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catches in my chest. “What did you say?”
    She raises her eyes and focuses on me. “Does that name have meaning for you?”
    No. Lots of women are named Mary. That doesn’t mean anything. Still, I can’t seem to stop myself from saying, “My mother’s name was Mary.”
    Brandy nods, looks down at the quilt. “Ah. Well.  That makes sense.”
    “Why?” I look down at the quilt as well, as though it would suddenly become something other than a funky jumble of boxes and ribbons. “What about her?”
    Brandy watches me for a while, her eyes trying to read mine, I guess. It makes me uncomfortable, and angry, and I’m just about to get up and leave when she speaks again.
    “She’s not dead.” Brandy tilts her head slightly to the side, and while she’s looking at me, I get a strong feeling that I’m not what she’s seeing.
    “No.” I feel my throat tighten. “We don’t know.”
    Brandy watches me for a moment, then her face relaxes in understanding. “She’s just gone.”
    “We haven’t heard from her since I was twelve,” I say, wondering why I’m talking about this with the crazy quilt lady. I don’t talk to anyone about this.
    “You’re angry,” Brandy announces, her eyes narrowing as she watches me. “Your aura just turned red around your chest and shoulders.”
    Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.
    I push myself up to a standing position. “I’m not angry, and I don’t have an aura, but I am running up against a deadline, so…”
    She looks up at me. “Everything’s about to change.”
    “What?” Now, I’m annoyed. Although I don’t know why. I don’t believe in this stuff.
    “Oh,” she says, her voice compassionate and her eyes slightly off focus, like she’s staring at something a few feet behind me. “It’s going to be all right, but you have to pay attention.”
    “It’s all right now,” I say. “Pay attention to what?”
    And then, she blinks, shakes her head, and appears to snap out of it. She shuts off the recorder and starts folding the quilt. I guess today’s crazy quota has been met.
    I hold out my hand to stop her. “Look, thanks, Brandy, but—”
    “Stop arguing, please,” she says, her voice tinged with weariness. She holds the folded quilt and the tape out to me. “It belongs to you and even if you don’t believe in the rest of it, you got a pretty blanket out of the deal, right?”
    Excuses about conflict of interest and journalistic integrity flash through my mind, but they fade fast. Even though the Mary thing is exactly the kind of vague coincidence that make ladies who heart schnauzers pony up the big bucks for this kind of stuff, I can’t shake the sense that this quilt is somehow connected to my mother, and despite all reason I am suddenly overwhelmed with wanting it. I reach for it, and feel an instant sense of calm when I hold it in my arms.
    “Thank you.”
    She smiles and cocks her head to the side. “Call me if you have any questions.”
    I nod and find my way out. When I reach the Blueberry, Christopher tosses his cigarette butt on the ground and chuckles, eyes on the quilt.
    “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
    “Shut up.” I toss the quilt into the back of the Blueberry. “Let’s go make some widgets.”
     
    ***
     
    The most persistent memory I have of my mother is from when she brought Five home from the hospital. She looked like she hadn’t showered in days, which was unusual for her. She was the kind of woman who never left the house without makeup. I didn’t make too much of it at the time, figuring this was just the way it was when there was a new baby in the house. I was four when Ella was born, and couldn’t remember the aftermath of that for comparison, but to my twelve-year-old brain, it made sense. I helped Mom up to her room while Dad tended to Five. It was when my mother looked down at me, her eyes distant and strange, that I had the first inkling something was really wrong. She didn’t say anything to me, just