The Knitting Circle (33 page)

“You sure you don’t mind?” Mary asked Dylan as she gathered her yarn and needles.

Jasper was fussing in Dylan’s lap, pulling on his glasses, poking his fingers up his nose.

“Maybe we could keep him,” Dylan said.

“There is no ‘we,’” Mary told him.

“Go,” Dylan said.

The air had the sharp chill of winter. A black sky offered up a dizzying number of stars. Mary paused to search for Venus. She found it beside a white crescent moon.

A voice from the darkness said, “Hey.”

Mary spun around to find Holly shivering in front of her. She had on that same denim miniskirt, no stockings, flip-flops.

“Holly,” Mary said, her voice, her whole self, flooded with relief. “Thank God.”

Holly’s T-shirt had a picture of a pyramid on it and something in Spanish written below. An oversized man’s jacket hung on her, unbuttoned.

Mary pointed at the shirt. “Cancún,” she said.

“The Mayans rule,” Holly said. She pulled the coat closed, her hands trembling. “I’ve been watching you guys. Through the window,” she said. “You look like a real family.”

“But we’re not, sweetie.”

“I like the striped thing,” Holly said. “He looks cute.”

Mary put a hand on Holly’s arm. She felt the girl shivering.

“I did a good thing, didn’t I?” Holly said. “Dylan came back.”

“He’s just helping out,” Mary said.

Before she could say anything more, Holly fell into her arms and began to cry.

“You have to help me,” Holly said. “Please, Mary.”

When Stella died, Mary had been overcome by the way people had helped. Not just the lasagnas and the flowers, but how the laundry got done, the bills got paid, their small patch of grass got mowed. Friends sat by her side, offered advice, offered shoulders for leaning, for crying.

But until this moment, Mary had not been able to give to someone else who needed it. She remembered how she had stayed away from the hospital when Bridget was there. She had wanted to bring Ellen a jigsaw puzzle to help her pass time. She had wanted to be someone whose shoulder could be leaned on. But she was unable to face the pain in that room or to sit in a hospital and wait for news.

After Beth died, Mary had vowed to help her husband, to send cookies to her children, to go to their house one day and perform simple chores, like vacuuming or folding laundry. But her ability to give, like her ability for joy, was paralyzed.

Until now.

When she looked at Holly, something in Mary opened up. “I can help you,” she said. “I can.”

INSIDE, HOLLY PICKED up Jasper tentatively. “You mad at me, Jazz?” she whispered.

The baby set his gaze on her as if considering his options.

Holly buried her nose in the nape of his neck. “Missed that smell,” she said.

“I’m taking Holly to Big Alice’s with me,” Mary said.

Holly frowned at them. “The knitting lady?” she said.

Mary dug through her knitting basket until she found a skein of thick chunky chartreuse yarn. Maybe this was why knitters always bought yarn they didn’t really need, so they could pass it on to someone who did need it. From her bag she removed two number sixteen needles and handed them and the yarn to Holly.

“By the time we get back, you’ll have made a scarf,” she told her.

Holly eyed the yarn suspiciously. “Nice color,” she admitted.

The baby was fussing and Dylan bounced Jasper on his knee. Once again, Mary gathered her knitting supplies and the paper cups and napkins to leave. But before she could, the front door opened in a burst of rustling fabric and cold air.

“¡Feliz Navidad!”
Mamie announced from the foyer.

She was wearing a complicated magenta shawl, wrapped and fringed, and she was carrying two oversized bags of Christmas presents, the gold and silver bows and ribbon poking from the tops.

“Francisco is snoozing at the B and B, so I figured I’d come over straightaway,” she said.

When she walked into a room, she completely took it over. The small front living room filled with her as she talked and unwrapped her shawl and removed packages all at the same time.

“You said you were coming for Christmas, Mom,” Mary said.

“I am,” Mamie said, planting a kiss on Mary’s cheek. She kissed Dylan and Jasper and Holly too, before she stepped back to study them. “I’m Mary’s mother,” she said to Holly.

“Wow,” Holly said, clutching the yarn.

“I’m guessing this guy is yours?” Mamie said.

She lifted Jasper from Dylan’s lap and made a funny face at him. Immediately, the baby started to cry.

Mary took Jasper from her mother and soothed him.

“We’re just leaving,” Mary said, sounding cross. She
was
cross. What the hell was her mother doing in her living room a whole week before Christmas?

“Are you going knitting?” Mamie said.

“Yes,” Mary said reluctantly.

“At Big Alice’s?”

“Want to come?” Holly said.

Mamie thought a moment. “It’s been years,” she said.

“I’m already late,” Mary said, handing Jasper to Dylan again.

“So why are we standing around talking then?” Mamie said, wrapping her shawl around her with dramatic motions. “Let’s go.”

ON THE RIDE to Big Alice’s, Holly and Mamie bonded over their love of Mexico while Mary seethed.

“Holly’s been there once in her whole life,” Mary mumbled.

“So romantic,” Holly said, sighing. “The pyramids. The beaches. And it’s so hot. I love the heat.”

“Where I live, it’s mountainous,” Mamie was saying.

Mary focused on the dark road ahead of them. She didn’t want her mother at the knitting circle. Imagining the fuss that would be made over her, the way she’d take over, made Mary want to turn around and go home.

The sign for Big Alice’s appeared, lit, in the distance. Her mother and Holly were laughing together over something. Mary turned into the parking lot and stepped too hard on the brakes.

“Careful,” Mamie said.

Mary grabbed her things and stormed out of the car, not waiting for her mother or Holly.

THE NEW SIT AND KNIT smelled of just-cut wood, fresh paint, and the comforting familiar smell of wool. The rooms were larger, more open, and Alice had one entire room in the back just for the knitting circle.

As soon as Mary picked up her needles and began to knit, her anger dissipated. She was calmed by the motion of slipping one needle through a stitch and pulling the yarn onto the other needle, by the feel of wool in her hands, by the sound of everyone’s knitting needles clicking.

At first, of course, her mother did take over. Her exuberant greeting of Alice alone made Mary consider leaving. But after the hugging and loud pronouncements, her mother bought yarn and needles and got down to the business of knitting.

Everyone was in their place. Her mother sat beside Ellen on a new sofa covered in chintz; Scarlet sat in an overstuffed chair; Lulu had her legs bent yoga-style in one corner of the couch where Harriet sat straight-backed and somber; and Mary rocked gently in a rocking chair salvaged, Alice told her, from an old seaside hotel. Across from her, heads bent together on a fuchsia love seat, Alice taught Holly how to knit.

“If you must know,” Harriet said out of nowhere, “my son is seeing Roger.”

Ellen grinned at her. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. Roger deserves someone fabulous.”

Harriet looked up, surprised. But then she immediately bent her head and continued knitting. She was making matching sweaters for Beth’s kids. Already the smallest one was finished, folded neatly on the table beside her. Each sweater was a different color, but they all had white snowflakes across the yolk.

“David too,” she said softly.

“What?” Ellen asked her.

Still not looking up, Harriet said, “David deserves someone fabulous too.”

How far everyone in this room had come since that first knitting circle, Mary thought. Even she was a different person than that frightened woman who had sat with her scarf still on its needles, afraid to speak, to purl, to cast off.

Holly’s face was scrunched in concentration. Mary watched her, marveling at how quickly she had learned. Already a scarf was taking shape. A feeling surged through Mary and brought tears to her eyes. In this quiet room, with these people, her grief had found comfort. She understood that it would never go away; that was impossible. But after these few years of coming together to knit, after hearing their stories, after all the hours she’d spent in this practice of making something out of series of knots, Mary realized that she would, after all, go on without her Stella.

Mary took a breath. She knit one more row. It was time, she knew, and so she began.

“We named her Stella because it meant star,” she said. She was aware of her own mother’s eyes on her, but she did not meet them.

“A star seemed fitting. She was our wish come true. Our bright light. And think of all the kinds of Stellas there are in the world. Stella McCartney. Stella Adler. Even Stella Kowalski. She could grow up to be anything. Anything at all.

“Sometimes it feels like nothing came before her. Maybe that’s because without her I sometimes feel like there is nothing left.

“But there was a life before her, an entire lifetime in San Francisco. Then one day I flew home to help my mother pack up our old house and move to Mexico.

“After she left, I stayed behind to clean the empty house. Sometimes I think I expected the walls to tell me things. But they were just quiet empty walls in need of paint. The last morning, I went to a Starbucks in a strip mall.

“All I wanted was a big cup of coffee and to fly home.

“I ordered a grande latte, emphasizing no foam. They always put too much foam in their lattes.

“‘Good call,’ somebody behind me said. I turned around and there was Dylan. That’s how we met. ‘I know this,’ he said, ‘because sadly I have my morning coffee and dry baked good here every single morning.’ He held up his left hand. ‘Divorced. Recently. Happily,’ he added. ‘Or not happily,’ he said quickly, ‘but decidedly.’

“He was so optimistic. So chatty. So hard to resist.

“When he asked me to join him, I did. He told me everything about himself: he was a lawyer, he had been married for six years, he had gotten married because it had seemed time to do it, but he had known immediately that although he was ready to get married, he had married the wrong woman.

“‘She wanted kids and so did I,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I just didn’t want them with her.’ He lifted his paper cup. ‘So here I am, alone at Starbucks drinking foam.’

“After I got back to San Francisco, he called me from time to time, chattering on as cheerfully as he had that first morning. I started looking forward to his calls. His voice lifted my spirits somehow.

“When I went back to Rhode Island to close on the house I told him that I would never leave San Francisco. ‘My life is just falling into place,’ I told him.

“‘Mine too,’ he said.

“‘I don’t think you understand,’ I told him, but he just grinned at me.

“I was never able to explain to my friends in California, or even to myself, how I ended up back here. I fell in love with Dylan. He was easy to fall in love with. But to move back to a place I never even liked very much, at forty years old, leaving behind an entire life…” Mary shook her head. “It still baffles me sometimes.

“And it was hard at first. I didn’t know anybody. Sometimes I’d run into people I’d known in high school and we had nothing at all in common. Dylan went off to a real job and stayed gone all day. The city felt too small and claustrophobic. I started to think I had made a mistake. Online magazines were flourishing and all of my writer friends suddenly had more work than they knew what to do with. The only work I could find regularly was writing brochures for local jewelry companies.

“I loved Dylan. I was certain of that, but I was reconsidering being here when I discovered I was pregnant. And my whole life immediately got better. This is why I’m here, I realized. Everything had happened in this way for one good, perfect reason: Stella.

“Before long my life was making sense. I got my job at the paper. I had friends at work, mommy friends, neighbor friends. I was always going somewhere. To take Stella to a birthday party or to the playground or to ballet class. I was picking up kids and bringing them to play at our house. I was making dinner every night. I was cutting cucumbers into perfect circles for snacks for Stella, and washing apples and cutting the skins from them in one continuous spiral. Everything I did for her brought me a hug and kisses. When I took her to school, she would choose a number, and that was how many hugs and kisses she had to give me before I could leave.

“We would have had another baby if it happened. But it didn’t. And I wasn’t disappointed by that because we had Stella.

“One day, I picked her up from school and the sun was shining brightly and she was in the backseat chattering about her day. She was like Dylan that way. She loved talking. I looked at that bright sun and listened to my daughter’s voice and something came over me. Gratefulness, I think, for what I had. This child. This glorious day. This life. I was so overwhelmed that I had to pull over to the side of the road.

“‘Mama?’ Stella said. ‘You okay?’

“‘I’m just very very happy,’ I told her.

“She sighed. ‘I am very very happy too,’ she said.

“I looked in the rearview mirror at her and she was grinning back at me.

“That day stays with me. You know how the Hmong make elaborate hats for their babies with flowers on the tops? So that when Death flies by and looks down at the earth, he mistakes the children for flowers and leaves them alone. That day I wonder if I tempted fate. Called attention to Stella and me and our happiness, you know?

“Because the very next day when I picked her up she said she had a tummy ache. I asked her all the usual questions. If she had eaten enough that day? Or too little? If she’d run too hard or too fast? But she shook her head, ‘My tummy just hurts,’ she said.

“When we got home, I gave her some Tylenol and put her on the sofa with her favorite blanket and let her watch television while I started dinner. I wasn’t even a little worried. Her forehead was warm, and the worst thing I imagined was a touch of some bug or another. A deadline I had for the newspaper weighed much more heavily on my mind. Even though I went to check her a few times, I was really trying to shape an article I had to write. I needed a better lead. I needed a way to contain the story.