Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [82]
Since Beth had grown up in Brazil, where her parents were still missionaries, Michal assumed she’d be curious.
“So use one of your cuts.”
“Can’t. I’ve used ’em all.”
Michal’s eyes opened wider at that. “For the whole semester? Already?”
Beth pulled the covers up over her head, so all Michal heard was a slightly muffled, “Yup.”
Michal raised herself up on one elbow to have a better view of the lump that was Beth. Confused, she asked, “But you’ve been walking over to chapel with me almost every morning. Haven’t you been going in?”
McMaster’s Bible College required daily chapel attendance, except for a number of approved “cuts.” A small, nondenominational evangelical school that awarded degrees in Bible for ministers, missionaries, and laypersons, McMaster’s stressed living a Christian lifestyle—pretty much demanded it. In the administrators’ minds, learning how to live a holy life began in daily chapel. Attendance was required; actual participation—as every student knew—was optional.
No response from Beth but a noticeable shaking back and forth under the faded maroon bedspread. It was an inexpensive quilt, the kind sewn by machine in big, looping stitches that easily snagged and snapped. Leaving threads hanging and the resulting smooth patches without additional quilting.
In contrast, Michal’s bed was covered with a bright blue and yellow quilt, a genuine one. It was completely handmade, pieced together square by square, the tiny stitches perfectly spaced in a beautiful pattern called Starry Nights. Michal’s quilt was the one cheerful accent in the otherwise unadorned room—a very atypical college dorm room in many ways.
Most of the other women in Peterson Dormitory—after advance notification of assigned roommates—had been proactive about contacting one another. They’d developed elaborate plans to decorate their rooms with matching bedspreads, study pillows, rugs, sheets, and towels. Some even purchased curtains to replace the drab and worn navy ones provided. Rooms with the plainest raw materials—beige-colored cement block walls, metal desks and beds, scuffed tan linoleum floors—were effectively disguised to effects almost worthy of ads in home-makeover magazines.
Michal and Beth’s room was a notable exception.
Though they’d been assigned as roommates—both were missionary kids (MKs) who hadn’t lived in the States for years (the administration thought it a perfect match to help with adjustment problems)—Michal and Beth never bothered to contact each other. So there was no prior coordination of decor. No assigning of who was to bring or buy what. Bed coverings, towels, rugs, and pillows were hodgepodge at best. Whatever was worn-out and could be spared from home at worst. The quilt, which Michal’s Aunt Sarah had made—and which she treasured—was the one bright spot in the entire room.
Neither Michal nor Beth appeared to care that their room was teasingly yet affectionately known as the “Barrel Room.” After school began, the dorm had an open house—an opportunity to browse through each others’ rooms, admiring the coordinated decoration. For the special evening, Michal sketched a picture of a barrel on brown poster board. After tacking it to the door, she laughingly explained that the contents of their room had come from the bottoms of missionary barrels. Which were described as containing books of matches missing half the sticks. Socks with holes. Towels with frayed edges. Blouses without buttons. And patchwork quilts.
As Michal held the quilt up to her chin, she gave Beth a look of astonishment. “What have you been doing, Beth? Where do you go during chapel?”
“Oh, I just kinda … hang out.”
A sudden worry struck Michal. “Hey, you’re not getting sick again like you were back in September, are you? I thought you were never gonna get over that stomach flu, Beth.”
“No. It’s not that—not anything physical. I feel great, really.”
Michal glanced over at the clock again, and at that exact moment, the alarm came on. At the sudden harsh, irritating sound, she reached over to smack the button with her