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I picked up my mother’s arm and felt her wrist as I’d seen on television and pressed my fingers into her wrist. There was nothing. “No.”
“Is she breathing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does she have any medical conditions?”
“Um. I’m not sure. The pills were from the doctor. But there’s none left.”
“Paramedics are on their way. I’m going to stay here on the line with you until they come, okay?”
I nodded, as if she could see me, and waited.
A few days later,they located the aunt who had made the quilt during a search for relatives. She lived only ten or so miles from where Mom and I had lived all those years in a part of Seattle known as Queen Anne. The first morning I woke up in my new bedroom, I didn't know where I was for a terrifying moment. Then, as I did every morning, I remembered. Death by suicide. My mom was gone.
Aunt Elizabeth, whom everyone called Biddie for a reason unknown to me, lived on the top of the hill with views facing Lake Union. It was a bungalow so popular in that area built in the forties. I knew this only because Aunt Biddie was proud of her house and took me all around that first morning uponmy arrival. She'd had the whole thing remodeled recently, she'd informed me. To me, it felt like a mansion, even though it wasn't a large house by any means.
She made pancakes that first morning and invited me to sit in her breakfast nook.
"Do you want coffee?"
"I'm only eleven."
"That's a no then?"
"Right. I like orange juice, though.”
“Juice. Yes, well, I’ll have to add that to the shopping list.” This seemed to flummox her, as her eyes widened and she stared at me for a good two seconds before shrugging and turning back to the stove to flip a pancake. While she cooked, I studied her. She wore a caftan in a bright purple and long, dangling teardrop earrings. Her hair was silvery and hung loosely about her shoulders. A tattoo with Japanese letters on her left wrist. I had no idea what they meant, but I didn't dare ask her.
"Why am I here?" I asked. "I don't know you."
She turned slowly from the stove to address me. Her small kitchen felt cozy and bright, with a buttery yellow color on the walls and crisp white curtains around the windows. The breakfast nook was shaped like a C, with a wooden seat that seemed to magically form around me like a cushion.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I had no idea you existed either. Furthermore, there’s no one else. We’re the only family there is.”
"I knew about you. Sort of. You made my mom's quilt." I could barely get the wordmom’sout without that obnoxious knot forming in my stomach.
She tugged on an earring and moved her gaze to the window. "She told you I made it? How strange. I’ve never sewn a stitch in my life. My mother made quilts. Beautiful ones. She was an artist really.”
"So why didn't you ever visit us?" I asked.
"That, my love, is a very long story."
"I've got time."
A billow of black smoke rose behind my aunt's head. She whipped around to see that both of her pancakes had burned. I could have told her that. She had the heat on too high.
She whispered an expletive under her breath and reached for the handle of the pan, which apparently was hot because she screamed and ran to the sink and turned on the cold water.
I got up and went to the stove, and turned the knob to Off. "I'm not really hungry anyway."
She still had her hand under the water. "I'm not much of a cook."
"I am," I said. "I cooked everything for Mom."
"Really? Aren't eleven-year-olds supposed to play with Barbies or dolls?"
"Eleven-year-olds do not play with dolls." Had this woman never been around kids before?
