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headed into the bedroom, where she stayed for the next six weeks.
    Whenever I wasn’t in school, I took care of Five. I sterilized her bottles. I mixed her formula and left it, ready to warm, in the fridge. I bathed her at night. I gave her midnight feedings. I failed my pre-algebra exam.
    I remember Dad telling me that Mom was just tired and overwhelmed, and that he was proud of how much I was helping out. Then one day I came home from school and found Five sitting in her crib, screaming, her diaper brimming with yuck. I went into the bedroom and yelled at my mother, told her to get up off her ass and take care of the baby. I never spoke to my mother like that before, and it worked. Her eyes cleared, and for the first time since coming home from the hospital, she was actually able to focus on me. It only lasted long enough for her to scream at me to get the hell out of her room, but at least it was something.
    She left the next day while Ella and I were at school. We came home to a note and a neighbor, who handed Five over to us and left.
    Dad held it together pretty well, but he never got over it. It was like one of those cartoon characters, running through a wall and leaving a bunny-shaped hole behind. One look at Dad, and you could see the Mary-shaped hole left there. He never even filed for divorce. Technically, if she’s alive, they’re still married.
    I don’t think about my mother very much. There’s no reason to. But on the day that Brandywine Seaver gives me the quilt, I find I can think of little else. When I get home that night, I sneak the quilt up into my room and tuck it under my bed, as though it’s some sort of contraband. I don’t know why, though. If Dad saw it, he wouldn’t think twice about it. As well he shouldn’t.
    It’s just a quilt.
     
    ***
     
    “So, tell us about the quilt,” Lindsay says three days later, leaning over Christopher to refill my glass of wine. It’s our weekly Friday night get together, in which Lindsay—Christopher’s roommate and certifiably the coolest girl on the planet—cooks us a lovely roast with garlic mashed potatoes and I bring something from the Albertson’s bakery for dessert. We are nibbling on caramel brownies and drinking red wine and I feel relaxed and happy. Christopher sits on the couch between the two of us and shakes his head.
    “Lindsay wants a quilt now,” Christopher says. “Tell her it’s a load of crap or I’m gonna have to cover her rent next month.”
    I look at Lindsay, ignoring Christopher and waving my wineglass lazily in the air as I talk. “She didn’t say anything of substance. It was all just random stuff about South America and paintbrushes and a book with an amber spine…”
    Christopher raises one eyebrow. “A what?”
    “And, you know, I don’t believe in that stuff anyway.”
    “You didn’t mention the book with the amber spine before.” Christopher’s voice is tight and strange, and his cheeks are red. For such a big guy, he really can’t hold his drink.
    “Of course I didn’t, because it doesn’t mean anything,” I say. Lindsay reaches for another brownie.
    “Well, now that we’ve taken care of the softball questions,” she says, setting the brownie down on the plate in her lap without taking a bite, “there’s something we need to talk about.”
    “No,” Christopher says, warning deep in his tone, and Lindsay rolls her eyes. I can’t help but smile. They act like such a married couple sometimes, and I’m 90% sure Lindsay’s in love with him. Sadly, Christopher’s too thick to know a good thing when it’s making him garlic mashed potatoes, and I’m sure as hell not gonna be the one to tell him.
    “She’s a girl ,” Lindsay says, shooting a look of pure loving evil at Christopher. “She needs to talk about this stuff.”
    “Not all girls need to talk everything to death,” Christopher says, grabbing his beer bottle off the coffee table.
    “Yes. They do. Ella’s still on her honeymoon, so