The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches (16 page)

“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.

W
e 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 him 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.

U
ncle 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.

My dad and Uncle Lou even led us all in singing some old songs from the sixties. I had no idea either one of them could sing that well.

Because of the party, I wasn't surprised that I didn't hear from any of the Sisters during the day. I was certainly busy enough myself that I didn't have time to e-mail them. I had three, count them—one, two, three dates.

Quinn had the day off and so he began with breakfast. He knew I was planning to go to Pastor Engstrom's meeting so he went with me. I don't mind telling you that the meeting was an eye-opener for me. There's more to being a Christian than I ever imagined, and I'm going to talk with my mom about it more before next week.

Anyway, the meeting was over by nine, and Quinn took me to Marston's for their crunchy French toast topped with fresh berries and real maple syrup.

Of course, Quinn had to kiss me when he brought me back to my office. He said he didn't want me to have any doubt that we had just been on a date. I could barely concentrate on ordering supplies in the two hours we had until lunch.

For lunch, he came back and took me to the Tea Room at the Huntington Gardens for scones and
little watercress and salmon sandwiches. That time, Quinn kissed me in the middle of the bamboo grove down between the Japanese and the desert gardens.

He didn't even bother to take me back to The Pews after lunch. We just strolled around the gardens until it closed at five.

Then it was time for an early dinner, he said, which had to be special so he took me to the new French restaurant that opened up just over the bridge in Eagle Rock. That time he kissed me in the parking lot before we drove back to Pasadena.

If I didn't need to be here for the Sisterhood meeting, we would still be sitting in that parking lot. I told Quinn I was okay with missing the meeting, but he insisted I be here to officially record that I had met my goal.

 

Lizabett is the first one to show up for the meeting and she squeals and hugs Quinn when she sees him sitting at a table in the main part of the diner. They talk for a minute and I know he's told her about the dates, because her face is all rosy when she comes into the Sisterhood room.

Carly is the next Sister to arrive and, between you and me, she still looks as though things aren't going well for her. Lizabett and I both give her hugs and I ask how it's going, but she just shrugs.

Then Rose and Becca come in together. I wonder if Rose and Becca have been having a talk about how
important, or unimportant, it is that we were able to meet the goals we set a year ago.

I'm reassured that Becca is okay with us not all meeting our goals when I see that she has brought four candles so that we can light a candle for each successful goal reached.

“But a candle will keep,” she says. “We'll just wait and light it when that goal is reached.”

“Marilee reached her goal,” Lizabett says. “Three dates with my brother, Quinn. Lunch, breakfast and dinner.”

I get three surprised looks and then three big grins.

“Way to go,” Becca says as she rushes over to give me a hug.

“So it's Quinn,” Rose says as she hugs me, too.

“That's wonderful,” Carly says, and her face looks happy.

We light the three candles for Carly, Lizabett and me and turn off the overhead light in the room.

I must say I look around at my friends sitting here with a feeling of extreme satisfaction.

“It's a good time tonight to turn over the journal to someone else,” I say after we've all had a few moments of quiet reflection.

“But it's your journal,” Lizabett protests.

I hold up the journal. It's no longer a smooth notebook—instead, it's worn and lumpy with all those folded and clipped pages. “You can see it's not
just one person's journal. The story of the Sisterhood belongs to all of us.”

“Carly should go next,” Becca says suddenly.

“Oh, I don't—” Carly protests.

I nod. Maybe having the journal will help Carly figure out what is wrong. I know it helped me think through my problems with my father and with God, too. I think some of the bitterness drained away when I wrote it down on these pages.

We all agree that Carly will take the journal next.

“I don't know if I'll say the right things,” Carly says.

“There is no wrong thing to say.”

“Don't worry, we'll add our opinions here and there, too,” Becca says. “Just to be sure you're on track.”

“I'll hand it over as soon as I finish writing about today's meeting,” I say even as I get my pen out.

I can't write too well by candlelight, but I don't have too much to say before I pass the journal on anyway so I will keep it simple. I am a blessed woman. I no longer think that God dropped any stitches when He made me. I haven't quite wrapped my mind all around it, but I think Pastor Engstrom might be right about God loving me. Isn't that something?

Added to that, I am just getting used to the fact that my dad might care about me more than I had thought and that maybe Quinn even has feelings for me that are a little bit more than friendship—if you
had been there for the kissing parts, you would know that's true.

Well, you can see why I say I am blessed. I can look through the windows and into the main part of The Pews where Quinn is sitting, waiting for me. He's a good man. I know I only needed three dates to meet my goal, but I'm wondering if Quinn might not like to go a little further and have a fourth date today. A stroll down to the Colorado Bridge would be romantic. We could even have another kiss or two under the stars. Now, that would be nice.