The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches

by Janet Tronstad

  I know Becca wants to just pound through any obstacles. That’s what we did when we were all so sick. She helped me get through my partial mastectomy and the reconstruction that followed. I, more than any of the others, owe her for her determination. It kept me going through some dark days. It upheld me back then even though it feels like overkill now.

  I reach for one of the cloths I use to polish the counter and give the counter a few rubs. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m fine with my body. I’m not holding back. Besides, the surgeons did such a good job, you can hardly tell I had surgery. And I’m not a recluse. A person can’t be a recluse on Colorado Boulevard. Thousands of people walk down this street every week—more if you’re talking the Rose Parade.”

  Becca took one of the other cloths and began to rub the counter, as well. “A person can be a recluse anywhere if they want to be one. When was the last time you went anywhere that wasn’t for work?”

  “I’m trying to get everything done so I can go to our Dropped Stitches meeting tonight. That’s not work.”

  “You know what we mean.” Carly enters the conversation as she begins to arrange the salt and pepper shakers on the tray the evening crew will use to reset the tables in an hour or so. “We’re worried about you.”

  All of the members of the Sisterhood know their way around Uncle Lou’s place. They’ve even waited tables a time or two when The Pews has been busy and short-staffed.

  “I’m fine, Carly. Fine. Six years fine.”

  Becca grimaces as she rubs a bigger circle on the counter. She puts her whole body into the polishing motion. “If you’re so fine, why haven’t you met your goal?”

  “Do we have to meet every single goal?”

  “Of course.” Becca stops rubbing. She sounds surprised, as if she hasn’t even thought of the possibility of failure. “We’ve met them all so far. We can meet this one, too. It isn’t like you to miss a goal.”

  I know how Becca feels. She’s pumped. For a long time, I had that same kind of desperate need to have everything under control. The future was so cloudy we just grabbed one goal at a time and hung on to it as we worked our way through the pain. But did that mean we had to live the rest of our lives with that same need to have everything come out the way we planned it?

  “I think maybe I picked the wrong goal,” I finally say.

  “It’s not the wrong goal—it’s the absolute right one for you.” Becca starts wiping the counter again. “Besides, you can’t change goals now. You just need encouragement. We all know you’d like to start dating again. Who wouldn’t?”

  “I could learn Spanish instead. That’s a skill I could use at the diner.”

  “Maybe you could date someone who speaks Spanish,” Carly offers. She has finished the salt and pepper shakers and is working on the small bowls with red pepper flakes now.

  “I’ll date when I meet the right guy.” I appeal to Carly. “I’m sure you didn’t just buy the first coon cat you saw when you decided you wanted one.”

  “Maine coon cat,” Carly corrects me. “It’s French.”

  “You’ve had a year to look around,” Becca says stubbornly. “Carly managed to find that French cat, and they’re a rare breed. If she can find a rare cat, you should be able to find a perfectly ordinary man to have coffee with. You don’t even need to ask the guy his pedigree—he can just be a guy who’s single.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being selective,” Carly says just as if she hadn’t heard me say I was busy. “No one is saying you have to rush out and put an ad in the paper or anything. You can take it slow.”

  “But not this slow,” Becca clarifies. “You’ve got to get three dates in a week.”

  “I can’t help it if I haven’t met anyone I want to date.”

  “You know, the problem might be more than that,” Carly says.

  I tense up. Everybody thinks I have a problem with my body since I’ve had my partial mastectomy, but it’s not true.

  “Remember how you were when you were learning to knit?” Carly says to me. “Every time you dropped a stitch, you had to unravel your yarn back to the place where you made the mistake. Even when Rose taught us how to fix a dropped stitch without going back, you always unraveled.”

  “I wanted to be sure.”

  Carly nods. “Maybe it’s that way with you and men. Maybe you need to go back to that guy you liked so much when you stopped dating. What was his name?”

  “You mean the grill guy? I can’t go back to being nineteen and all bothered by some guy who worked at the diner.”

  I’m relieved this isn’t about my body image, but I’m still not so sure about the direction Carly’s taking. I know I did my share of wailing over the unfairness of cancer and my missed date with the grill guy, so I’m not surprised Carly remembers it. But that was a long time ago. I’m not still infatuated with the grill guy.

  “Why can’t you go back?” Carly asks. “Didn’t you always say that it was the grill guy who made you feel there was a dropped stitch in your life?”

  “Yes, but…” I shook my head. “I mean, it’s not like I knew him or anything.”

  “Sure you did. He was working the grill here, and you were waiting tables on the weekends,” Becca says. “Your shifts must have overlapped.”

  “Well, of course, I talked to him, but ‘make it two burgers, with everything on them’ doesn’t mean we had much conversation.”

  “He asked you out,” Becca says.

  “Six years ago!”

  “What about those eyes of his—the ones that looked like a storm cloud coming?”

  “Just because I noticed his eyes, it doesn’t mean I want to date him now. Why, I don’t even know where he is. He could be living in Australia, for all I know.”

  There is a moment’s silence, and Becca and Carly exchange a quick glance.

  “He lived in Hollywood when he worked here,” Becca finally says.

  “Really?” I completely stop rubbing down the counter. I never knew that. I’m starting to have a bad feeling in my bones.

  “I kind of asked your Uncle Lou about him—just in a general way,” Becca says. “I didn’t say anything about his eyes or you dating him or anything. I just asked if he remembered the guy who worked the grill that summer when you got cancer.”

  “Becca would never actually betray a confidence and say anything about you and the grill guy,” Carly quickly assures me.

  Now I understood why Carly came with Becca this afternoon. They are worried I will be upset about Becca stepping into my business. I think about it for a couple of seconds before I realize they don’t need to worry. When someone has stood shoulder to shoulder with you in the wars, it’s hard to get upset if they step on your little toe later. Besides, I’ve wasted enough emotion over that grill guy to last anyone a lifetime. I don’t need to make a big deal of him now.

  “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter if you found out where the grill guy lived. He is so not the point anymore.”

  “You’re sure?” Becca asks. She looks a little anxious.

  I give her a smile and a nod. “It’s all history.”

  Carly and Becca exchange another one of those looks.

  That funny feeling in my bones is growing.

  “But you wouldn’t mind seeing him, would you? I mean, if you walked into him on the street or something?” Becca asks.

  “I don’t think that would happen,” I say. “I’m sure we don’t walk down the same streets anymore. He might have lived in Hollywood when he was a student, but he’s probably gone back to Ohio or someplace by now.”

  Carly clears her throat.

  Becca squares her shoulders. “He might be closer than that. See, your uncle Lou—well, I think he tracked the guy down and he’s meeting with him right about now. Your uncle is asking him to take over the grill while he goes on vacation.”

  Becca took a sudden interest in the floor.

  “Oh.” I see now. My life
is a house of mirrors. I look one way only to have to look the other way to try and see the real picture. Everything has shifted.

  “I don’t want you to be angry,” Becca adds with a quick upward glance toward me. “I know that sometimes I get carried away. But I truly didn’t think it would be a bad thing if your Uncle Lou called the grill guy up and asked him to come back to work for a few weeks.”

  I look at the two faces in front of me. We’ve battled cancer together. What is one grill guy compared to all that?

  I take a deep breath. “I’m not angry.”

  The feeling in my bones has settled into stiffness in my neck.

  “Good,” Carly says as she puts a hand on my shoulder and makes a massaging motion up my neck. She hasn’t forgotten that stress settles there for me.

  “I am maybe a little concerned, however,” I admit.

  Becca nods. “Don’t worry. I would never say anything to the guy himself about dating you.”

  “With any luck, he won’t even remember me,” I say. Carly’s neck massage is already making me feel better. And I’m right. The grill guy won’t remember me. He’s had six years of people pass through his life since that summer—I can’t even begin to speculate on how many dates that has been for him. What am I thinking? “He’s probably married by now anyway.”

  Carly and Becca both look surprised. I am glad they hadn’t thought of that, either. One thing we have in common in the Sisterhood is that we all had six years carved out of our lives. We’re out of step with the larger world in the same way. While other people had been doing normal things like getting married, we’d been waiting to see if we’d live. Our clocks are all slightly askew. Maybe that’s why we’ve made so much of our goals. Time has passed us by for too long.

  “We’ll find you three dates someplace else,” Becca says a little too quickly. “Maybe one of those matchmaking sites on the Internet.”

  “That doesn’t sound safe,” Carly says as she stops the massage on my neck. “She can’t go out with a stranger.”

  “Maybe if I had an e-mail exchange with them that could count as a date,” I offer.

  Becca frowns. I can tell she is tempted. She wants to wrap up these goals so there are no loose ends. But she’s always been a player who insists on being fair. “Well, maybe if it was a long and significant e-mail exchange. No, ‘hi, how are you?’ kind of a thing.”

  “I can do long e-mails.”

  “And personal. You know, with information about you. What you do. Your hobbies. That kind of thing,” Becca says.

  “Maybe even your experience with cancer,” Carly adds. “And not just the medical stuff—the emotions, too.”

  The stress has left my neck, and the funny feeling in my bones is long gone. I can do some e-mails. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.

  Everything is going to be okay. I am feeling generous toward Becca and Carly. Maybe they are right to give me a little nudge. A few e-mails won’t be bad. And, if I’m on a matchmaking site, there should be lots of choices in men to e-mail. In the meantime, there’s that coffee place in De Lacey Alley. I’ve got it made.

  I, Marilee Davidson, will have my three dates. Just wait and see. I’m home free.

  Chapter Three

  Love never gives. It only lends.

  —Chinese proverb

  I found this ancient Chinese proverb one day and brought it to a Sisterhood meeting when we were all doing our chemo routine. We figured it meant that nothing in life is guaranteed. We all knew that fact too well. Still, it was kind of nice to have some old Chinese man from a long time ago agree with us.

  Not that we knew it was a man who said it. We sat and talked about it, but couldn’t decide if the one who wrote the proverb was a man or a woman. Carly thought it sounded more like a man.

  Of course, it might have been a woman who said it and a man who finally wrote it down. Lizabett was the one who pointed that out—she’d turned sixteen and had another argument with The Old Mother Hen—this time because he’d told her to be careful driving in the rain. It would be just like him, she said, to follow her around and write down what she said.

  I know you’re dying to hear about Uncle Lou and the grill guy, but all I can say is that you need to wait in line. Several hours have passed, and Uncle Lou just got back to the diner. Becca, Carly and I are curious, too. Of course, we don’t want to make a big deal of anything in front of Uncle Lou. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Becca is giving me a nudge and a meaningful look. She apparently sees things differently.

  “Becca said you were seeing about someone to work the grill for you,” I finally say to Uncle Lou after he’s put on his white bib apron and greeted the regulars by name.

  Just to look casual, I clear away the plates that one of the counter customers left.

  Uncle Lou grunts as he pulls down a glass from the overhead rack and pours himself some iced tea from the pitcher we keep behind the counter. “Yeah, it might work out. Randy Parker—remember him? He’s the college guy who worked the grill here that summer….”

  Uncle Lou looks at me and then looks away as though he doesn’t want to remind me about the summer I got my cancer diagnosis. Cancer is a conversation stopper, all right.

  Fortunately, Uncle Lou continues, “Ah, anyway, Randy’s thinking about doing it. He’ll let me know. He’s got his own place now down on Melrose—some great hangout diner that just got written up in the L.A. Times sports section—can you believe it? A write-up like that is gold. Anyway, Randy says he has a fond spot in his heart for our diner here. Said we were his inspiration. So he might just do it. He’s one of the few guys I’ve seen who can really handle that grill. Don’t know why I didn’t think of him before—if Becca hadn’t reminded me of him, I’d still be trying to find someone….”

  Uncle Lou’s words trail off as he reaches for some of the unshelled peanuts we keep in little bowls on the counter.

  Becca lifts her eyebrow to me, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s all I’m going to ask. Finally, she grins at me.

  “So,” Becca says to my uncle as she picks her backpack up from the floor by the counter stool. “This grill guy won’t be too busy with his kids or anything, will he? I mean to work nights?”

  My uncle stops cracking the peanut he has in his hand. “Kids? He didn’t say anything about kids.”

  “So he’s probably not married?” Becca asks.

  Uncle Lou shrugs. “Didn’t ask.”

  Just then Annie comes in, full of apologies for being late for her shift. Uncle Lou and I both wave her apology away. We know she carries a full load of classes and can’t always coordinate her schedule. That’s always an issue with student employees, but we like to hire them anyway. Uncle Lou says they keep the place young.

  Usually, we have a male student who works the grill some and can spell Uncle Lou, but we don’t at the moment. Besides, Uncle Lou doesn’t want to leave a student in charge of the grill even if we do find someone to train before he goes on vacation.

  Becca adjusts her backpack over her shoulders and looks at Uncle Lou. She’s like a pit bull when she has a question. There’s no stopping her. “But you’ll need to ask eventually, won’t you? I mean, to find out who to notify if there’s an emergency or something.”

  By now Uncle Lou has chewed up his peanuts and he gives Becca a long look. “You interested in this guy? I didn’t think you knew him.”

  Becca has the grace to blush. At least, I think it’s a blush—her normal olive skin is rosier than usual. “No, I’m not interested. And I don’t know him. I was just wondering about—” I can see her searching for something sensible to say. Finally, she finds it “—employment laws as they relate to married restaurant workers—that’s it—employment laws.”

  Uncle Lou nods as if he thinks Becca has made sense. “Of course, I forgot. But I can’t ask him if he’s married—isn’t that against some hiring rule they have nowadays?”

  Uncle Lou looks at me. Following the rules and
regulations is my department so I remind him, “It’s always best not to ask marital status. Or someone’s age or religious status, either.”

  Uncle Lou nods. “Can’t hardly ask anything.”

  “I suppose you do find out, though,” Becca says. “When you ask about tax withholding and everything?”

  I nod and give Becca a warning look. “Usually we do know, but that doesn’t mean we can ask or that anyone’s obligated to tell us.”

  That seems to satisfy Becca.

  There’s over an hour until it’s time for the Sisterhood meeting. I have to finish the accounting for the day, so Becca and Carly take off to do some shopping, and I go into my office. I look around when I shut the door. It’s not a large room, but I’ve never noticed just how small it is before.

  I have a calendar of British castles on one wall. I’ve always wanted to stay in an old castle—my father is half-English and someday I’m going to trace our ancestors back in case we have any family castles in the distant past. That’s the extent of the dreamy stuff in my office. The rest is business. I have a metal bookcase on the other wall. There is a small narrow window and my desk on the third wall. I have a straight-back chair beside my desk as well as an office chair in front of it. When the door closes, I have a long mirror on the back of the door.

  Maybe Becca and Carly are right, I think to myself. My office had been a much-needed place of refuge when I was sick. Even on my good days back then, I didn’t want to be around people. I was happy to escape to this room and work with numbers and suppliers. People I talked to on the phone didn’t need to see my face, and I liked that.

  No one just passing through could see me and ask me if I was sick, thinking I just had a bad cold. I never knew what to say when people did that. Of course I was sick. I was almost dying. But strangers didn’t want to hear that, and I didn’t want to tell them. They were just being polite; they didn’t need to be brought down with my story. Still, I could hardly lie and say I wasn’t sick, so I ended up awkwardly mumbling something about it not being contagious.