Happy knitting!
Note—I am delighted if you knit this pattern for gifts, charity donations or resale. Feel free to use the pattern on your blog or website also. Credit is requested, and highly appreciated: Copyright Christina Skye 2010.
Prologue
Knitting Journal Entry
Caro McNeal
Bags packed. Knitting ready.
Leaving today. No more ocean.
No more Summer Island.
Why is it so hard?
But if I don’t go now…
Around Caro the attic was quiet, rich with memories and dreams. She leaned down, doodling in her worn leather knitting diary. The big maple tree in the front meadow gradually appeared beneath her pen. Patiently she added balls of yarn for fruit and knitting needles for stems. The knitting always stayed close, part of her now. Yarn had calmed her journey, soothed her harsh losses, stitch by stitch, for a decade and more.
For Caro knitting was more than a hobby, more than simple entertainment. When she held her needles, her mind soared and dreams turned clear. Part meditation, part therapy, knitting was an interior journey where she learned to see herself.
Not that she ever spoke of it that way. It would have been outright embarrassing.
But it was true, just the same.
Down below in the kitchen she heard her grandmother, clanking cups and preparing water for tea. It was one of their favorite rituals. But this time would be the last. She had to go, even though it hurt to leave.
Tonight she would be in Chicago.
She printed the word in her knitting diary using big block letters, feeling her heart pound. Her pen moved, sketching big apartment buildings. Crowded streets and bright, expensive shops.
Out beyond the trees Caro saw the gleam of water where the Pacific hugged the narrow harbor in a bright curve of teal. Gulls raced and plunged, shrill in the face of a coming storm. Even in summer, the Oregon coast was unpredictable in its beauty.
I’m going to miss this place, all storm, sea and changing light. How will I feel at home anywhere else, without the sight and sound of the sea? Without the laughter of everyone I love…
So many changes.
Is this crazy of me? Is it reckless?
Or is it just selfish?
A car motor growled somewhere over the hillside, beyond the banked red roses and the big green meadow. Time to go. She’d put it off for too long.
She would help others the way she’d always hoped to—because more than anyone, Caro knew the pain of sudden violence and aching loss.
She’d already found an apartment. Cramped and cheap, it had a tiny water view—if she squinted hard enough. She’d even tracked down a yarn store with a weekly knitting group. Knitting was a solace she couldn’t live without. The flow of wool and silk in neat, even stitches reminded her who she was and kept her calm when her life was in turmoil.
The way it was now.
Leaving a place that made you feel safe was never easy. Summer Island had sheltered her in its cobbled streets since she had lost her parents as a girl. Islanders stuck together, and Caro had felt protected and loved, safe within a community of friends. The island had been a perfect home for a sad eight-year-old girl.
But Caro was no longer that girl. Losing her parents had made her see other people’s pain, and she was called to help them heal as she had done in the wake of loss.
She cradled her diary, touched the pages filled with three years of dreams, regrets and plans. A knitting diary at first. Now it held far more of her life than simply yarn and stitches. It held dreams and regrets, joys and plans.
Caro McNeal turned to the ocean and leaned through the open attic window, taking in the salty air, catching this moment for her memories. Her brown hair gleamed, restless and sleek just as she was.
A dust mote danced through a bar of sunlight and she remembered how much she loved this house, loved this town. And despite all that love, she had to break away. She felt guilty about that, though her grandmother hadn’t complained or protested about her plans. Not once.
Guiltyguiltyguilty.
She scrawled the words fast. Her fingers clenched and her pen tore through the paper.
Yes, all true. Guilty as charged. But she still had to go. She had to find her own legs and see what she could become.
She needed new streets. New responsibilities. New faces across a busy café.
If I don’t go now, I never will.
Never. Never.
Caro stared at the words. On the page nearby she saw her latest notes for a sweater, sandwiched between rough sketches of cabled sleeves and long ribbed cuffs. Yarn possibilities for future projects, taken from old knitting.
But Caro wouldn’t repeat anything.
She would move on and keep growing. The past was too often a cold, sad place, with too much loss.
“Caro? Are you about ready, love?” Teacups rattled. Footsteps crossed to the bottom of the stairs. “The tea is done, and Grace and her grandfather just pulled up.”
The crunch of gravel. A car door slamming.
Grace, her oldest friend, called out. Laughing the way she always did, calm and smart, knowing exactly what she planned to do with her life.
Caro took a last look at the sunny attic and its distant view of the sea. She touched her old diary and then scrawled a few last words.
That’s all. No more to say.
I’ll write from Chicago. Everything will be different then. New, busy. Full of possibilities.
After so much waiting and so many dreams, the car was outside, the plane ticket in her pocket. Caro closed the diary and took a deep breath. Time to go.
“Coming, Gran,” she called. “Tell Grace I’m all ready.”
She closed the attic door, holding her diary tight. Then she ran down the stairs and didn’t look back.
One
Chicago
Eight years later…
She was going to be late. Horribly late. And Caro McNeal hated being late, especially for work meetings.
Gripping her worn leather document case, she raced across the street, trying to ignore an icy wind that snarled off Lake Michigan. She was going to miss her last meeting of the day if she didn’t hurry. This was what her life had become—always running. Always playing catch-up.
Traffic was stopped all around her—more of Chi cago’s interminable road work. How long had it been since she’d taken time to stroll along the Oak Street Beach and enjoy the sunshine? What about watching the dogs romp at Belmont Harbor? She used to love that.
As a senior victim advocate with a demanding case-load, Caro couldn’t even find time to window-shop in Lincoln Park these days. Thanks to recent budget cuts, her client load was worse than ever. She hadn’t even gone home to visit her grandmother in ages.
At least she had her knitting. Rosewood needles and soft wool. Red mohair and pink alpaca. Their threads kept her sane when life was tangled and work was very, very grim. Which it usually was.
As she thought of her current knitting project, Caro’s tension lifted. She was making a lush scarf with big, complex cables in palest blue alpaca. She was halfway through, and her fingers itched to finish it so she could wrap the soft folds around her neck.
But unfortunately work came first. It wasn’t easy shepherding crime victims and their families through the complexities of the legal system. It wasn’t pleasant seeing police photos and sharing the pain of those who had lost a beloved wife, son or sister. And her job was important. Caro was careful and caring and thorough in everything she did. Right now the thick leather bag under her arm held three domestic-violence cases and two homicides, but she had never regretted her choice. She wasn’t good at math and didn’t have an artist’s clarity of vision. She didn’t understand the stock market and couldn’t translate French poetry. But she could smooth the way for those who suffered. She had seen the fear and confusion in the eyes of frightened families and knew that her job helped them untangle the threads of their lives in the
aftermath of violence.
And how could she have forgotten? Tonight her grandmother was coming!
Caro took a slow breath of sheer happiness. She actually had three days off coming, and how she needed it. She and her grandmother were going to shop to their hearts’ content and then enjoy long, leisurely dinners. Sheer heaven.
A sudden gust of wind ripped at her throat. A second icy blast pulled her hand-knit scarf free and swept it high into the air. Caro gasped, watching the delicate pink lace drift over taxis and trucks, landing on the far side of Michigan Avenue.
A fire truck raced past and promptly tore the fragile pink stitches into a long, jagged mess. Ruined.
In a span of five seconds all her careful hours of knitting were suddenly just a memory.
But what did one scarf matter? Tonight, after she picked up her grandmother from the airport, she would start on another scarf. But first, Caro had her last appointment mediating with a school psychologist on behalf of one of her victim’s children.
A drop of rain struck her cheek. She scanned the street and saw that the next light had just turned green. If she moved fast, she might actually not be late.
Behind her Caro heard the whine of a car motor. Shouts rang out and a green van raced around the opposite corner, skidding hard. The driver was waving his hands wildly through the open window.
Why wasn’t he slowing down?
Everything around Caro slid into slow motion as the van skidded sideways again, spun in a wild circle, then jumped the sidewalk.
A heartbeat later she was struck hard from the side. Pain slammed down her arm. She staggered, gripping her side, crying out as rain drenched her face. Her grandmother—who would meet her at the airport?
Around Caro the street began to blur.
The last thing she remembered was a second wave of agony burning down into her right wrist and her own hoarse cry of pain.
Two
White tile.
White uniforms. Voices that ebbed and flowed.
Caro drifted in and out on thick waves of pain. White walls. White shoes. People moving. Shouting. Hooking up machines and looking worried.
The world spun again. The floor shifted. Everything was still white. After a long time Caro stopped fighting the pain and let herself drift back down.
The gray pain went on for hours. Caro heard nothing but the rasping sound of her breath and her heartbeat.
She drifted again, and when she next opened her eyes the pain was still there, but it seemed distant now, part of someone else’s world. Caro saw a tall woman studying a clipboard beside a bed. Her hair was braided and her chiseled black features were elegantly beautiful.
Nice face. Strong face.
She must have said the words out loud, because the nice face turned and a pair of gentle hands reached out to take her pulse.
“Good to have you back with us at last, Ms. McNeal. I’m Dr. Clarke.”
“Where—” Caro’s voice cracked. “Where am I?”
“Cook County Hospital. You’ve been here for six days. We were starting to think you didn’t like us.” The nice eyes narrowed, looking thoughtful. “How do you feel?”
But Caro heard only one thing. Six days? What had happened? She tried to sit up and blanched at the searing torment in her right arm and shoulder.
“Better not to move, Ms. McNeal. Your body has been through a great deal. Healing is going to take some time. What you need to do now is sleep. Everything else can wait.” The nice face came closer.
Caro saw a syringe.
“My arm—burning. And my grandmother…” Caro closed her eyes and swallowed. “Supposed to pick her up from…airport.”
“Try to relax, please. Your grandmother’s fine.”
Caro didn’t want to frighten her grandmother. Her gran worried too much. She was certain that life took the things you loved most.
Not surprising, given that she had lost her only daughter and son-in-law in a car accident when Caro was eight. After Caro had lost her parents, she had gone to live with Morgan McNeal in Oregon. Caro needed to protect her grandmother from any more suffering.
No, I have to see her. She’ll worry. I need to explain. Caro couldn’t manage the words. Her mouth felt funny, as if it was coated with steel wool.
Someone raised her arm. The sight shocked her.
Her arm was covered with bruises. Angry welts cut into her skin and disappeared beneath a long strip of white gauze. Caro remembered the flash of lights and burning pain.
There had been a dusty green van. A man waving his arms. Then an explosion of pain as she was thrown sideways. She closed her eyes at the searing memory.
The doctor kept speaking quietly. Caro closed her eyes and felt her mind begin to drift. Pages rustled. The doctor opened Caro’s right eye and focused a light.
“Try to take it easy, Carolina. Everything’s going to be fine.” The doctor spoke quietly. “We’ll call your grandmother and let her know you’re awake.”
She shouldn’t be here. There were people relying on her. Caro should have been with them right now, offering comfort and support. She frowned at a sudden memory. “My knitting—is it here? I—I had my diary and my knitting bag when the van… I need my yarn. My best needles were in that bag. My knitting diary, too.” She couldn’t manage to say anything more. She tried to sit up, but could barely lift her head. “I can’t lose those things,” she rasped. “I can’t replace my diary.”
“Everything will be fine,” someone said in a calm, distant voice used to soothe a child who knew that something bad had happened, but didn’t understand that her world had just changed forever. It was the kind of voice you used to hide the worst sort of news.
“I need my knitting bag. And my diary. All my notes—my sketches are there.”
“Soon,” the voice repeated quietly. “For now, you should rest.” A penlight flashed in Caro’s eyes again. “How many fingers do you see, Carolina?”
“Six,” she muttered. She wasn’t blind, at least. “And my name is Caro. No one calls me Carolina now. But you can’t call my grandmother. She’ll worry. I’ll call myself. Later…” She frowned down at her arm, motionless on the crisp white sheets. “Why can’t I feel my hand?”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
As a victim’s advocate, Caro had seen violence. When they told you the details could wait, when they told you to relax, that meant it was very, very bad. “I need to get up,” she said hoarsely. “Now. You don’t understand. I have a case. I’m supposed to contact the family—”
“Someone else was assigned to take over your case-load. You’re going to have to rest, Caro. Just rest now.”
She felt a prick at her hand. “I don’t want to rest. I want to know what’s happened to me. What’s wrong with my hand?” She fought in vain against the thick gray wave of sleep that wrapped around her. “Tell me the truth.”
She felt a blanket pulled up around her and her eyes closed. “Please,” she tried to say.
Footsteps moved away toward the door. “Her grandmother’s not answering,” a man’s voice said quietly. “I left a message, but no one has called back.”
“Keep trying. She’s going to need her family once she’s lucid.”
The man moved away. “I’ll keep trying her grandmother. She’s probably going to be upset.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. The right thumb was fractured. And her new wrist X-rays are just coming in. Hell.” The doctor sounded angry, tired. Frustrated at things that she couldn’t understand or change. “One thing is certain. That young woman is damned lucky to be alive. All she wanted was her knitting bag,” the low voice went on. “But I don’t know if she’ll ever do any more knitting. Not with that hand the way it is.”
No more knitting?
The words haunted Caro as trays rattled and doors opened. People came and went. Her head hurt.
Not knit?
She drifted back down into sharp, troubled dreams.
Caro opened her
eyes and saw sunlight on the far wall. The room went in and out of focus. “What day is it?” she rasped.
An orderly turned from his cart loaded with lunch trays. “February 14. You woke up just in time for Valentine’s Day, ma’am.”
Caro gave a dry laugh. “That’s romantic. Where am I?”
“Cook County Hospital. Intensive Care Unit.” The man’s voice sounded low and distant.
Someone spoke to the orderly, and he rolled his cart outside.
“How do you feel, Caro?”
Bad. Her shoulders aching and her throat raw. Little slivers of memory dug into her brain. There had been car horns and snarled traffic. A dusty green van skidding over the curb.
Caro struggled to sit up, trying to clear her head. Suddenly she was aware that something else was wrong. “Why can’t I feel anything in my hand or my arm?”
“We can talk about that a little bit later.”
“No, now.” Caro remembered this voice. This was the doctor with the nice face. She felt a crippling wave of fear. “Why did you say I wouldn’t be able to knit again?”
The doctor blew out an irritated breath. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not God and it’s not for me to predict the future. The truth is that you are the one to determine what will or will not happen. You have torn ligaments, several fractures. One wrist was badly hurt. But you can come back. I’ve seen it happen. It is going to take a whole lot of work though.”
The Knitting Diaries Page 19
