Knit the Season

by Kate Jacobs

  The family would rise up from lunch and leave the dishes on the table as they gathered in the lounge for the Queen’s address on the telly, and then clean up in the kitchen before heading out en masse for a quick walk on the banks of the River Nith. As the darkness grew, even though it was afternoon, they’d make their way back to Gran’s cottage for a snack of smoked salmon and bread and butter, reveling in one another’s company and delighted to have an excuse to see one another and catch up.

  They’d comment on who had changed, and who looked the same, and who was working at what job and whether it was suiting them all right. Gran looked forward to being complimented on her hand-knit cardigan by every member of the family—and why not, as being worn only once annually meant it was practically brand-new—and she braved herself for the moment they’d all drink a toast to the loved ones who were gone. Like her husband, Tom Sr. And Georgia.

  And this year, with the family all around, she knew they’d spend the morning exchanging gifts, and she’d been preparing for weeks. Had wrapped her gifts tidily and stored them under the bed. Going so far as to tie on ribbon, when everyone knew that just got torn off.

  Quite simply, it was going to be a glorious day. The most triumphant Christmas, a perfect capstone to a lifetime of memories.

  Gran padded down the hallway to the kitchen in a pair of her soft knitted slippers. After all, she thought, the turkey wasn’t going to jump into the oven himself.

  Dakota had disappeared behind the mound of crumpled gift wrap piled high on the love seat, where she and James sat opening presents across from Bess and Donny. Tom stood, coffee cup in hand, as Gran watched the entire proceedings from the center of the room, sitting in a hard-backed chair brought in the from dining room. She’d gotten a stocking after all, bursting with oranges and chocolate and a lacy knitted bookmark in candy-cane stripes.

  Dakota had been bleary upon waking, coming around to the sound of pans being dropped in the kitchen, but the fatigue passed quickly. She finished the sweater as everyone took turns showering in the one bathroom, hiding out in Gran’s bedroom and pretending she was still asleep. Caught up in the frenzy to complete the sweater, Dakota realized that all the gift wrap was still in the sewing room, where Donny was getting dressed. So, she dashed into the kitchen for the tinfoil and wrapped the sweater like a food parcel, tying it with kitchen string. It would have to do, she decided, as Gran rang a bell and announced that it was time for everyone to get their hides into the lounge.

  “We’re going to open one at a time,” she said, settling into her chair with a large film camera in her lap. “And I’ll take some snaps. Donny, you play elf.” And, without a thought of doing otherwise, Dakota’s forty-two-year-old uncle began handing out gifts, one to a person.

  Donny reached under the tree to see if everything was handed round.

  “This one,” said Dakota, waving her tinfoiled package in the air. “Give Dad this one.”

  “I’m sitting right next to you,” said James, the end of a candy cane sticking out of his mouth. “Give it to me yourself.”

  She handed over the present gently. “Don’t just rip it,” she joked. “I took a lot of time with that wrapping.”

  “Obviously.” Her dad laughed. “Now, what is it . . . ?” He shook the gift so vigorously that as the tinfoil crinkled and crackled, the entire packet opened up and the camel-and-turquoise sweater flew right out of the package and onto Gran’s lap.

  “I know that sweater,” said James, pointing. “I remember that sweater.”

  “My goodness,” said Gran, picking up the garment and holding it out in front of her. “I’d recognize those stitches anywhere. Each one as perfect as the one before. It’s Georgia’s knitting.”

  “Just the front, Gran,” said Dakota, worried that she’d miscalculated and that Gran—or her father—would be upset. “I’m the one who finished the back. Mom was making it for you, Dad, before I was even born.”

  “I know, I know,” said James, stammering. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. I haven’t thought about this sweater in decades. It’s the most beautiful thing. From her hands. From yours. I can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “You like it, you really like it?” asked Dakota.

  “I do,” said James, rising from the love seat. “It’s just that it brings everything back.”

  Georgia had been looking forward to the tree lighting all day. She’d only ever seen the lighting of the giant tree in Rockefeller Center on television, and now she and her boyfriend were going to stand—along with thousands of other people, of course—and see it happen in person. It was the New Yorkiest thing she’d done since moving to the city. Best of all, it was free.

  What could they do without cash? That was essentially the discussion she and James had every Saturday morning, ready to savor another weekend in the city but lacking any cash with which to do anything. Their jobs didn’t result in any extra income, and after pizza and rent, they did a lot of walking around and window-shopping, sharing soda in the park, and hanging out at home, enjoying each other.

  “We practically live together,” he mused one crisp morning, snuggling closer because the heat hadn’t kicked in. “Maybe we should cut out one of our apartments.”

  “Maybe,” she said, returning his kiss. “Let’s decide in the New Year.” They had lots of time, she knew, so no need to rush. Besides, who wants to move apartments in the middle of winter? If New York in December was anything, it was damn cold.

  She’d arrived at her desk an hour earlier the day of the tree lighting, so she could say good-bye to her boss and to KC and exit the door at a reasonable hour, burrowing into her cloth coat and fuzzy earmuffs—there was no pride when it came to the New York chill—and lugging along a manuscript or two in her worn backpack.

  “Don’t be late,” James had teased her that morning.

  “You, either,” she’d replied. The two of them often found it hard to coordinate schedules, always leaving one waiting—at the movies, at the park—for the other.

  But tonight was different. James had brought a thermos of hot chocolate, explaining how he’d bought packets of cocoa mix and then boiled water in the kettle at the architectural firm. Then Georgia surprised him by revealing an airline-sized bottle of brandy in her pocket.

  “I bought it at the bodega near work,” she said. “And it cost way too much for two sips of booze.”

  They mixed the two beverages together, sipping their toasty drink, surrounded by masses of excited tourists and a few New Yorkers feigning disinterest.

  “No doubt they’re just here because they have friends visiting,” said James.

  “And we’re here because we love Christmas,” shouted Georgia.

  “And each other,” said James, wrapping his arms around her as the switch was thrown and the multicolored lights on the huge green pine tree glittered. They stayed there, hugging and holding, as the other onlookers slowly began to move away.

  One day we’ll have a big Christmas tree, imagined Georgia, though she didn’t say it. James hadn’t even met her parents, nor had she met his. They were both broke, and, besides, everyone would say they were too young. Settling down at their age was fine in the 1950s, but the world wasn’t like that anymore. She shouldn’t be so foolish. Still. She loved him. She really did.

  Georgia kissed James’s cheek, rubbing her cold nose into his skin until he laughed.

  I’d like to get a fresh tree, thought James, not exactly as big, of course. Something he’d haul in and put up in the living room. The room in the big house he dreamed about, something impressive, something to make his family proud. Sometimes, when they were grocery shopping or doing the laundry, he pretended he lived there already with Georgia. But that would be someday, in the future, he reminded himself when he started to feel nervous. She made him feel that way. Caught off guard because he enjoyed their chats in bed after making love almost as much as the lovemaking itself. That was new. That was different. Sometimes, he felt overwhelmed by it.


  But tonight was just right, like the city was lit up only for them. That their little thermos of brandied hot chocolate was the most delicious dessert coffee in a five-star restaurant.

  “C’mon,” he said, kissing her hair. “Let’s go home.”

  “Let’s walk around,” said Georgia. “I don’t want it to stop. This is our Christmas together.” In a few weeks, she’d go to her parents’ and James to his, to spend the holidays as expected.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. “So, what now?”

  “Chocolate!” she said, as she dragged him down the street to the chocolate shop, James’s eyes widening when he saw the price per piece.

  “We’ll just get one caramel,” Georgia said to James. “We’ll share.”

  “I’d like a pound,” said James. “Actually, I’d like two pounds.”

  “James, you can’t afford that,” whispered Georgia, worried and yet excited as the clerk rang up the triple-digit sale.

  “I can tonight,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”

  The clerk shot them a quizzical look.

  “Today is Christmas for us,” she explained, grinning. “We just saw our tree. You know, the big one.”

  “We come from GeorgiaJamesville,” said James as Georgia giggled, clutching his arm. “You’ve probably never heard of the place. But we like it. We love it.”

  The twosome wandered over to the Avenue of the Americas to eat their supper of chocolates, sitting on the edge of a planter across from Radio City Music Hall as they watched ticket holders rushing in to catch The Rockettes.

  “This is freezing,” said James, holding Georgia tighter. “Nice, but I’m still turning into an ice cube.”

  “Oh,” said Georgia, trying to wipe her hands free of chocolate. “Let’s not go yet. I have a present for you.”

  “What for?”

  “For Christmas,” said Georgia. “And now seems perfect. It’s not done, but I’m going to show you anyway.” She opened her backpack and gathered up a bundle of yarn in her arms.

  “You got me yarn?” said James. “You knit? Like an old lady?”

  “Yes and no, not like an old lady,” said Georgia, dropping the yarn in the backpack and lifting up a small square. “Pay attention. This is going to be your sweater. Meet the beginning.”

  “Hello, sweater,” said James, bending low as though talking to the stitches. “I look forward to wearing you. Someday.”

  “Oh, I’ll finish it,” said Georgia, poking him gently with the end of a needle. “I am better than you know.”

  “That I do not doubt,” said James. “And I know I’ll always think of you whenever I wear it.”

  Donny returned to the love seat as they all waited, fidgeting a bit here and there because they knew James. Dakota stood to go find her father but sat down again after a quick shake of Gran’s head. Several minutes later, a red-eyed James returned.

  “You could’ve gone on without me,” he said. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” said Dakota.

  “No, no,” he said, putting on the sweater over his oxford shirt. “This is the most perfect gift. It’s a memory all its own.”

  Gran abruptly left the lounge, coming back promptly with five large, flat beige boxes, none of them wrapped. She handed them out—one apiece—to Dakota, James, Donny, Bess, and Tom.

  “No more of this hiding our heads,” she announced, clasping her hands together. “I meant to give these to you tomorrow. But better now, I think. We’re going to stand up straight and not be afraid. We’re going to celebrate.”

  She scooted over to squeeze into the love seat between James and Dakota, removing the lid of the box she’d given Dakota and lifting out a thick mahogany picture frame, turning the frame and holding it high, her arms shaking just slightly from the effort, so everyone could see the picture inside.

  “This is the fearsome trio,” said Gran, tapping the glass of the frame with her finger and lowering it to her lap. “This is Georgia Walker with her Gran and her not-quite-a-teenager daughter, Dakota, smiling on the high street of Thornhill. We look silly. And relaxed. It was taken, if I recall, by your mother’s friend Cat on the day we put those prejudiced old biddies in the tearoom in their place.”

  “You guys hit a bunch of old ladies?” asked James.

  “With words, dear James,” explained Gran. “Glenda Walker has never resorted to fisticuffs.”

  “I beg to differ, Mum,” interjected Tom. “I seem to remember a spanking or two when I was a boy.”

  Dakota chuckled, and then Donny smiled, and then even James nodded.

  “Open them, open them,” said Gran, bouncing a little in her seat. “I searched through all the pictures I ever took or was ever sent to find the times when Georgia was happiest.” She handed the framed photograph back to Dakota and pushed herself up off the love seat, coming around to catch another peek at each of the photos she’d chosen for every member of the family. There was James with Georgia the night he flew to Scotland to tell her he had always loved her. Donny and his older sister going for a drive on the afternoon he passed his driving test, making a big thumbs-up as he sat in the driver’s seat, his sister riding shotgun with her arm wrapped around him. And there was Tom as a dark-haired young man, bouncing on his shoulder a little brown-haired girl with pigtails bobbing, her mother’s hands visible in the edge of the frame, fluttering about protectively but not actually touching her daughter.

  “Put these on your dresser, in the front hall, on the kitchen table,” she declared, ready to march about if only she could get past the mountain of gift wrap. “I’ve lived long enough to tell you that these are the times you must remember. Not just holidays and birthdays. All the everyday moments. We may cry every Christmas, but we will not forget to laugh.”

  There was nodding and agreement around the room, as Bess, having waited her turn, finally opened the box to look at her photograph. Dakota could tell, by the flush in her grandmother’s cheeks, that she was excited.

  But instead of smiling in recognition at the picture, as the others had done, Bess dropped the lid of the box onto the carpeted floor of the lounge.

  “Oh, Glenda, why?” she cried out, starting to suck in ragged breaths. “And on today of all days. How could you?”

  Inside was an image of her daughter Georgia in a nightgown, her curly hair sweat-soaked and matted to her head, as Bess and Tom, dressed in their good navy suits, flanked either side of her hospital bed.

  “Oh, Mum,” said Tom, stepping over the box tops and gift wrap to comfort his wife. “What were you thinking? This was taken not long before Georgia passed away.”

  Gran, her back as straight as a ruler, took a few steps toward Bess. “I want you to look at it again, more closely,” she said, pointing. She waited, and then, getting no response other than tears, cleared the love seat of the stray pieces of paper and ribbon and settled herself in tightly next to Bess, who stiffened as Gran drew near.

  “I don’t want to see,” said Bess, craning her neck toward Tom, who leaned on the edge of the love seat.

  “Then I’ll describe,” said Gran, caressing the glass of the photo frame lovingly. She beckoned to Dakota to join them.

  “Look here,” she began, “and notice how Georgia is beaming. I know her skin is pale. She’s tired. But her face is absolutely glowing.”

  “It’s hard, seeing Mom like that, Gran,” ventured Dakota, feeling caught between her constant loyalty to Gran and still savoring a new sense of connection with Bess from Christmas Eve.

  “Aye,” said Gran. “But all these hospital doodads can make it so we don’t see her beauty here. She’s so happy. Joyous, even.”

  Bess couldn’t help herself, turning quickly to steal a glance. Could it be true?

  “I know you two had your troubles,” Gran said in a quiet voice. “Sometimes, when life happens quickly, the good moments get overshadowed.”

  “That was one of the worst days of my life,” squeaked Bess primly.


  “But also one of the best,” said Gran. “I don’t want you to forget this moment. We may not be soul sisters or whatever they call it, Bess Walker, but we both loved our Georgia something fierce, and it’s about time you forgave yourself. This is my gift to you today. To remind you of what you’ve forgotten.”

  “I remember it all,” said Bess, her face streaky and flushed. “Too well.”

  Gran leaned over and lifted Bess’s chin with her finger. “Well, then, look through my eyes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Because I see a mother and daughter finally fighting together. And you, see that right there? The two of you are holding hands,” she said. “Holding hands, Bess!”

  “We are?” Bess took the framed photograph in both hands. “Oh, Glenda, we are,” she said, gazing up at the roomful of her family to let them know. “Georgia is holding my hand.”

  “You don’t need to feel guilty anymore,” whispered Gran so only her daughter-in-law could hear, as Bess nodded and rubbed her eyes with the clean, folded handkerchief Gran produced from her sleeve. “This, dear Bess, is the proof that your Georgia finally believed how much you loved her.”

  The kitchen was a mess of roasting pans and dishes piled next to the sink, as Walkers and cousins alike dug in to Gran’s most brilliant Christmas lunch yet. The small wooden table in the kitchen held the final course of Dakota’s mince pies, Gran’s Christmas pudding with raisins and cherries, a trifle with layers of cake, fruit, and cream, and multiple china and sterling-silver trays bearing shortbread cookies, gingerbread people, butter tarts, and rum balls.

  The entire extended family tucked heartily into the meal, enjoying seconds and thirds of gravy and turkey and turnip and potatoes and sage stuffing and thickly buttered homemade buns, all while keeping in mind the goodies that awaited them.