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A week later. Philippe dragged himself up the stairs. His sweet grandchild was gone. Meredith herself had barely survived her abortion. She was still in the hospital. Thank God she was still alive, he thought. But oh my God, I needed that child, that sign of you bringing good out of evil. Now what do I do?
He entered Meredith’s bedroom, his eyes drawn to the quilt on the bed. The red compass rose on its white field had a huge brown blotch in the middle of it. Ruined. The child’s life destroyed. Everything Meredith touched was still going bad.
He felt a wave of anger because of the loss of his grandchild. That stupid little slut. He caught himself. She’s your daughter, Philippe, choose your words more wisely, he thought to himself. But look at the choices she’s made.
His eye landed on her bookshelves, where she still had some favorite picture books from her childhood standing along the bottom shelf. He felt intense longing for that grandchild that he’d hoped to read his own work to. Perhaps a girl with curls held back by a barrette. He would take her walking beside the Seine, or teach a boy to how to play le football.
He could not endure Meredith’s foolishness. Sorrow and rage dragged his shoulders down even further. There was only one thing to do with this ruined, ugly quilt. He had a powerful urge to damage, to destroy. He looked around for a tool to help him. The stupid red candle was no help.
He yanked open the top drawer of her dresser, looking for a way to do damage, to release his anger at yet another disappointment with Meredith.
He found a pair of sewing scissors, with blades ending in sharp points.
He grabbed them, opened them, turned to the bed, and stabbed. He dug at the quilt, the points digging deep, the edges of the scissors cutting his own skin. He stabbed and stabbed. This quilt was junk, and despite all the love he and Elodie had poured into her, Meredith had treated her life like junk, and that of her unborn child.
He stabbed, bled, and wept, and chopped that red and brown compass rose into rags.
