The Fortune Quilt by Lani Diane Rich

his cigarette to the side.
    “I don’t know. Why? Do you smell toast?”
    “No.” I reach for the door handle, but Christopher puts his hand on mine, stopping me from opening the door.
    “What’s going on?” His eyes search my face, and his eyebrows are knit.
    “Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired. I think I need some coffee, or something.” I hold up the tape and lamely add, “I got the tape.”
    “Are you sure you’re okay?” He looks worried. Christopher doesn’t get worried easily. I must look like hell.
    I pull on a bright smile. “I’m fine. Now get your ass in there and let’s get this bastard edited.”
     
    ***
     
    When I return back home, Dad is there. My mother is not. My theories about hallucinations and brain tumors are beginning to hold water. I’m relieved.
    Until I see that Dad’s bottle of scotch is empty. I walk into the living room and lean against the wall.
    “Dad?”
    He raises his head, a look of mild surprise on his face, as though he didn’t hear me come in. He probably didn’t. He looks a lot like he did in the months after she left, distracted and shell-shocked.
    “She’s staying at the Sheraton,” he says. “She likes the beds there.” He offers a weak smile. “Apparently, they have good beds.”
    I take a deep breath. I’m amazed and impressed that my shock has lasted as long as it has. I feel oddly calm and in control as I stare down at my old Keds. They’re dirty and there’s a hole forming over my left big toe.
    “Where has she been?” I ask finally.
    “New Mexico,” he says. “She had a lump on her breast.”
    “Oh. God.” My mind swims for a moment before Dad speaks again.
    “It was nothing. Turned out to be nothing, but for a while she thought maybe it was something, and…” He stares down into his glass, his expression confused. “So I guess that’s why she’s back. I guess she realized…”
    He trails off. I feel as though I’ve been jerked on the end of an unforgiving tether. I can’t imagine how Dad must be feeling.
    “What are you going to do?” I ask.
    He releases a heavy sigh. “Can I answer that question tomorrow?”
    “Yeah.” My heart tugs slightly to see him sitting there, slumped over a glass of scotch, staring into its depths. I am momentarily angry with him for letting her do this to him again, but I shut it down. “Where’s Five?”
    “Staying at Rebecca’s tonight,” he says. “She’s going on that weekend trip to Flagstaff, remember?”
    I nod, although I don’t remember.
    “She’ll be back on Monday. It’s a good thing. I don’t know how I would have explained it to her.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure how I feel about it myself.”
    I get up, grab a glass from the liquor cabinet, and pour myself two fingers of scotch. I take one fiery sip, then turn to face Dad.
    “How long was she here for?”
    Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
    “What did she want?”
    He looks up at me. “She wants to come back.”
    “Well, she can’t,” I snap. My father’s face flashes disappointment, then falls into an expression of resignation.
    “No,” he says finally. “I guess not.”
    He doesn’t sound sure. I take another swig of scotch.
    “What are we going to tell Five?” I ask.
    He sighs, puts his glass down on the coffee table, and pushes himself up off the couch.
    “I need some time by myself,” he says. He runs his hands over what hair he’s got left, then looks at me. “I’m sorry, Carly. I just need…”
    “Of course.”
    He kisses me on the cheek, and finally meets my eyes.
    “Look, don’t say anything to Five or Ella,” he says. “Not yet. Let me do that, okay?”
    I nod and listen as he thumps steadily up the stairs. The living room is quiet, and the longer I stand there staring at the bottle of scotch, the more suffocating it feels. I have to move. I have to do something. I have to… I have to…
    I put down my glass, which is still mostly full. I grab my keys out of my pocket,