The Quilt Maker

The Quilt Maker

The woman shifted and shuffled the different cubes of fabric. All of them held different colors, patterns, and shapes. Each one was a different emotion of things. She didn’t know what to put together, but she never really knows. This was part of her process.

A cry suddenly came from outside her home and she walked to the window to see what the commotion was. It was the neighbor’s boy, Jonathan. The woman didn’t take long to put two and two together. The boy had rid his bike onto his simple ramp he made, fell over, and broke his arm. Kids being kids, the woman thought. A smile came across her face- a sad and happy smile as she remembered her son Arthur who was in a similar circumstance.

She didn’t go outside, but watched the child’s parents calm him down and put their boy Jonathan into their car- driving to the hospital.

The current excitement and pause from her day indoor was over. She returned to the table and looked back at the patterns. The memory of her son Arthur breaking his arm was still reeling in her mind.

Suddenly the pattern’s made sense. A child will follow in his footsteps.

The straight lines cut off with a curve. A flow of pain and thrill of adrenaline. She wondered what colors those would represent. What images did she want to include to make a young child an adventurer…

It was going to be a quilt for a broken arm. A quilt about her boy Arthur. An adventurous spirit seeking thrills and learning from mistakes.

The quiltmaker began her work.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The hospital was full of beeps, thought Mary.

“One more day, Ms. Parison, and you and Charlie are free to go” said the hospital worker who looked at the computer screen behind the desk, seeing the woman’s son release date. The last name and the injury, a broken arm, made it easy for the administrator to look it up.

She nodded her head and thanked the man before walking to her son’s room.

“How’s my little Tarzan doing?” she said, smiling, as she opened the door.

Charlie smiled when he saw his mother, revealing his fallen out tooth in the front.

“Mooooooom!” he yelled cheerfully.

“Next time you climb a tree, maybe put a bed under you” replied his mom who smiled even wider towards her son, happy to see him in an innocent and happy mood.

The boy laughed and nodded his head.

“How’s the Jello?” she teased.

Charlie made the “yuck” face.

She then revealed a container of Charlie’s favorite food- mac and cheese.

The boy’s eyes widened with excitement as he bounced up and down on the bed.

As Charlie ate, Mary looked at the quilt on her son’s bed. She looked at the remarkable colors and patterns.

Strict lines matched with lines that went everywhere. Never staying in one place. Colors were of hues of red and blue. It screamed action and wonder. Then there were lines that were ridged with orange and green thread. Seeing it all made her think it was a quilt for an adventurer. Small bike patterns were in spots around the quilt.

Perfect for Charlie, his little adventurous boy, she thought.

She left the room, promising Charlie that it was one more day and he could come home.

She went to the nearest nurse, “I love the quilts you all do” she said.

The nurse smiled, as if hearing this before, “We actually don’t make them, there’s a woman who donates them to the hospital” she said.

Mary looked in awe, “That’s a lot of quilt’s from one woman.”

The nurse chuckled before leaning in as if telling a little secret: “ I hear she doesn’t make it for everyone, just for some conditions” she said.

“Conditions?”

“Well,” the nurse began, thinking how odd it was, “from what I hear, she donates the quilts and says that this quilt must go for someone who’s been depressed, or someone who got into a fight, or someone who broke their arm from a bicycle…Stuff like that”

Mary looked at the nurse in a weird way.

“Yes, it’s a little strange, but we’re happy to accept a little home-style blanket to cheer up the patients,” she said, “adds a little mother’s warmth. It’s comfy.”

“Who is this woman?” asked Mary.

“I don’t know,” replied the nurse, “she just sends them in, but never in person,” she said.

The nurse then pointed out another room who received a quilt that same day.

Mary saw a man standing outside the door and thanked the nurse, walking towards him.

“I hear the quilts here are something of a story” she said smiling.

The man didn’t smile back, but looked at her.

Mary looked into the room and read the mood and mellowed it down, “My son broke his arm... How’s she doing?”

“My girl, Carol, cut her arm…”

Mary swallowed, “I’m so sorry” she said. In truth she didn’t know what to say. I’m sure this man has heard sorry many many times. Mary noticed old marks on the girl’s body that weren’t bandaged. She’s been here before.

“The quilt…” he said, almost stammering, “it’s her favorite quilt, something the hospital gave her” he continued, “It’s a quilt that makes her happy…she said the circles and rainbow patterns covered in blue’s and yellows and all sorts of colors made her feel like nothing was wrong, but recently…” he paused.

He started crying, “Her mother died...”

Mary couldn’t help but hug the man. He hugged back. Mary felt it was just what he needed, and at that moment it was what she needed too.

They had talked for nearly an hour, and Mary realized that Mark had known a few others who’s kids had quilts given to them.

Mary met them overtime and she realized that each quilt was something different and special to them. How odd, she thought, that everyone’s hospital visit was connected. How each quilt was unique to their child. How the patterns and colors were so specific to their child.

It was a weird way to meet people, she thought, through quilts…

The Quiltmaker sat on the couch watching her favorite show- Judge Judy.

The framed quilting patterns around her house were un-noticeable to her. There were only a few she would turn her head and stare at- remembering the memories embodied within them.

She began coughing more violently than before. Red drops splattered in its direction.

She felt tired.

The quilt patterns behind the frames.. Each piece representing an important memory in her life.

She knew what to do.

Mary realized that whomever this quilt maker was, she seemed to have somehow known how their children would become.

Her boy Charlie was the first person to jump out of a helicopter with a bike and do the most back flips in the air….

Mark’s girl, Carol, pursued the art of therapy- helping other people through color psychology.

Berry’s son was in the hospital for binge drinking hard liquor. Something very specific for the quilt maker to realize for a child in a hospital. He had a quilt with longing and desperate shapes, something that entitled addiction in patterns said one of their psychologist friends. The child became an addict.

Wanda’s girl fell off the library latter and had a sort of puzzle on her quilt, moons and stars of different colors, and she became a physicist for NASA.

Mary thought she was going crazy when she noticing these qualities, but the parents agreed… They knew that these patterns were something specific…something unique…something supernatural. Was it the quilt that influenced their children, was the hospital visit that played an shaping memory... Either way she needed to find out who the Quilt Maker was, and the first place she thought she’d start was at the local quilt club.

The club was at the local community house off Branch Street, not thirteen minutes away from Mary’s house.

She stepped inside the door and saw groups of elderly women organizing quilts on the wooden tables put together.

They all looked up when she walked in.

“Can I help you?” asked a woman named Wanda who seemed to be in charge.

“Yes, I am looking for a quiltmaker who donates quilts to the local hospital” she said.

Wanda smiled, “I don’t think I know of any Quiltmaker who doesn’t do that,” she replied.

Mary thought for a moment, “These quilts are specific,” she began…

Most of the quiltmakers in the back went back to their work, but a few eyes suddenly shot up in focus.

Wanda nodded her head almost cautiously, “for kids with specific illnesses and ailments, you mean”.

“Yes!”

Wanda’s smile vanished, “I’m sorry, but she no longer is with our club,” she replied harshly.

“Where can I find her?” asked Mary.

“We aren’t in the business of giving someone’s address to a stranger, Mis” replied the woman, “and it’s best if you DON’T visit her,” she said.

The Quiltmaker and this woman probably had a nasty falling out, thought Mary.

“Please, its important, I need to thank her for my boy’s quilt,” she said.

Wanda was finished on the subject and thanked Mary for coming.

As she walked out, Mary noticed another quiltmaker walking quickly up to her with a paper in her hand. There wasn’t a smile on the woman’s face, so Mary thought she was going to get an earful.

“Rosa Silk is her name,” the woman said, handing the paper over to Mary, “You can find her here,” she said.

Mary looked surprised, “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“Rosa had made a quilt for my boy when he was younger,” she began, “I noticed what you are noticing too…something supernatural almost…She and I weren’t friends, but I knew well enough this woman was something different.”

“Something different?”

Mary drove home that night, quietly. The woman’s words filled every space of thought in her mind, “Rosa Silk is a Witch”.

The Quiltmaker was almost finished with the last quilt she’ll make in her life.

A knock echoed in the house.

The old woman looked up, startled and threatened.

Someone was at her door and ignored the front-door sign: “No Soliciting. No Knocking. Leave.”

It was the first knock in over 12 years. The last knock at her door told her that her son was dead…

Rosa Silk remained quiet.

Knock. Knock. Another Knock.

“Leave!” the old woman yelled in anger.

There was moment of silence, “My name is Mary Parison” began a voice, “I need to talk to Rosa Silk, please”.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you” yelled Rosa, her voice echoing loudly in the silent home.

“Please, its important. It’ll take not five minutes” yelled Mary through the door.

“If it only takes five minutes, then its NOT important! Leave or I’ll call the cops!” she yelled back.

Rosa knew she wouldn’t call the police. She didn’t want more people at her house.

“It’s about the quilts…I need to thank you” replied Mary who was lowering her voice.

Rosa stood in silence, processing what the woman had said. No one has ever thanked her for her quilts.

Mary stood and waited at the door, “Please, I can’t leave until I do. Afterwards you’ll never see me ever again” she said.

Suddenly footsteps moved closer to the door. Each step creaked the old wood flooring in the house.

The door slowly creaked open an old, wrinkly, rounded face peeked out.

Mary looked at the woman in silence for a moment, “may I come in” she finally said.

“No”

Mary felt like this was as far as she was going to get.

She adjusted her posture and handed the woman a bag with a card, “Please accept this. My friends and I made this for you. Each one of our children had received a quilt from you”.

The old woman’s eyes grew to what Mary thought was something in the line of shock. The old woman must have never had anyone give her a gift before.

A wrinkly hand extended out and took the bag which vanished quickly behind the door.

“Thank you, Rosa, for all that you do. You’re an amazing person,” said Mary.

The woman’s expression didn’t budge. It was a constant expression of anger and frustration. Mary didn’t know if it was the woman’s natural look or not. She felt it was time to go and thanked the woman again before turning around and leaving. Mary was surprised to not hear a slamming of the door immediately after. She tilted her head and saw the old woman still looking at her and swore she saw her lips move as if saying: Thank you.

The quiltmaker didn’t look at the bag for nearly two days, but the confrontation kept replaying in her head.

A person thanking her for her work. Calling her “Amazing”. And giving a gift.

She remembered what the Quilt Club called her- a Witch.

She’s been called that too many times…Even in Romania where she grew up.

The old woman’s eyes gazed back at the gift-bag on the floor next to the door.

A constant cough seized her, and she watched the blood drops fill up her napkin.

She mumbled something bitter before getting up and grabbing it.

She opened the card.

“ Dear Rosa Silk,

From each one of us to you, we would like to say thank you. Your quilts are beautiful and we’ve come to learn you have a special gift and talent in making them. Each one representing the lives of our children. I don’t know how you do it, or what you see in life that makes your premonitions so true. We love our quilts and have them framed in each of our homes as our children go on with their lives, and each time they visit, they look at it as if a trance, saying it holds a special place in their heart… Thank you…”

The old woman kept reading as each parent, and even some of their children added their own little addition to the letter.

Several tears flowed down her face. She knew she hasn’t cried since her boy Arthur died.

The letter described how the bag contained a quilt. Each quarter section was made from the individual parents.

She laid the quilt onto her work table and looked at each piece. Deep purple in color spread across the fabric, and amateurish in pattern placement. A smile came upon the old woman’s face, something she forgot she had.

She looked at some of the empty frames in her house, each one was a special moment in her life.

A quilt when she got married with her husband.

A quilt that her own mother had made for her.

A quilt for her son’s birth.

A quilt when visiting the beach for the first time.

Each quilt piece was taken out of the picture frames and stitched together into one big quilt. Rosa took out some scissors and cut the gifted quilt, then headed over to her sewing machine and pieced it together with her final quilt. She replaced the one on her bedding, one that helped her sleep, with the last quilt she will ever make. One that described everything good in her life.

She felt the textures, colors, and patterns move through her body. She closed her eyes.

A week later Mary drove through Rosa’s neighborhood and noticed moving trucks at Rosa’s house. She turned her car and parked across the street.

“Is Rosa moving?” she asked on of the men walking out with boxes things.

“You didn’t hear?” said the man, shuffling things in the truck.

Mary shook her head.

“She passed away last Thursday. Died in her sleep, they said.

Mary’s heart sank. A feeling of sadness rose to her throat and she was speechless. That was two days after they met.

The mover looked at her, “Needed two trucks to get everything out of the house. One almost full of quilts,” he said, pointing to one of the trucks that had hundreds of quilts thrown inside.

Something then caught her eye and she walked over and took it out.

It was large and beautiful, but there was one section that stood out the most.

It was the gifted quilt stitched onto it.

A warmness grew within her as a tear formed on Mary’s cheek

Something told her that a smile must have crossed the Quiltmaker’s face. .

A breeze suddenly gusted around her making her feel in awe of its supernatural timing. Mary turned her head to see one of the men suddenly struggling to get something painful out of his eye.

She looked back at the quilts in the truck and that patterns and colors slowly started to make sense.

Mary began to cough and suddenly realized that red speckles came out of her mouth. Blood.

She felt fine. Instead of going to the hospital, Mary went home and started to make a quilt.