Beneath the Quilt

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

I’ve long been a fan of quilts, not only because they are a cozy companion for Utah winters, but because they are one of the few art forms which has been available to women for centuries—we were making blankets for our families anyway; why not create something unique and beautiful at the same time? I, along with many friends and extended family members, have spent the weekend at the Panguitch Quilt Walk or visited the Springville Art Museum Annual Quilt Show.

So when the Family and Consumer Sciences Department at my high school bought a commercial quilting machine, I was delighted. Not because I had a quilt top which needed finishing, but because I knew that hundreds of my of students over the next few years would find great joy in designing and creating something both beautiful and useful. Sadly, I did not realize I would also come to understand that, as in all forms of art, what is visible to the eye might also conceal the tragic story of its creator.

One sunny Friday afternoon in the spring, I had a student in my Concurrent Enrollment English class–a course which provided students both high school and college credit simultaneously—come beaming into my room carrying a large bag. She was an attractive girl who earned excellent grades. “Mrs. Voorhies,” she said. “Look what I just finished.” She unfolded a magnificent queen-sized quilt which she had been working on all semester. We spread it across four desks so everyone in the class could appreciate the intricate patterns she had spent hours piecing together and then turning into a quilt she could use for many years. I was astounded. This was no amateur quilt; it was, without a doubt, the work of a talented artist. Even the boys in the class (who were notoriously unimpressed by girl stuff) were sincerely complimentary.

The very next Monday morning, a vice principal sought me out during my conference period. On Saturday, the day after she’d shown me her stunning quilt, my student–who had been so justifiably proud of her exceptional work–was dead. She and two of her friends had been partying together. They’d driven up into the hills above Bountiful and spent what must have been several hours getting high. My student overdosed and stopped breathing. Her friends panicked. They argued about whether or not to rush her to an emergency room? But their rational thinking was buried under their drug-induced terror of being discovered. So instead, they rolled this young woman out of their car and dumped her into a ravine where she died alone and without help. Once they were calmer, they just drove home.

The vice-principal asked if I would attend her funeral on behalf of the administration—perhaps because I had known the horror of losing a child to drugs? Or maybe I was just the teacher who seemed to know this student best? I have no idea. After the funeral, I walked across the lawn of the cemetery with the other mourners. I remember the mother had on a severe black dress with some kind of white collar at the throat. Quietly, I introduced myself, expressing my sorrow at her loss. This mother had had no idea her daughter was involved in drugs. She kept saying over and over, “How did this happen? How could this happen?” Her pain was so visible, I could hardly bear it. I knew from experience that years in the future, this mother would still be unexpectedly blind-sided on occasion by the power of that grief.

I grieved for her child, too. A young person so vital and talented and competent. And her child was not the only one who lost a future. My student’s friends lost theirs. The boy and the girl who had so callously tried to protect themselves by discarding her body as if she were garbage were convicted of manslaughter and still may be in jail?

Yesterday I took a baby quilt–which I have spent the last several months stitching—over to my son’s home for his newborn son. I’ve made dozens of these little quilts through the last several years. Everyone goes with a prayer that this baby will have a long and fruitful life. But it’s a wise parent who doesn’t wait till tomorrow to say, “I love you”. Just as quilts are often preserved in a family for generations, most children become adults and grow old.  A few are not so fortunate.