A Thread So Thin by Marie Bostwick Page A

there you go,” she interrupted. “One little fall doesn’t mean I’m doddering. Not yet anyway.” She bent her head over her salad and stabbed a chunk of chicken with her fork.
    This was hard for me, but it was ten times harder for Mom, I could tell. She knew exactly what I was talking about. She simply wasn’t able to do things the way she had once, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it for fear that, if she did, she’d have to give up her independence.
    But what could I do? I couldn’t just fly blithely back to New Bern and hope that everything would magically turn out for the best, that the next time she fell she’d be as lucky as she had been this time. She was my mother. When I was little, she’d taken care of me. Now it was my turn to do the same for her, but she wasn’t making it easy.
    “Mom, what if we looked into getting you some help? Some kind of companion who could help with cooking and driving? Might be good company for you.”
    Mom’s head snapped up like it was on a spring. “I am not lacking for company, Evelyn! No! I mean it. I am not going to have some stranger in my house. And I am not moving to Connecticut and that is that.”
    Her eyes were blazing. If she still could, she’d probably have docked my allowance or sent me to my room. But she can’t do that anymore. She can’t do a lot of things anymore. The balance of power between us is beginning to shift. Our roles are starting to reverse and we both know it. I don’t like it any more than she does, but there it is.
    I had to do something. The direct approach had failed miserably, so I took another tack.
    “Well, what if you just came out to visit me for a while? Just for a couple of weeks? New Bern is so nice. You’d love it. I know you would.”
    Mom made a face. “Oh, don’t be silly. What would I do with myself? You’ve got a business to run. The last thing you need is some useless old woman getting in your way.”
    “Don’t talk like that. You’re not useless. In fact, you’d probably be a big help to me.”
    “How?”
    “You could teach some of my classes.” I’d blurted this out almost without thinking, but as soon as I spoke, I realized it was true. Mom is a wonderful quilter. Machine piecing, hand piecing, needle turn appliqué—you name it and she can do it.
    Mom gave me my first quilting lessons back when I was a little girl, and even after all my years of study, practice, and teaching, I still think she is the better quilter.
    If I have any skill with a needle, it’s because of her. Or, as Charlie might say, “You don’t just lick it up off the rocks.” Meaning that a lot of the talents we think of as belonging to us alone are actually inherited from those who’ve come before.
    Charlie made his first banoffee pie in the warmth of his mother’s kitchen. I stitched together my first nine-patch block in Virginia’s sewing room. And so it goes and the torch is passed.
    No, indeed, you don’t lick it up off the rocks.
    “Yes!” I said enthusiastically, realizing that it really was a good idea. “Why not? I don’t have another skilled teacher in the shop. If you could come visit for a few weeks and take over a couple of my classes, it would be a huge help to me.”
    Mom looked at me carefully, gauging my sincerity. I could see the idea intrigued her, so I plunged ahead, a little too quickly.
    “And if you liked it, you might want to stay. New Bern is such a nice little town—”
    “Stop, Evelyn! Stop right there! I know what you’re up to and I’m not having any of it. I told you before.” She pointed her fork at me like an admonishing finger. “And if you bring it up again, I am going to get up from this table and leave the restaurant and I don’t care if I have to walk home. Do you hear me?”
    I took another bite of soup and changed the subject.
    No matter what Mom said, we weren’t done with this. I realized that. But round one went to Virginia Wade.

10
Evelyn Dixon
    C harlie phoned