Free The Goodbye Quilt by Susan Wiggs Page B

pool under a domed light with a Labatts insignia. In the corner, the musical set is dark and quiet, two guitars—acoustic and steel—poised in their holders like wallflowers waiting to be asked for a dance.
    I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, and a wave of uncertainty hits me. I can feel Molly’s hesitation, too, and unthinkingly I grab her hand, still the mom, leading her to a booth that has a view of the dance floor and stage. A good number of couples are swaying in the darkness, the women’s bare, soft arms draped around men’s shoulders.
    I miss Dan. It hits me suddenly, a swell of nostalgia. He’s not fond of dancing, but he’s fond of me. Sometimes he has no choice but to sweep me into his arms and dance with me.
    Molly orders a 7UP with lime, and I ask for a beer on tap.
    “I’ll need to see some ID,” the waitress says.
    “The beer’s for me.”
    “ID, please,” she says, bending toward me.
    This is both startling and flattering. I readily show her my driver’s license; she nods in satisfaction and heads for the bar. Molly samples the snack mix and scans the crowd. It’s a diverse bunch, people of all ages relaxing and talking, some of them drinking too much and laughing too loudly. A couple in a booth across the room appears to be in an argument, leaning toward each other, their mouths twisted, ugly with overenunciated insults.
    The music stops and the dancing couples fall still. The singer appears on the corner stage, accompanied by a drummer, a bass player and a woman on keyboard. Applause greets them and we set aside our drinks to listen. She picks up the steel guitar and smiles as they tune up, then places her lips close to the speakers. “Here’s something by a guy I onceknew, Doug Sahm, from Kilgore, Texas.” A ringing, sweet melody slides from the speakers as she strokes the guitar.
    It’s the kind of song that sounds fresh, even though we’ve heard it a hundred times before. There’s some thing about good live music that does that to a person. I feel a sense of happiness sprouting from within, and when I look across at Molly, I can tell that she feels it, too. There are very few people you can talk to without words. The fact that my daughter has always been one of those people for me is beyond price.
    I grab and hang on to this moment, because I learned long ago that happiness is not one long, continuous state of being. Like life itself, happiness is made up of moments. Some are fleeting, lasting no longer than the length of a sweet song, yet the sum total of those moments can create a glow that sustains you. Watching Molly, I wonder if she knows that, and if she doesn’t, if it’s something I can teach her.
    Sensing the question in my look, she tilts her head to one side and mouths, “Something wrong?”
    The singer is joined by other band members, and the set segues into a lively swing tune. The volumeincreases tenfold. I lean across the table. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just wondering if we’ve talked about what happiness is.”
    She cups her hand around her ear and her mouth moves again.
    “Happiness,” I say, nearly shouting. “Do you know how it works?”
    She shakes her head, at a loss, then meets me halfway across the table. “Are you happy?” I ask in her ear.
    She sits back down, laughing, and mouths the words, “I’m fine.”
    Her words remind me that there are some things I’m not meant to teach her. She’ll only learn them by finding out for herself. I can hope and pray that I’ve raised a young woman who knows how to be happy, but I can’t hand it to her like my mother’s button collection, sealed in a mason jar. Starting now, she will have to be the steward of her own life.
    After four songs, greeted with enthusiastic applause, the band takes a quick break and we buy a copy of their CD. The singer smiles a little bashfully and we smile back, two strangers who likethe sound of her voice. She signs the case with an indelible marker. “Y’all