Threading the Needle by Marie Bostwick Page A

silence that followed was blaring. I remember hearing the clock ticking and nothing else. Amelia’s mother’s cheeks flamed bright red. After a moment that seemed to hang suspended in time, the teacher announced that there was more lemonade in the pitcher and then made a great show of filling everyone’s glass.
    That was the first time in my life that I remembered feeling shame. Funny thing is, I didn’t even understand what I was supposed to be ashamed of. That night, when he was tucking me into bed, for the first time, I asked Dad about my mother.
    â€œWhy didn’t she want me?”
    â€œ I want you,” he said. “Always did. Always will. Who else do we need? We’ve got each other, don’t we?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell, all right then. That’s the deal. Anybody who doesn’t like it can just go to hell.”
    Dad wasn’t a man of many words, but the fierce flame of love in his eyes was eloquent. I didn’t ask about my mother again.
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    Dad never spoke to or of his parents. Until Mrs. O’Dell called Edna after Dad’s accident, I never knew I had a grandmother. Edna wasn’t happy about having to take me in, but felt she had no choice in the matter. She couldn’t just hand me over to the state to raise, could she? What would people say?
    On my second day in New Bern, I was sitting on the branch of one of the apple trees when I overheard her say that to her three-doors-down neighbor, Mrs. Kover.
    â€œEdna, don’t say that. She seems a sweet little girl. And don’t you think it’ll be nice to have some company? Give it a chance. After all, she’s your only grandchild.”
    â€œSo Tommy said .”
    â€œShe has his eyes.”
    Edna said nothing.
    â€œAnyway,” Mrs. Kover said, “I was just coming over to ask if Madelyn could come to our house for lunch tomorrow. Tessa will be home from camp this afternoon. She’ll be thrilled to have a playmate so close to her own age.”
    That was how I met Tessa Kover. That first summer we were inseparable. But maybe that was because we were so close in age and because summers in New Bern were hot, long, and offered few childhood distractions, at least the organized kind. Back then, mothers didn’t spend their lives hauling kids from one activity to the next. They told them to find something to do, to be home for dinner, and shooed them out the door.
    Tessa and I had no trouble keeping busy. We built tents in the backyard and staged puppet shows in the Kovers’ living room. We made cookies and quarts of vanilla ice cream, sitting in the shade of a spreading maple tree and taking turns cranking the handle of the Kovers’ old-fashioned ice-cream maker until the sweat beaded on our foreheads and the soupy custard inside froze into something semisolid. We made daisy chain crowns for our hair and key chains from neon pink and white plastic lanyard, a skill Tessa had acquired at camp.
    Was Tessa thrilled to have me for a friend? At the time I didn’t care. All I knew was I liked her.
    No. I didn’t just like Tessa. I loved her. Loved her with that intense, exclusive love that only very young girls are capable of, the slavish devotion of an abandoned pup for its rescuer. Loved her so utterly that if my grandmother commented, as she often did, “I suppose if Tessa Kover jumped off a bridge, you would too,” I wouldn’t have thought two ticks before answering, “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”
    When school began and I had a chance to meet other children in New Bern, my attachment to Tessa wasn’t diluted in the least. I wanted no other friends. I had Tessa.
    Whatever Tessa did, I did. When Tessa cut her hair into a short bob, I nagged Edna until she got out her shears and cut mine too. When Tessa joined the Girl Scouts, so did I. And when Tessa had to get eyeglasses, I faked my school eye test, deliberately mistaking Es for Gs. The teacher sent a note