The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches

by Janet Tronstad

  “Well, it was good meeting you, Marilee,” the other man says as he turns to leave us.

  “Yes, nice to meet you, too,” I say to the man.

  Then my father and I are standing there together, and neither one of us seems to know what to do.

  “Well, why don’t you come into my office?” my dad finally says. “Would you like any coffee or tea or anything?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  My dad has one of a row of offices at the back of the showroom.

  “We usually meet with customers up front,” my dad says as he opens the door so we can go inside. “I’m afraid this is just where I do my accounting.”

  I’m glad we’re going to have some privacy.

  My dad’s office has a wooden desk with a computer on top. To the side are shelves filled with books. In front of the books are some pictures of me taken years ago.

  “I’m surprised Mike recognized you from them,” my dad says as he nods toward the pictures. “The last one I have is the one from your high school graduation.”

  I glance over at the pictures. He also has one of me as a baby and one that looks as though I was about ten years old.

  “I didn’t know you’d have pictures of me here,” I say. He hadn’t had pictures on his bookcase the last time I’d been here. As I recall, he had some plaques related to work.

  “Well, I like to see you around when I’m working,” my dad says with a pause. Neither one of us sits down. “I was going to call Lou later today and tell him that I talked to the general manager and asked about the ballet thing—he said it would be fine as long as it’s after closing—which is seven that night.”

  “Really? Thanks.”

  “I’m happy to do it,” my dad says. “I’ll have the key for closing. If your friends can take care of folding chairs, I’ll ask the guys to move the show cars out to the lot for the night.”

  I feel a little awkward now that my dad’s doing me a favor, so I step a little closer to look at the pictures of me. That’s when I notice that there are three or four books on the corner of one of the shelves that have bright pink spines. All breast cancer patients know that color of pink. It’s our color.

  “What are these?” I say even though it is clear what they are. They are books on dealing with cancer. I reach for one and pull it off the shelf.

  “Oh, those,” my dad says as he sits on the corner of his desk. “I forgot they were there.”

  “Did you read them?” I look at the book and see it’s title is Coping with Cancer.

  “How else could I know what you were going through?” my dad says.

  I close my eyes. “You could have asked me. We could have talked about it.”

  When I open my eyes, I know there are tears. “I really would have liked to talk to you about it.”

  There is a moment of silence.

  “I didn’t know what to say,” my dad finally says.

  I take a breath. It’s now or never. “Is that why you left us—because of my cancer?”

  My dad takes in a breath so quick it almost sounds like a hiss. “Of course not.”

  I nod. Okay, I can accept that. “But did you know I had cancer when you left?”

  My dad is silent at that for a minute. “I thought you and your mother would be better off without me there.”

  “How can you say that?” I’m blinking now, but I’m not going to cry.

  “I thought it was best for you. I didn’t know how to stop arguing with your mom, and I knew that wasn’t good for you when you were so sick.”

  “Couldn’t you have tried?”

  “I did try.”

  “You could have tried harder.”

  My dad nods. He looks sad. “There were times when I wished I had tried harder.”

  “I needed you.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Mom’s not that hard to live with.”

  My dad smiled at that. “Maybe not—maybe it’s me that’s hard to live with.”

  I smile a little, too. “If it was the church thing that got to you—you need to know I’m going to church now. I mean, I just started, but I want to find out what it’s all about.”

  My dad nods. “Is it because of that guy you met—what’s his name—Quinn?”

  I shrug. “It’s Mom, too. She really believes it all.”

  My dad is silent at that. I don’t think he gets it. I’m not sure I do, either, but I’ve decided to figure it all out.

  “I’ve been worried you’ll be mad if I go to church,” I say. “Like I’m chosing Mom’s side over yours.”

  “There are no sides,” he says. “And maybe some Sunday I’ll come with you.”

  I nod. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. I won’t know until it happens so there’s only one thing left to do. “Can I have a big bear hug?”

  My dad looks relieved as he takes a step closer. “That I can do.”

  My dad puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze.

  I turn slightly so I’m facing him. “No, a real hug.”

  My dad folds me in his arms. “Like this?”

  I nod my head.

  “I’m always so afraid of hurting you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You can’t hurt me with a hug.”

  My dad has his car with him so he gives me a ride back to The Pews before he goes back to his apartment. Before I leave his car, he scribbles his home telephone number on the back of his business card and says, “Call me at either place.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  I will, too. When I get out of my dad’s car, I stand for a little bit in front of The Pews before I go inside. I know then that I’m going to write all of this down in the journal and that I should have something wise or moving to say about all that has happened. But I don’t have anything articulate. Some of my anger about my dad is gone. I’m not sure, but I think some of my feelings about God have changed, too. All I know is that I feel a melting inside me of some hard places. I’m not so bitter anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I can’t think about that right now.

  If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.

  —Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind

  We never took tomorrow for granted in the Sisterhood. When Becca brought this quote to us one night, we voted to make “I’ll Think About It Tomorrow” our official motto. We talked about having T-shirts made with this new motto on the back and our name, Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches, on the front.

  No matter how bad it got, we could always bring a smile to each others’ faces by suggesting that we think about it tomorrow. Having a tomorrow was a good thing; we each wanted all of them we could get.

  I haven’t written in the journal since Monday, but I want you to know that my dad is coming through for us. It’s late Wednesday afternoon, and he’s got everything organized for tonight. He’s at the dealership now so that the guys from the fire department where Lizabett’s brothers work can haul eighty chairs over to the showroom when they finish their shift in an hour or so. They’re good guys. The fire department is loaning us the chairs. Even more good.

  We’re planning to have a party here at The Pews after the performance tonight. Cast and audience are all invited. Buffalo wings and taquitos on the house. Uncle Lou put a notice on the outside door that there will be a private party here at nine o’clock tonight so we’ll be closed to the public. I have bunches of pink and white balloons in my office that I plan to bring out and scatter around.

  I haven’t seen Quinn since Monday when he brought by the swan wings for Lizabett. I know he’s been working long shifts, because Lizabett has dropped that information in my lap several times. I finally figured out that she’s nervous about Quinn and me. I need to tell her that she doesn’t need to worry about us because there is no us, but she never lets me get the words out of my mouth.

  I think I have disappointed Quinn. I’ve been hoping he will invite me to go to the performance with hi
m tonight—not so that it would be a date, I’ve learned my lesson there—but just because I want to watch his face as he sees Lizabett dance around in the ballet.

  But, since Quinn hasn’t actually talked to me lately, I don’t think it’s likely he’ll be inviting me anywhere.

  I have given up on meeting my dating goal by Thursday, that’s tomorrow, and the amazing thing is that Becca has let me. Carly and Lizabett will meet their goals, and that will have to be enough for all of us, since Becca won’t know if she’s accepted for the other internship until next week at the earliest.

  I’m trying to keep a happy expression on my face, but I am obviously not succeeding. There’s no other reason I can think of that would explain why Becca is not pounding at me to meet my goal. She must feel sorry for me.

  That should bother me and I’m sure it will in a couple of days. For now, I feel sorry enough for me that I don’t even blame her.

  The only one who doesn’t feel sorry for me is Carly, and she looks as though she’s got the world on her own shoulders, so I’m more inclined to feel sorry for her than to expect sympathy from her. I don’t even know why she’s so upset. All she will say is that the roses she got for her aunt didn’t work. I never even knew she had an aunt close by until she told us that’s why she bought the roses.

  Oh, well, you don’t want to hear about our troubles, so I’m going to sign off for a little bit. I’ll pick it up after the performance so I can let you know how it went.

  Hi, this is Lizabett. I’m sneaking in here for a second to let you know it’s going to happen! Pinch me! I’m going to glide around like a swan in front of the lights!! It’s my dream come true. I never thought we’d pull it all together—the lights were a little tricky, but we rented some. I’m so excited.

  I’m even planning a small speech for the party after the ballet tonight. Can you imagine that? Me neither, but I want to thank Marilee and my brothers for all they have done—and Marilee’s dad, of course. I can’t wait.

  Oh, and I’m trying to arrange the numbers on the chairs so that Quinn and Marilee will have seats together. I asked Quinn if he wanted me to get him a chair beside Marilee and he said she should sit with her date. The guy is deaf—I have told him Marilee doesn’t have a date at least ten times. But he doesn’t seem to believe me. I don’t know what to do with him.

  Well, this is Marilee. I just opened the journal and read what Lizabett wrote. I guess I was supposed to read it—it wasn’t folded down or anything, it was right there for me to see. I’m not sure what Lizabett plans to gain by pointing out to Quinn that I don’t have a date. I think the Sisterhood has become a little obsessed with my dating life. Don’t you think?

  Well, and Quinn is oblivious to me—he’s clearly not paying any attention to my life if he thinks I’m running around dating someone.

  I don’t know if I will be able to talk Lizabett out of juggling the seats, but I should try. I don’t want to force Quinn to sit beside me.

  Fortunately, I had to come back from the dealership to get some tape. My dad and I are supposed to tape numbered tags on the folding chairs so everyone will have reserved seating. It’s been kind of nice to work together, the two of us. Anyway, if I could find the master list of who goes with what chair number, I wouldn’t need to talk to Lizabett to see if the seating arrangements have been, well, further arranged by her while I’ve been over here.

  I think I’ll take the journal with me so you can get my updates as they happen. Besides, that way no one else will be able to leave a little message for me this way.

  Ah, I meant to check in sooner. But things have been busy and I’m just now taking a breather. This is Marilee, by the way. The chairs have all been set up and the stage is being arranged. There are lots of plants and some plywood settings that look pretty good actually.

  Quinn is in charge of the costumes, and he’s buried under a mound of swan wings. I’m going to go over and ask him if he needs any help before I leave.

  I think I have the seating situation under control. I don’t know who I’m sitting next to, but I saw that someone had moved my ticket—I’m assuming that was Lizabett—so I just moved myself over to the other side of the room. I couldn’t tell which ticket belonged to Quinn—or anyone else really, but I think I’m sitting beside Becca now. My dad is sitting across from us with Uncle Lou.

  I’m going to check with Quinn and then run back to my office for a little bit and get dressed up for the performance. I won’t be adding to the journal until after the performance. Do you know that this showroom still has that new car smell even though all of the cars have been taken out? I wish you could smell it. It’s nice.

  This is the intermission and I’m back—it’s Marilee. I wasn’t going to write anything until the end of the performance, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give you a brief update while the dancers take a bit of a break and the audience stands and stretches.

  The ballet is wonderful. And I’m going to tell you about that—but first, I’m going to tell you that I’m no match for Lizabett. She must have seen me move my seating number, because she moved Quinn over to sit next to me. I should have known better. One should never underestimate a Sister.

  Quinn didn’t seem surprised to see me sitting there when he found his assigned seat.

  “I could move,” Quinn said the minute he sat down.

  The lights had not gone down to signal the beginning of the production yet, but everyone else was settled.

  “We’re fine,” I said.

  Whoever had set up our short row of folding chairs had squeezed us between a wall and a ficus tree that marked the beginning of the stage. I couldn’t sit in my chair without having my arm pressed fully against Quinn’s arm unless I wanted to sit on the lap of the woman on the other side of me—who, as it turned out, was the mother of one of the other ballet students.

  “Sorry,” I said when I tried, unsuccessfully, to make more room for Quinn.

  Quinn just grunted. “I guess Randy was supposed to sit here. His shoulders aren’t as wide.”

  “What?”

  “I saw you move the numbers earlier,” Quinn said. “Figured you were trying to sit by him so you could get in another date before tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to sit by Randy.”

  Quinn lifted his eyebrow. “Why not? At least you count his dates as dates.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard you said he was your one date so far.”

  Oh, I see what the problem is. And it makes me feel better than I have since Monday. “It’s not that his date counted more—it was just more clearly a date.”

  The lights were dimming, and there was some music starting to play.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Quinn growled at me softly.

  “Well, you’re my friend,” I whispered back at him. The music was rising, and it was almost time for the dancers to come on stage. “I didn’t want to use you, so I didn’t want to count the time we spent together as dates because I didn’t really know if they were dates.”

  “I kissed you,” Quinn whispered indignantly in my ear. The dancers were on stage and it was time for quiet. He reached over and took my hand. “If that doesn’t make something a date, I don’t know what does.”

  “Oh. I thought you were just being nice.”

  “Nice!” Quinn’s voice rose enough that the woman sitting on the other side of him turned to frown.

  “This is nice,” Quinn whispered as he settled my hand in his.

  We couldn’t talk anymore because the music was soaring music. The ballet had begun.

  I was right to want to watch Quinn’s face while he followed his sister’s performance. Lizabett dipped and swirled. She was amazing. And Quinn was so proud.

  At the intermission, Quinn had to help sew one of the swan’s wings back on, so he had to leave. That’s why I took time to let you know that the ballet was going very well. My dad waved at me from across the stage where he was sitting with
Uncle Lou and Rose. He was clearly enjoying himself. And I see Carly over there, sitting between Randy and Becca.

  Then Quinn came back.

  “What’s this?” I asked, seeing the strip of white felt that Quinn had in his hands.

  “Oh, I put felt on the wings so they won’t rub anyone when they strap them around their arms.”

  “You’re the one,” I said to him.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he chuckled.

  “No, I mean, you’re the one who put felt on those crowns Lizabett brought to us when the Sisterhood first started meeting.”

  Quinn shrugged. “The cardboard was scratchy.”

  That seemed to be the end of the story to him. If something needed to be done, he would do it without fanfare or thanks.

  I wondered if he even knew what a special man he is.

  Two minutes into the second half of the ballet, Quinn took my hand again and snuggled it into his own.

  “This is another thing that makes a date,” Quinn whispered in my ear as he squeezed my hand.

  “That it does,” I whispered as I squeezed his hand back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There’s no place like home.

  —another Dorothy quote from The Wizard of Oz

  Uncle Lou was smart when he set up the meeting room for the Sisterhood like a living room. We all craved the warmth that came from sitting in a home together. We moved from the hospital conference room to The Pews a month or so after we started to meet. We all swore our knitting improved when we made the move. I was not convinced that was true. It seemed to me that we talked more and knitted less when we sat in our room at The Pews. But it didn’t bother me—I had already decided I’d rather have fewer scarves and more friends so talking was good with me.

  It’s almost time for me, Marilee, to pass the journal on to someone else in the Sisterhood, but I want to tell you about our Thursday meeting before I do that. Last night’s party had gone until midnight, and all of the ballet dancers had a great time—as did those of us in the audience.