Chapter Sixteen #2
Jackson’s expression softened. “You asked me earlier if I was afraid.” He ran his hands over a quilt.
“Most of the people here still carry the name of the man who enslaved our ancestors. We have lived through many hard times, and it seemed at one point the world had forgotten about us. My family started making quilts as a way to keep themselves warm. They used old work clothes and fertilizer and flour sacks as their materials. But the people of Gee’s Bend endured.
They had no idea that these quilts would become as famous as they are.
That’s what these quilts are all about. Why I’m not afraid.
Proof of determination. That sometimes a curse can become a blessing.
Gee’s Bend quilts are in exhibitions and museums all over the world.
Now thousands of people come to see our quilts, learn about our history, or visit the festival.
We have a place, a purpose. We educate, we help others, and we teach from our struggles. ”
Jackson’s words resonated deeply within me, and a ripple moved across my chest. I recognized a shared experience of abandonment and rediscovery, a struggle akin to my own.
My face warmed as he looked at me. I turned away, redirecting my attention back to the quilts. “Which one is your favorite?” I asked, eager to shift the conversation to something else—anything else.
“The one I gave you,” Jackson said.
My eyes widened. “Really? So why give it to me?”
“I think you know why,” he said.
And he was right. I knew why. Of course I did. I tried to convince myself that it was just me, that he didn’t feel the connection, that I was delusional, but the heat in his eyes told me the truth, what he was feeling. What we both felt but had been too hesitant to acknowledge it. Until now.
“It’s getting late,” I said, standing. “I…I better go.”
“Leigh…wait… Don’t go.” His voice was almost pleading. It trapped me where I stood, caught between staying and going.
But I couldn’t look at him. One look could crack my composure. “I can’t.”
“What’s going on?” a voice asked.
Jackson and I both startled. Carly was looking around the closet doorframe. Her timing, as always, perfect.
Neither Jackson nor I spoke, and the silence stretched awkwardly. Finally, I said, “Jackson was showing me his family’s quilts.”
Carly’s eyes darted between me, Jackson, and the quilts, a frown knitting her brows. “You never take these out,” she said, moving toward them and running her fingers over the fabric.
“It’s because of me,” I said, my fingers moving slightly, trying to casually brush off the moment. “I made him show them to me.”
Carly dug through the box, but Jackson stood close, his jaw clenched. The closet wasn’t big enough for all the unsaid words between us and the feeling left unexplored.
“Well…I was just heading out.” I walked out without looking back.
The next morning, I stumbled out the door to yoga.
My body felt heavy, as though I were moving through molasses, moving through swampy humidity, conflicted with thoughts of Jackson and what happened yesterday.
And something else. Something was coming.
I felt it in the air, but I didn’t know what it was.
What I know now that I didn’t know then was that I had reached a certain point in my healing.
As I struggled to adjust, stretches and poses that usually flowed felt strained, every motion weighed down.
“What’s going on?” Tibb asked. “I taught you better than this.”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“Jackson showed me his family’s quilts,” I said.
Tibb’s expression shifted from puzzled to understanding. “Ah, so that’s why the box was out of the closet. He doesn’t really take them out.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“And…nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything,” I said.
“Now you think you have feelings for Jackie.”
I blanched. “Yeah… Is that wrong?”
Tibb laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with having feelings for Jack. I’m glad you do because he’s crazy about you.” Tibb stopped and looked at me and, when I failed to react, said, “But you already knew that.”
I nodded. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together. And we live in a very unique situation here.”
“Is that what you think? Our living and working environment has something to do with this? I have watched Jackie try to hide his feelings for you since the first day you got here. Do you know what I said to him when I met you for the first time? I told him that he was in trouble because I could already see it in his eyes.”
“You saw it then?”
“Of course. No one knows him better than I do.”
“But he didn’t know me then.”
“You think that matters? He saw enough. He saw a beautiful woman. He saw a woman who practically walked here. He saw a woman who didn’t mind working in the field or being out here. He saw something he’d never seen before.”
I shake my head. “I can’t, Tibb. I’m leaving this summer. This was always temporary. I don’t want to start something.”
“Why not?”
Two simple words. One difficult question I couldn’t answer.
“Because…” I hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Carly came to see me. She asked me to stay away from Jackson.”
Tibb’s brow furrowed. “And is that what you’re doing? Staying away from him for her?”
“I don’t want any trouble. He’s got a lot going on with the expansion. I don’t want to add to that. And…I…don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Come on. Get up,” Tibb said, standing and starting to walk. “I think we need to try something different.”
“What’s that?” I asked, following. Then I realized: “The Outlet?”
“Yup. You’re blocked. I think it will help you.”
My steps slowed just as we reached the woodpile. “I’m glad that it works for Luke and Jackson, but I don’t know.”
“You’ve never tried it, so you don’t know.”
“You’ve never used the Outlet.”
“That’s not true. I’ve spent quite a bit of time here before I found yoga.”
Tibb picked up an axe leaning against a tree stump and handed it to me. I gripped the wooden handle and lifted it. “It’s heavy.”
“So is whatever you’re carrying. Transfer that from your hands into this piece of wood,” he said, standing up a log on the tree stump. “Don’t think about it. Just do it.”
I lifted the axe and swung it down onto the log, splitting it into two pieces that scattered in opposite directions.
“Good,” Tibb said. “How do you feel?”
My chest pumped up and down from the effort. “Okay.”
“Do it again.” Tibb positioned another piece on the tree stump. “Chopping wood, believe it or not, is a form of meditation. It requires a singular focus, just like meditating. Now…think about whatever had you distracted. Channel that into your hands and out through the axe.”
Just before I lifted the axe, Carly’s face flashed in my mind, as quick as a blink.
Then Deacon Ridley’s firelit face appeared, just as it had before, right as I lowered the axe onto the log.
I chopped another piece, then another one, the rhythm steady.
Then Mama’s and Daddy’s faces emerged, the younger versions of themselves.
But before I could reach them, they slipped away, leaving only the bite of the axe against the wood.
I swung again.
Suddenly, Lila was there, sprinting through the field, her laughter ringing in the air, and I was chasing her, just like we used to do. The sun kissed the grass, turning the world into gold. Her legs outpaced mine. My hand reached out, my fingers desperate to grasp her.
I kept chopping. Swing. Reach. My heart thundered in my chest, my breath shallow.
She turned, her face just a blur of light, and I leaned forward, aching with anticipation, to see her again, her face, to catch the smile I missed.
But when the haze lifted, it wasn’t Lila’s face I saw.
It was mine.
Later that night, sleep eluded me. Being at the Outlet had worked something loose within me. I tossed and turned, the bed feeling like a battleground. The quilt pressed down like a suffocating weight, while the cold air raised goosebumps on my skin.
I turned over again, eyes wide open in the dark.
I’d expected to see Deacon Ridley’s face. Mama’s. Daddy’s. Not mine. The Outlet helped me realize something I had buried so deep it had turned to stone. Something I hadn’t known was there, not until now: I was angry. Not just at Deacon Ridley, Mama, or Daddy.
I was angry at myself.
That anger had been there all along, buried beneath everything, hidden in places I refused to look, and now I had to confront it.
It was like the work on the dahlias that Jackson taught me all those months ago.
I had surrendered, cutting back my foliage by walking with Jackson and working with Tibb.
In doing so, I’d signaled that I was ready for this, my eye visible.
But I wasn’t finished. Now it was time for me to reach into the dirt with my bare hands and dig up what I had buried. Only I didn’t know how.
I rolled out of bed and reached for Jackson’s candle on the nightstand.
I struck a match and watched the wick catch.
The flame flickered before catching and spreading soft light, pushing back the shadows in the room.
For a moment, I watched it burn. Though the light was faint, it was enough.
Enough to temporarily cast away the darkness that had settled within me.
Enough for me to remember. That I am light.
I decided that some fresh air would be nice.
I wrapped the quilt around my shoulders and opened the door.
The moon bathed the porch in light, casting a shadow over Jackson.
I jumped before I recognized his shadowy hulk.
He was sprawled on the old bench, his long legs draped over the railing, his hands resting folded in his lap.
Despite the uncomfortable position, he looked relaxed, and when I moved closer, a creak from the wood floor woke him. He shot up, blinking hard.