Confessions from the Quilting Circle, Maisey Yates [animal farm read TXT] 📗

let the kids have. Chips. A lot of chips. And then they loaded it all up and drove to her parents’ house.

She couldn’t say how she got up the walk, or when her dad came out. He carried all the bags, she knew that. Her mom hugged her and sat her on the couch and her dad stood in the living room with his hands curled into fists then finally crossed the space and hugged her.

Her head was a fuzzy blur.

“I should pack some things,” she said.

But her dad wouldn’t hear of her going back to the house, even though David was at work, so he went and collected everything she asked him to.

“What do you need, honey?” her mom asked, squeezing her hand when she stood there a few hours later, looking at her belongings, shoved into bags and boxes.

“A sedative?” She tried to smile. “I’m sorry, Mom. For what I said last night I...”

Her mom squeezing her, touching her...it made her want to break apart. She never showed affection with physical touch so Avery must really look like a mess.

“No need.”

Except she felt like there was. Like they needed to talk which...she didn’t even know how to do that with Mary. But she was tired, and grateful for the out.

“The kids can sleep here,” her mom said. “And we can get the air mattress out if you want. Hayden can have it and you can have the bed in your old room.”

She nodded. “Thanks. I...”

“You should go stay at The Dowell House,” her mom said. “You know we’ll take care of the kids. And Lark and Hannah can help with...whatever you need.”

“The kids might need me.”

“You need to sleep. And worry about yourself for a little bit.”

“I might go over there for a while.”

“Go,” her mom said. “We’ve got this.”

Avery found herself back on the road, and then somehow inside The Dowell House, not wholly conscious of how she got there.

She just needed to sit. She was relieved that Lark and Hannah weren’t here. Glad for a chance to sit by herself for a while. To let the reality of the last few hours wash over her. Without omitting anything. Without rearranging or cutting or making a new story.

And as she sat, she looked out the window, at the new view.

And she thought of her quilt square. Something strange echoed inside of her then, something deep and resonant that she couldn’t put words to. Like a melody without lyrics.

It was familiar, and warm. It made her think of something, the edge of a memory that she couldn’t quite grasp onto.

She felt broken. She felt battered, but she remembered thinking about that woman, who had brought her curtains with her, who had left home and had brought her possessions with her. Who had made an entirely new life in a strange, foreign land.

And she was suddenly desperate to know more.

She got up from the chair, and walked up the stairs, heading up to the attic. There was an eclectic pile of boxes, but there was one that caught her eye in particular. It didn’t have fabric in it, but an assortment of things. And she just wondered. Because there had to be information somewhere, more information about the fabric. About the people who’d owned it. Because why would there be any information at all, if the rest of it wasn’t...

And maybe it was just her desire to be distracted for now. Maybe it was just a desperate attempt at making herself feel better. But she wanted to believe that there was something up there. Something in here that might give her more answers than she already had.

The boxes mostly contained junk. Weird junk, too. She went through one that had mostly candlesticks, but also Pez dispensers. And then another one that had old candy jars. But then finally she stumbled on one that had some silver in it that looked old. What era were the curtains from? It was 1864. During the Oregon Trail. The rush of it, if she remembered correctly, and anyone who had been through elementary school in Oregon knew their Oregon Trail history.

So maybe this was her bin. Or, just a collection of things from that time.

There, in the bottom of the box, was a small leather book. A Bible, maybe. Though, family Bibles were usually massive. Small Bibles like this she more associated with preachers who had to travel around the countryside.

But when she opened it up, she saw that it wasn’t a Bible. Rather the words inside were handwritten. The first entry was from 1863. And was signed Anabeth Snow.

“Anabeth,” she said, touching the book.

Maybe it was hers. Maybe not. But she would read it, and she would find out.

Lord knew she didn’t have much else to do.

Because when word got out of her new situation, everything was going to fall apart.

Everything was going to fall apart.

There was nothing she could do about that. It was the baseline truth of the place she found herself in.

She wouldn’t be a doctor’s wife anymore.

That made her feel like she was drifting off in space, wholly untethered from the woman she’d fashioned herself into for the last seventeen years.

Disconnected.

Afraid.

Then she saw herself, a little girl snapping peas on her grandmother’s porch. Dreaming of the life she could have.

Maybe it’s time to make a new place.

Maybe it’s time to make a new view.

Just then the front door opened and Lark came in holding a white canvas bag. Hannah followed in after her and the three of them just looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“We were grocery shopping,” Lark said, holding the bag up.

Hannah looked away.

Avery realized she should explain why she was here, but the words stuck in her throat.

“I got green beans,” Lark said. “Why don’t we go sit on the back porch and snap some.”

Pressure built behind Avery’s eyes and she could only manage to nod. And that was how she ended up sitting down on the worn wood in the back