Free The Goodbye Quilt by Susan Wiggs

toward two boys who seem to be about her age. They’re juniors at Penn State, so leaving home is routine to them, and they’re driving themselves.
    She seems to have forgotten about dessert, butthe younger kids eagerly gather around when I ask them if they want to help. I demonstrate how to put a little whipping cream and sugar into a small Ziploc bag. The sealed bag then goes into a larger plastic bag of ice and salt. This is the kids’ favorite part—you shake until the cream and sugar in the sealed bag turns to ice cream.
    “What a great trick,” the young mother says to me, watching her little ones shiver and shake.
    “I learned it from my mother.” I look across at Molly, who is now explaining the process to the college boys, who are totally into it. Before long, everyone around the campfire is making ice cream in a bag, the kids turning it into a wild dance. Sparks land on someone’s blanket, and a tiny flame ignites. Fortunately, it is spotted and beaten out. People tuck their loose blankets away from the fire, and we’re more vigilant after that.
    Everyone pronounces the ice cream delicious. In fact, it’s a bit bland, but flavored by the fun we had making it. One of the college boys plays a harmonica. Then, possessed by the silliness of knowing we’ll never see these people again, Molly and I sing “You Are My Sunshine” in perfect harmony, and our listeners are polite enough to clap. We stay bythe fire way too late, until I feel the stiffness of the long day and the cold night at my back.
    “I’m heading to bed,” I tell Molly. I worry that she might want to linger here with the college boys. Her eyes glow when she talks to them. I battle the urge to remind her that these guys are strangers and we’re in a strange place. Pretty soon, I won’t be around to protect her at all, so I’d best get used to the churning nervousness in my gut.
    She surprises me by getting up and helping collect the trash and leftovers. “I’m going to turn in, too. If we get an early start, we can make up for the time we lost today.”
    We didn’t lose any time. I know exactly how and where we spent it, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
    As we walk together to our cabin, Molly says, “Those kids loved making the ice cream.”
    “Remember the first time I made it with you?”
    “The Brownie campout at Lake Pegasus. I was—what—six years old? And I had the coolest mom.”
    What I remember about that campout was feeling inadequate. The professional moms, as I’d come to regard them, had remembered everything from bug spray to breakfast bars. They knew how to roast a whole meal in a foil packet, braid a lanyard into afriendship bracelet and name the constellations. My clever little ice cream trick didn’t seem like much. Now I’m ridiculously pleased to know she thought I was the coolest.
    Molly goes off to shower. I flip through the Triple-A book, wondering what tomorrow will bring. On the back cover is an ad I never noticed before, with a list of phone numbers—who to call in event of a breakdown.

D AY F OUR
    Odometer Reading 122,639
    As her father and brother constructed the simple, sturdy shelter that might house generations after her, a young girl at her mother’s knee would work her own Log Cabin. It became the quintessential American quilt.
    —Sandi Fox, Small Endearments: 19th Century Quilts for Children

Chapter Six
    The next day we make tracks and we’re curiously quiet with one another, both lost in our private worlds and lulled by the monotony of the road. We stop for the night at a far more conventional place, one with wireless internet and pay-per-view movies. We are not nearly as entertained by this as we were by last night’s bungalows and campfire. The room smells of new carpet and cleaning solution. The beds are like two rectangular rafts, covered in beige spreads.
    “Let’s go out,” I say, opening the door to the parking lot to scan the neon collage of signs along the main drag.
    Molly