tucker is recovering.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, remembering our last conversation. “How is he?”
“Better, I think. I’ll find out more tonight. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Love you.” I puckered my lips and made two kiss noises into the phone.
“Love you too, sweetheart. Happy birthday! If that sweater doesn’t fit, just take it back. But promise me you’ll at least try it on before you return it.”
“I’m not going to return it.”
“Well, there’s a gift receipt with the card if you do.”
Dad cleared his throat. “And there’s a hundred-dollar bill in there too. That’s from me. Buy yourself something nice.”
“Thanks, Dad. But you didn’t have to do that.”
“Why not? Can’t a father spoil his daughter on her birthday? After all,” he chuckled, “you only turn forty once.”
Thank heaven for that.
“I don’t care how old you are, Bunny. Don’t forget, you’re still our little girl.”
As if I could. As if they’d ever let me.
After I hung up, I went back to work on the quilt. This time I left the television off and just focused on the stitches, trying to make them small and even. It’s a very soothing thing to stitch a binding by hand, almost meditative. With my tears over Arnie spent, I turned my thoughts, both hopeful and anxious, to Christmas, and my sister.
Mari’s full name is Mariposa. That means “butterfly” in Spanish, so when a bolt of fabric with butterflies in colors of sapphire, teal, purple, and gold on a jet-black background came into the shop, I made two important decisions—I would use it to make a quilt for Mari and I would invite her and my parents to come for Christmas.
It’s been five years since the last time we tried it. Olivia, my niece, was only a few months old. I’d seen the baby a couple of times, but my parents had never met their granddaughter. There is a lot of bad blood between my sister and parents. I talked Mari into coming to Buffalo for the holidays, but at the last minute she called and canceled. Mom was crushed and cried. Dad and Mari got into a shouting match. It was awful. Mari blamed me. It was almost a year before she’d answer my phone calls again.
That’s why making a second attempt at bringing the family together for Christmas really was a big decision, but I had to do it. When I saw those sapphire blue butterflies, the exact blue of Mari’s eyes, I knew I had to take the chance and at least try. Honestly, I didn’t really expect Mari to say yes. At first, she didn’t.
“No, Margot,” she snapped, almost before the words were out of my mouth. “I am never going back to Buffalo. Too many bad memories.”
“No, no. Not Buffalo. I didn’t say that. Come here, to New Bern.”
In truth, I had been thinking we’d get together at Mom and Dad’s, but perhaps things would go more smoothly if we met on neutral ground.
“New Bern is beautiful
