Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt by Jennifer Chiaverini Page B

be embraced, resting her head on Susan’s shoulder, sick at heart. The giddy shouts and laughter of the younger children seemed suddenly remote, a pageant she could only watch and not join in, and not because she was too grown up for play.
    Susan whispered in her ear, just as when they were children with secrets to share: “I don’t care what she says. I know you’re a real cousin.”
    None of the other granddaughters said a word to Judy about their grandmother’s remark, her cool assessment of Judy’s place in the family, but Judy heard their disbelieving whispers, saw the glances of stricken sympathy. She hoped her mother did not. Tuyet knew something was wrong; she kept feeling Judy’s forehead and watched her sharply when she picked at her dinner. Judy longed to confide in her, but she could imagine how her proud, protective mother might react. In defense of her daughter, she might do or say something that would get Judy and her parents banished from the family home forever, just as she had so many years ago in Saigon.
    Judy kept silent, but she could not force her cousins to do so, and eventually word got around to her parents. Judy didn’t think anything of her aunt’s phone call until her mother and father knocked on the door to her bedroom, where she had been finishing her algebra homework. Their expressions told her that they knew everything, but still they asked for the story. Her breezy account and assurances that she had known all along that the quilt wouldn’t go to her and that it was no big deal did not convince them, but to her surprise, it was her gentle father and not her fiery mother who confronted Grandma. Tuyet held Judy wordlessly, stroking her hair, while downstairs, her father smoldered and raged on the phone.
    “A ‘real granddaughter,’ Mother? What’s that supposed to mean?” Silence. “She’s not ‘just a stepdaughter.’ I adopted her. She’s mine. I’m her father and that makes her your granddaughter, no different from the other girls.” An icy pause. “Would the adoption be more real if Judy looked more like you?” Another silence. “Oh, how very generous of you, Mother. I’m thrilled to know that if Tuyet and I have our ‘own’ daughter, she’ll be eligible.” A brief pause. “No, you listen. She’s your granddaughter as much as I am your son, and if she isn’t good enough for you, than neither am I.”
    He slammed down the phone.
    After that, Judy feared that they would never go back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, but they did. When Christmas came, they made the long drive through the snow and everyone welcomed Judy and her mother as they always had. Judy’s father kissed his mother on the cheek in greeting as if they had never argued. Judy looked on and marveled at the adults’ capacity for pretense.
    Grandma never said a word about that Easter afternoon, not to apologize, not to explain, not to assure Judy that she was as much a member of the family as Susan and Miranda and the other cousins. It was as if they had all agreed to pretend the whole ugly scene had never happened, but Judy sensed that nothing had been resolved. Grandma still did not consider her a real and true grandchild, and her father still resented it.
    Forever after, when Easter came, Judy found ways to be too preoccupied to follow Grandma upstairs to her bedroom to see the quilts. She would be busy helping Aunt Grace prepare a special dessert, or helping Uncle Peter change a diaper. Susan was the next to drop out of the annual audience, and then, as the grandchildren grew up, formed families of their own, and began dividing their holidays between new families and old, the tradition passed into history. Emily was only a few months old when Judy’s grandmother died, having never met her newest great-grandchild. Miranda inherited the daisy quilt, as everyone had expected, and the tulip quilt went to Carrie, who sent Judy a long e-mail confessing that she had given up quilting long ago, and