A Good Yarn

  “Courtney?” Again her grandmother yelled at her from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Yes, Grandma.” Vera obviously wasn’t backing off this morning.

  “I’m going out for a while. I need to run a few errands.”

  “Okay, Grandma.”

  “I want you to come with me.”

  Sighing heavily, Courtney sat up, thumped her feet onto the floor and let her shoulders slump forward. “Can I stay here?” she pleaded. After her shower, she’d put her pajamas back on, since she couldn’t think of a reason to get dressed. Not a good reason, anyway.

  “I’d really like it if you joined me. You spend far too much time in your room.”

  “All right, Grandma.”

  “What did you say?”

  Rising slowly, Courtney went over to the doorway and shouted, “I’ll be right down.”

  Smiling, her grandmother nodded. “Good.”

  Vera Pulanski was a wonderful woman and Courtney had always enjoyed her visits to Chicago. But this was different. She’d never had to live with someone this old before. Everything in the house would sell as an antique on eBay.

  With a decided lack of enthusiasm, she pulled on her jeans and an oversize black T-shirt that had her dad’s company logo on the front. When she’d walked down the stairs Vera smiled sweetly and stopped her on the last step. Raising her arms, her grandmother cupped Courtney’s face as she studied her.

  “You’re a beautiful girl.”

  Courtney responded with a weak smile.

  “You’re the apple of my eye, my youngest grandchild.”

  “Yes, Grandma.”

  “I’ve always regretted that Ralph didn’t live long enough to know you.”

  Her grandfather had died when Courtney was a few months old. “Me, too.”

  “Now, what I’m about to say is only because I love you.”

  Courtney bristled, bracing herself for another lecture. “Grandma, please, I know I need to lose weight. You don’t have to say it, all right?” Courtney couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of her voice. It wasn’t as if she could avoid looking in mirrors. She was overweight and well aware of it. The weight gain had happened after her mother’s death; until then, she’d been a size ten and suddenly, poof—she’d blown up into a sixteen. The thing Courtney resented most was being reminded of it by all those well-meaning folks who assumed it was easy to drop thirty-five pounds.

  “Actually, that wasn’t what I wanted to say.” Her grandmother released Courtney’s face. “I think you need friends.”

  “So do I.” She missed Chicago so much, she could cry just remembering everything and everyone she’d left behind. Even her house, which had been rented out for the year.

  “You aren’t going to meet anyone holed up in your room, sweetheart,” her grandmother said gently. “You need to get out more.”

  Courtney didn’t have a single argument. She lowered her eyes. “I know.”

  “Come with me and I’ll introduce you around.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. Her grandmother caught her by the hand and dragged Courtney toward the kitchen. The scrambled eggs were on the table and Courtney could’ve sworn they were the same eggs her grandmother had cooked the day before.

  “I thought we’d go to the library and then the grocery store and after that, the yarn store.”

  In other words, Courtney was being kidnapped.

  “I’m ready now, dear, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Me, too, Grandma.” The sooner she gave in, the sooner she could get back to her room.

  “Let me check to make sure the lock on the front door is turned,” her grandmother said.

  Actually, it was a full seven minutes before they left the house. After checking the front door, her grandmother went into the bathroom to refresh her lipstick. Then she decided she shouldn’t leave the eggs out, covered them with a piece of wrinkled plastic and set the plate in the refrigerator, which confirmed Courtney’s suspicions. Those were the same eggs as the day before.

  “Are you ready now?” her grandmother asked, as if Courtney was the one holding up the process.

  “Anytime you are.”

  “Oh!” her grandmother cried. “I nearly forgot my purse,” she said, giggling. “My goodness, I might have locked us out of the house.”

  Finally they were outside. The car, parked in the driveway, could’ve been in a museum. From what Courtney’s father had told her, the 1968 Ford Ranch station wagon was in prime condition. Well, it should be. The car was nearly forty years old and had only 72,000 miles on it. The door weighed a ton and creaked when Courtney opened it. Without another word, she slid onto the seat next to her grandmother.

  Driving with Vera was not an experience one engaged in willingly. Once she’d started the engine, she turned to Courtney. “Look behind us. Is anyone coming?”

  Courtney twisted around. “You’re fine, Grandma.” Then it occurred to her that her grandmother hadn’t asked this out of idle curiosity. “Grandma,” she said, “why didn’t you turn around and look?”

  Her grandmother squared her shoulders. “Because I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Do you have a hearing problem, child? I can’t turn my head. I have this crick in my neck. It’s been there for twenty years—I never had such pain. The doctor said there’s nothing they can do. Nothing, and so I suffer. I don’t like to complain and I wouldn’t, but since you asked…”

  Although the thought of being a passenger while her grandmother drove terrified Courtney, she didn’t say a word. What was the point? She’d managed to avoid car trips for the last few days, but she’d realized her luck couldn’t possibly hold.

  Another question occurred to her. “Grandma, what would you do if I wasn’t with you?” Courtney suspected, fearfully, that her grandmother would just put the car in Reverse and gun it.

  Tight-lipped, her grandmother adjusted the rearview mirror, using both hands to move it one way and then the other. “That’s what mirrors are for.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can we leave now?”

  Her questions had clearly offended her grandmother. “Sure,” Courtney said with an enthusiasm born of guilt.

  Her grandmother half turned to glance at her as they reached the first stoplight. “If you’re concerned about your weight, Courtney, I could help.”

  Courtney eyed her suspiciously. “How?”

  “Exercise. I swim in the mornings and you could join me and my friends.”

  That didn’t sound like much fun, but then exercise wasn’t supposed to be. “I guess.”

  “What do you guess?”

  “It’s just an expression, Grandma. It means sure, I’d like that.” This was an exaggeration in the extreme, but her grandmother was making an effort to be helpful and Courtney felt she had to respond appropriately.

  Their first stop after leaving Queen Anne Hill, the Seattle area where her grandmother lived, was the library, which seemed ultramodern, especially in comparison to Vera’s neighborhood. Her grandmother explained that it had only recently reopened after a renovation. While Vera picked up a reserved book—the latest hardcover romance by a local author—Courtney flipped through Vogue magazines, trying not to despair at all the thin, elegant models. And that was just the ads.

  They drove to the grocery store next. Courtney didn’t have the latest census figures for the population of the Seattle Metro area—she was convinced it had to be in the millions—but her grandmother surely knew fifty percent of them. More times than she cared to count, they were waylaid by her grandmother’s friends, former neighbors, a dozen or more people from church, bridge club members…. Courtney must have been introduced to thirty people and she swore that not a single one was under seventy.

  “Now Blossom Street,” her grandmother said as Courtney carried the groceries out to the car. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

  Courtney bit her tongue to keep from reminding her
grandmother that this was what she’d said at the last place. Seven conversations later, they’d driven off and now Vera was working her way into the angled parking space in front of the yarn shop. She rolled an inch or so, slammed on the brake, released it enough to roll another inch, then it was brake time again. Courtney should’ve predicted what would happen, but it blindsided her. Her grandmother’s bumper crashed against the parking meter hard enough to jolt her forward.

  “Oh, darn,” her grandmother mumbled.

  If darn was the best swear word Vera Pulanski knew, Courtney would be happy to broaden her vocabulary.

  Climbing out of the car, she closed the heavy door and followed her grandmother inside. Courtney immediately walked over to the cat in the window and started petting him.

  “Hello, Vera. How are you?” a young, petite woman said.

  “Lydia, I’m glad to see you. This is my granddaughter Courtney. Courtney, Lydia.”

  “Hi.” Courtney raised her hand in greeting.

  “Do you knit?” Lydia asked.

  Courtney shrugged. “A little.”

  “I taught her one summer,” her grandmother boasted. “She took to it right off the bat.”

  Courtney didn’t remember it that way, but she didn’t want to be rude.

  “Courtney’s staying with me this year while her father’s in Brazil.”

  Not wanting to listen to another lengthy explanation of her father’s important engineering role in South America, Courtney left the cat and wandered through the store. She’d had no idea there were so many different varieties of yarn. A display scarf knitted in variegated colors was gorgeous, and there was a felted hat and purse, a vest and a sweater.

  “You could knit that scarf up in an evening,” Lydia said, lifting the end of it for Courtney to inspect.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” She smiled widely. “It’s easy with size thirteen needles and one skein of yarn. You cast on fifteen stitches and knit every row. It’s that easy.”

  “Wow.” Courtney had money with her, but hesitated. A twenty probably wasn’t enough to cover the cost of the needles and yarn, and she didn’t want to borrow from her grandmother.

  Five minutes later, while Courtney was studying a display of patterned socks, Vera placed her purchases on the counter by the cash register. Courtney didn’t know what her grandmother was currently knitting, but she always seemed to have some project or other on the go. She hurried over.

  “Did you see the socks?” her grandmother asked.

  Courtney nodded. “Those new yarns are really amazing, aren’t they?”

  “You could knit a pair of socks like that.”

  “No way.”

  “Would you like to?” Lydia asked.

  Courtney considered the question. “I guess.”

  “That means yes,” her grandmother translated. “Sign her up.”

  “Sign me up for what?” Courtney wanted to know.

  “The sock class,” her grandmother explained. “It’s time you met people, went out, got involved.”

  “We’d love to have you,” Lydia assured her.

  “My treat,” her grandmother added.

  Courtney smiled, trying to show she was grateful. Actually, the idea was growing on her. She just hoped at least one other person in the sock class was under ninety years old.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Remember that you need two socks. How to achieve this feat? Knit both at the same time, and release the idea that they need to be identical!”

  —Deborah Robson, knitter, writer,

  publisher of knitting books www.nomad-press.com

  LYDIA HOFFMAN

  I try to spend at least part of every weekend with my mother. It’s been difficult for her since Dad died. Difficult for all of us. I so regret that Brad never had the opportunity to meet my father. I feel certain they would have liked each other. My dad was open and friendly, and he always found something positive in everyone he met. He had a kind word and usually a joke or two; even when I was at my sick-and-despairing worst, he could make me smile. No one told a story better than my father. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about him, because it seems that he’s on my mind more and more instead of less.

  The adjustment to life without my dad has been hardest on Mom, though; she’s aged ten years in the last fourteen months. She’s emotionally shrunken—I don’t know what else to call it. She’s become frail and sad and uninterested in much. And she’s shrunk physically, too, as if her body is reflecting her inner state, which is one of grief, of diminished expectations. In fact, at her last doctor’s appointment, we learned that Mom is a full inch shorter than she was a few years ago.

  The results of her osteoporosis tests aren’t back yet. All at once, Mom has a number of medical problems, and I attribute this decline in her health not only to grief but to loneliness. My father was her anchor, her companion.

  Although it sounds like a cliché, it seems as though part of her is missing; without him, she can’t function the way she once did. I understand that, and to some degree I experience the same feeling. Dad was such a vital part of the woman I am.

  When I arrived early Sunday afternoon, I found my mother in the backyard pruning her roses, fussing over them. Her flower garden is her pride, one of the few things she still cares about. She prunes the roses, she tells me, so they’ll grow stronger. I consider Dad’s death in the same light. Losing him helped me discern what was important in my life, what was real. Mostly, I needed to find my own path to happiness and to accept the challenges of independence. It was losing my father that gave me the courage to enlarge my life, and I did this by opening my own store—and through my relationship with Brad.

  I stood in the open doorway watching her for a few minutes. Caught up in her gardening, Mom didn’t hear me. She had on a big straw hat to shield her face from the sun and wore her green garden gloves. There was a bucket at her side in which she dumped the clippings. I didn’t want to frighten her so I called her name softly.

  “Lydia!” Mom turned toward me as I stepped out of the house. “I thought you’d be here sooner.”

  “So did I, but I got sidetracked after church.”

  “By Brad and Cody?”

  I nodded. “I’m meeting them in an hour. We’re going to walk around Green Lake.” The three-mile stroll was good exercise and I get far less of that than I should. Brad, on the other hand, is in marvelous shape and can run circles around me. Cody has a golden retriever named Chase—because of his terrible habit of chasing after everything and everyone. Cody would probably bring his dog, but he’d been warned to keep Chase on his leash. Maybe I’d get a book on dog-training and work with Cody to teach him some basic commands. Anyway, this afternoon would be fun and I was half tempted to take my in-line skates, just so I could keep up with the two—or rather, three—of them.

  My mother’s hand trembled as she snipped another branch. I’d noticed the shaking more often lately. “What did you have for lunch, Mom?” I asked. Her eating habits were atrocious, and Margaret and I worried that she wasn’t getting the nutrition she needed. We also worried about her medications. My fear was that some days she took more than prescribed and on others she skipped them entirely.

  “What did I eat for lunch?” Mom repeated as though she needed to think about this.

  “Lunch, Mom?” I coaxed gently.

  “Tuna and crackers,” she recalled and looked at me with such a triumphant smile that I smiled back.

  Still, I had to ask, “That’s all?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry. Now, don’t pester me by insisting I eat when I don’t have an appetite. Your father used to do that. I didn’t like it then and I refuse to listen to it now.”

  “All right, Mom.” I’d leave it for now, but we’d have to check out some alternatives. Meals on Wheels, perhaps. Or a part-time housekeeper if, between us, Margaret and I could afford one. I’d discuss it with her soon.

  “Next Sunday is Father’s Day,?
?? Mom pointed out. “Will you take me to the cemetery? I’d like to put a vase of my roses on your dad’s grave.”

  “Of course. Margaret and I will both come.” I was speaking out of turn and hoped my sister would agree to accompany us. She’d been so prickly and out of sorts lately. The closeness we’d briefly shared had evaporated like a shallow rain puddle in the sun. Whatever was wrong, she didn’t feel comfortable enough to share it with me, and frankly, that hurt. We’ve come a long way in our relationship, but it was situations such as this that reminded me how far we had yet to go.

  As if the strength had gone out of her legs, Mom reached for a patio chair and sat down. Lifting the hat from her head, she wiped her forehead with one arm. “My goodness, it’s hot.”

  I glanced at the temperature gauge my father had hung on the side of the house, and it read seventy-four degrees, which surprised me because it didn’t feel that warm. Of course, my mother had been working outside for at least an hour, more likely two.

  “Would you like to go out for dinner, Mom?” I asked, thinking that would be a treat for us both.

  “No, thank you, honey. I’m not hungry. I met Dorothy Wallace at the Pancake Breakfast the Knights of Columbus held after Mass and we ate our fill.”

  Translated, she had one small pancake without butter or syrup, followed by a lunch of tuna and crackers, and she’d probably skip dinner altogether.

  “Besides, Margaret phoned and she’s stopping by with the girls later this afternoon.”

  Some of my worry left me. Margaret would make sure Mom had a decent meal at the end of the day.

  “She enjoys working with you,” my mother continued. “She’s not one to say it, but she does.”

  I wondered if I should mention my concerns about my sister. I decided against it, although Margaret had been weighing heavily on my mind since my conversation with Brad earlier in the week. There was no need to bring Mom into this. She’d certainly mention my concerns to my sister, and that would infuriate Margaret; she would resent me for discussing her with Mom, and then I’d hear about it for weeks.