The Goodbye Quilt by Susan Wiggs

much from pain, and she never learned to deal with it. As more men loom in the future, a whole campus full of them, it makes me wonder if I’ve done enough to equip her to deal with love and heartache. My own mother never seemed comfortable discussing matters of the heart with me. That’s what I used to think, any way. Now I wonder if she simply knew I’d discover it all for myself.
    “Hungry?” I ask Molly, after she’s lain on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a while. “The coffee shop’s still open.”
    “No,” she says softly. “You?”
    “No.” This is a lie. The dinner salad was a disappointment. But I don’t need to eat. I don’t need that big, messy cheeseburger I’ve been fantasizing about since spotting it on the coffee-shop menu. I don’tneed the coconut cream pie I noticed in the revolving refrigerated case. Something my mother never told me—when you hit forty, not only does your vision start to go. Your body changes. Nowadays if I eat things like cheeseburgers and cream pie, the calories magically transform themselves into saddlebags on my hips. I don’t feel any different than I did ten years ago, but boy, do my jeans fit differently.
    My mind drifts. Maybe when I get home, I’ll join the local gym, start a regular fitness routine. Running around with Molly has kept me reasonably fit all these years. Thanks to her, I’ve hiked miles with Brownie and Girl Scout troops, led field-trip expeditions to museums or nature preserves, ridden for hours on family bike trips. I suppose I could still hike and bike without Molly around, but why would I? Motivating myself is not going to be as easy as it used to be.
    A quiet sniff brings me back to the present. I look over at Molly to see that she is still staring at the ceiling. Tears track sideways down her temples.
    I don’t say anything, because I know everything will come out sounding like empty platitudes. Instead, I find another quarter, drop it in the slot and start up the Magic Fingers once again.

D AY T HREE
    Odometer Reading 122,271
    It is not wise to be didactic about the nomenclature of quilt patterns.
    —Florence Peto, American Quilts and Coverlets
    …it is unwise to be didactic because the facts are very elusive. I now realize that not every pattern has a name, that there is no correct name for any design.
    —Barbara Brackman, Encyclopedia of Pieced Quilt Patterns

Chapter Five
    The roadside is littered with last night’s carnage, a raccoon here, a possum there, occasionally someone’s household pet reduced to an unrecognizable smear. Neither Molly nor I say a word. I hate the idea of creatures suffering while people sleep, oblivious.
    This morning’s breakfast—the Bright Eyes Surprise, which I’d ordered solely because I liked the name—churns in my stomach. From the driver’s seat, Molly reaches over and turns up the radio. She glides into the passing lane to get around a semi with a tweeting cartoon robin on the side.
    I refold the map to encompass the day’s journey. We plan to make tracks today, covering at least fourhundred miles. The few towns along the way are no more than pinpricks with quirky names, like Nickel Box and Mulehorn and Futch’s Corner. Mostly, it appears we’ll be crossing uninhabited terrain, much of it protected by the Department of Natural Resources, shaded in green.
    “Do we have plenty of gas?” I ask.
    “Three quarters of a tank. Same amount we had the last time you asked, ten minutes ago.”
    The biggest of the pinpricks, Futch’s Corner, lies at the halfway point. We’ll get gas there.
    “I can’t decide whether to quilt or read,” I tell Molly.
    “Why don’t you listen to music and look at the scenery?”
    “I already did that.”
    She laughs a little, shakes her head. “You always have to be busy doing something.”
    “Nothing wrong with that.”
    “Except you might miss something. Chill, Mom.”
    “All right. I’ll look out the window.” The most interesting thing I spot