The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches

by Janet Tronstad

  “I might go and call Carly myself,” Becca says. “To make sure she keeps that cat in her room until after Thursday. Leash or no leash, we need to be sure one of us meets our goal.”

  “I should go make some calls myself,” I say as I start to walk toward my office. I want to have some alternatives to mention to Lizabett when I break the news to her that the dealership isn’t available. “Hang around for lunch, though—when Carly gets back, we can eat.”

  I take some time when I am back in my office to write a full account of everything that’s been happening in this journal. Of course, I start with my decision to walk over to my dad’s car dealership after lunch. What do you think of that? I used to visit him there once in a while before everything changed. I always liked the smells—I don’t know if it’s the new leather or just the new cars themselves—but whatever it is, I like it. It’s a Cadillac dealership by the way so they keep the place sparkling.

  My dad is good at his job, too. He’s been working as the accountant at this same place for over ten years now, and he’s always winning employee of the month—I know because Uncle Lou tells me. Uncle Lou is proud of his little brother.

  It’s funny what shape a family takes—Uncle Lou has been more like a father to me in the past six years than my dad has been, and I don’t know how either one of them feel about it. I’m my uncle’s only niece, which is one of the reasons he invited me to go into the business with him. Years ago, we all used to celebrate holidays together—Uncle Lou would come over for dinner and we’d all eat and play board games. Those were fun times.

  Of course, that all stopped with the big separation. My parents haven’t gotten a divorce even though it’s been six years ago now that my dad walked out. I know my mom doesn’t want to file for a divorce. So she just left it for Dad, and I guess he’s leaving it for her. It’s almost funny—the same stubbornness that made Dad move out is the same stubbornness that’s keeping them technically married.

  Meanwhile, we’re all in limbo—not going forward but not sliding backward either.

  I shake myself. I don’t need to be worrying about the status of my parent’s marriage when I go to see my father. I will be doing well just to get my question asked about using the showroom for Lizabett’s ballet program. An added bonus in going to talk to my dad at his work is that I can see the showroom floor for myself. The room I remember would work well for a ballet performance, but changes might have been made over the past six years.

  As you and I both know, a lot can change in that time.

  Well, will you look at that? The pen that I have been using to write in the journal is running out of ink. I’ll have to take a break and search my desk drawer for another small one like the one I’m using. I like it because it has a fine black point. I always think a fine point like that makes a journal look classy although, if you could see the folded pages and the tape and the clips, you would know that being classy is something we gave up on a while back in this endeavor.

  I look up at the clock before I start my phone calling. It is fifteen minutes past eleven in the morning. When Carly gets back, we’ll be able to eat lunch. I hope she’s talking to me by then. If nothing else, the flowers should put her in a forgiving mood.

  It takes me a few minutes to call City Hall, and the woman I talk to tells me this Wednesday evening is open for a private party, but that there’s a problem if the ballet troupe is charging admission. I hadn’t thought of that. Of course, they will have to refund the money for the tickets if they don’t give a performance at all so maybe they’d want to do the ballet for free to the fifty or so people who were planning to attend.

  At least it gives me one option for Lizabett. I’m hoping we will find a place for the ballet because I’d like to see Lizabett dance. Lizabett has always been a little shy, but she’s never lacked in passionate emotions. I know that seems strange, but sometimes you can just see the emotions playing on her face—anger, indignation, sympathy—you can see them all even though she seldom speaks. I think Lizabett has more in common with her brothers than she thinks.

  I smile a little. Quinn has a nice face to read, too. I’d like to watch his face as Lizabett dances.

  Oh, I hear Carly talking.

  “Did you see your flowers?” I say as the door to my office opens and Carly stands there. “I’m assuming Randy sent them for you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Carly says. “I sent them here myself.”

  “You sent them? Who to? No, forget I asked.” I figure maybe I’m too behind the times in dating. Do you suppose Carly got Randy flowers?

  Carly doesn’t answer my question anyway. “Is that the journal over there? I need to write something in it.”

  I nod. I am still stunned that Carly sent the flowers. “Are they for Lizabett? The flowers?”

  Carly shakes her head. “They’re for my aunt—to say I’m sorry.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “The unforgivable.”

  By this time, Carly has bent her head over the pages of the journal so I figure I should leave and put in my order for lunch. “Is the shrimp Caesar salad good for you for lunch?”

  Carly looks up and nods. “Dressing on the side.”

  “I know,” I say as I close the door to my office.

  Hi, this is Carly. You will not believe what I have done. I can’t tell the Sisterhood about it because they believe the caption they read in the Star News is true. I’ve never told them that my parents and I live with my aunt and uncle. I’m so used to keeping that little fact private that I never thought about what might happen if I didn’t clarify the situation to that reporter.

  The truth is I’m a little ashamed of the way my parents and I live with my aunt and uncle, so I try not to even admit it to myself. I mean we don’t even pay rent or anything. In fact, my uncle even gives my mom an allowance for groceries. We are complete dead-beats.

  But this picture in the paper is going to blow the lid off of everything.

  My aunt was livid when she read that the paper says the house belongs to my parents. She is so proud of that house. Of course, we all know that she and my uncle own the house, but she worries about what the neighbors will think. And she’s got a point. Some of the neighbors are nice, but those who came out when the police were there will believe any crazy thing they hear. And if they read it in the newspaper, well…

  I don’t know what to do, but I got my aunt flowers and I’m going to get a leash for my cat just as soon as I can find one. I won’t use the leash with Marie while she’s inside my rooms, but when I take her outside of my rooms and through the rest of the house, she will be on a leash.

  I wonder if I can convince Marie the leash is a cat necklace. Maybe I’ll get one that sparkles.

  Anyway, that’s all I have for now. I’m folding these pages back so no one else can read them. Thanks for listening. I find it always helps me think things through when I can write them down in this journal.

  I’ll keep you posted. For now, I’m going to go out and eat lunch with the Sisterhood.

  Wait a minute—I just realized what I heard Marilee say about the flowers. She thought Randy was sending them to me. Oh, dear, I can’t let that impression grow. Randy is wonderful and under different circumstances, but—well, there’s no point in wishing for what can’t be. He’s not the man for me.

  Or, should I say, I’m not the woman for him.

  No matter. You understand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Be not afraid of growing slowly,

  Be afraid only of standing still.

  —Chinese proverb

  It was when we were recovering from our cancer and starting to feel better that we became most frustrated. Rose brought this quote to us during that time. I haven’t said much about Rose in this journal, but I’m thinking we should dedicate the whole thing to her. Maybe we’ll even get it typeset one of these days and present it to her like a plaque.

  As you know, Rose was a student counselor at the hospital where
she met all of us and it was her idea to start this group. She was very wise at the time, because she didn’t pretend to know everything. She mostly just let us talk and talk. I think that’s why she’d like this journal. It’s just more of the talk she’s heard for years from us.

  Sometimes I wonder if we have any more answers today than we did back then. Rose would know. She’s always the one who knew when we were going forward even if it was slowly.

  None of us need to be served when we’re in The Pews so we each just pick up our order and take it into the Sisterhood room. We call it that even though other people can use the room if it’s not Thursday night. Today there’s no one sitting in there until we enter—which is nice.

  Carly brought the journal with her when she came out for lunch, and so this is Marilee back with her pen—well, technically, it’s a different pen now, but you know what I mean.

  We’re all eating salads, so there’s some talking as we see to our dressings. Some of us take vinegar and oil, some Thousand island, some French—the bottles all go around. In the middle of all this, Carly keeps asking me why I would even think Randy would send her roses when he had just gone out with me, and I keep saying something light—you know, that he’s a nice guy and that kind of thing and maybe he was happy her cat was finally back home or he was sorry he had to use the box trap thing.

  What can I say? I don’t want to make Randy’s move for him by telling Carly that he still hopes to go out with her. I was going to tell her earlier, but she’s so agitated today I can’t predict what she’ll think about anything I say. I also don’t want to say anything that might make her not want to go out with him.

  The best thing to do, I decide, is to change the subject. Besides, even though Lizabett seems to be interested in the conversation about the roses and Randy, Becca sure isn’t.

  “It’s called Feline Fancy,” Becca is saying for the second time to Carly as Carly is muttering yet again that Randy should be sending me roses. Becca stabs at her salad and then presses on, “It’s got different flavors. Ground-up fillet mignon for one, I think. And crabmeat or something exotic like that. Maybe liver pâté.”

  “For a cat?” Carly finally zeroes in on Becca’s conversation. Carly’s fork is suspended in midair. “I’m not so sure you’d give a cat liver pâté.”

  “If you want your cat to stay at home, maybe you do,” Becca says as she forks another bite of salad. “A happy cat is a cat that stays where she’s put.”

  “Marie is a very good cat,” Carly says. She lays her fork down on her plate and looks at Becca fully. “She’s just high-energy.”

  Becca nods, “Then she’ll like Feline Fancy. The ads make it sound positively addictive.”

  Carly frowns but before she can say anything, I jump in.

  “That’s just a figure of speech,” I say. “Becca just wants to be sure Marie will be there on Thursday so we can count her as a goal accomplished.”

  Carly’s frown clears and she picks up her fork. “Of course, the goals.”

  This doesn’t make Becca too happy. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the goals, too?”

  “Of course not,” Carly says.

  “Me, neither,” Lizabett adds.

  I lift up my hands. “I’m trying.”

  “We’re not going to make it,” Becca mutters.

  I don’t think it’s diplomatic to remind Becca that she might be the furthest of any of us from her goal—well, maybe she’d tied with me. I’m pretty far away from meeting my goal, too.

  I’m thinking about this when the door to the Sisterhood opens and there stands Quinn in his full fireman uniform. His arms are full of frothy, sparkling wings.

  “You brought them.” Lizabett stands and greets him.

  “I’m on my lunch hour, and I only have fifteen minutes left,” Quinn says as he surveys the rest of us with a scowl on his face before turning back to Lizabett. “I don’t know why you need your wings today anyway.”

  I have been smiling at Quinn since he appeared in the doorway, but my lips are growing a little stiff since he hasn’t even nodded or said hello or anything. I must admit I am surprised that there’s not a little bit of a hello for me considering everything.

  “Would you like some lunch?” I offer as I stand. “I could make you something—a sandwich if you need to be quick.”

  “No, thanks,” Quinn says as he finally looks at me. “I saw your roses. Must have been some date.”

  “Oh, the roses are Carly’s,” I say.

  “Oh,” Quinn says as he gives a quick look at Lizabett. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, they’re mine,” Carly says cheerfully from the table. “Bought them myself to give to my aunt.”

  “That’s nice,” Quinn says. He’s looking a little puzzled. “Considerate.”

  “Necessary,” Carly mutters.

  “I did hear the date went well, though,” Quinn says as he walks a step closer to me. “Congratulations.”

  “It was only coffee,” I say.

  Quinn shrugs. “At least it was good enough to earn a point. That’s something. I hope you get the other two in before Thursday.”

  Quinn is not saying that in any friendly way, so it’s clear he’s not offering to be any of those points. What he says next confirms it. “If you need a backup, my brother Gregory is off the next couple of days.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  Quinn leaves as quickly as he came, and the only evidence that he’d even been here is the wings Lizabett is holding.

  “Are you practicing today?” I ask Lizabett.

  She nods. “I guess I better.”

  Lizabett doesn’t look any happier than me, but we both go back to our salads.

  “He should have taken a sandwich,” Lizabett finally says. “He’ll get hungry.”

  Well, that’s that, I say to myself as I take another fork of salad. Quinn is definitely cool toward me. Maybe he’s worried I will make more of the times we’ve had coffee together than I should. Well, and maybe he’s right—I certainly had been thinking we had something going on, and I’m clearly wrong.

  You know what the worst thing about having cancer has been, well, apart from maybe dying? It’s not knowing the things I’m supposed to know about things like dating.

  I’m one of those people who got a late start at dating anyway. And then with my years of not dating because of the cancer, I feel as if I’m a whole decade behind where I should be in understanding the whole thing. I wish there were some remedial dating class I could take so I could figure it out.

  My hunch is that the whole thing is twisted up with not understanding my father. Maybe I’m not expecting anything from men and so not getting anything. I’m sitting here eating my salad and thinking about the baseball caps I have back in my office.

  Over the years, I’ve been so thrilled with those caps. Can you believe it? They’re only baseball caps. They don’t mean anything. They will never be enough to make up for what my father didn’t give me—his care and concern when I was sick.

  I’m not even listening to the others talk and eat their salads. I’m getting more and more upset. Finally, I decide I’m going to go over to that car dealership where my father is working right now and—and…well, at least I’m going to ask him about the use of the dealership for the ballet.

  “Here,” I give the journal back to Carly as I stand. “You keep this while I’m gone. I’m going to talk to my father.”

  I must have looked funny, because Lizabett says, “You don’t need to—not if it’s a problem.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say as I walk out the door of the Sisterhood room and into the main part of The Pews.

  “I’m going to the dealership to see my father,” I say loud enough for Uncle Lou to hear it behind the counter. “I won’t be gone long.”

  I don’t wait to hear if Uncle Lou has anything to say about my announcement. What can he say anyway? It is time for me to have a talk with my father. I don’t care if I’m interrupt
ing him and he’s writing up the paperwork for the most expensive car on the lot. It’s time for him to talk to me.

  I march down Colorado Boulevard until I get past the bridge. Even then I don’t slow much. It only takes me about ten minutes to reach the other side of the bridge. I see the dealership over by the Norton Simon museum. The dealership is mostly windows and there’s a big swath of green grass in front of it. Some flowers are planted around the front of the building. Everything looks very upscale.

  I, of course, go straight to the doors that enter into the main display floor. There’s enough chrome and leather in the showroom to intimidate someone wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. I suddenly realize I might feel more comfortable if I’d changed into something other than my work clothes. But it’s too late now.

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. Davidson,” I say to the first man I meet. “He works here.”

  “I’d be happy to help you,” the man starts to say and then smiles. “You’re Marilee, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I’m a little taken back at this.

  “I’d know you anywhere,” the man says. I look at him more closely to see if I recognize him from when I used to visit my dad here over six years ago. He doesn’t look familiar.

  “From your pictures,” the man finally says. “Your dad has pictures of you in his office.”

  “Oh.”

  “I guess you don’t know that your dad’s been out sick today,” the man continues.

  Both the man and I look up when we hear my dad call out to me, “Marilee!”

  My dad isn’t wearing his usual working suit, and he looks a little pale.

  “I heard you were coming, so I hurried over,” my dad says as he walks over to us. “Don’t worry. I’m not contagious. I sound like I have a cold, though, and I didn’t want to scare customers off, so I stayed home this morning.”