A Dropped Stitches Christmas (3 page)

At first, when they said I had the understudy part, I thought I might be on the stage some of the time. But since the play only lasts for a few days, the casting director told me they don’t expect the understudies to perform at all. It seems like if I have to do all his work, I should get some credit.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say as I give Marilee back the pen and the journal.

“You’re taking the part, aren’t you?” Marilee looks at me with her worried face.

Until Marilee asked, I was thinking of calling the number in the packet when I got home and turning down the offer. Which is probably why Marilee has that look on her face. She knows me too well.

I shake my head. “Yes, of course I am.”

When I really think about it, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Lizabett or Marilee. “I might learn more about how this is all done and have a better shot at a real part next time.”

If I’d known what I was doing, I would have come to the audition looking the part. I would have dyed my hair brown and brought a brown shirt to wear. I guess it must be the dust image, but everywhere I look in this warehouse, I see brown shirts.

“At least they’re doing the play in English,” I say as Marilee stands. I realize I don’t even know what language Mary spoke. I follow Marilee toward the exit door. “And I get a few free tickets so I can give them away to people to come see where the action is that I helped block out in rehearsal. Want to come?”

“Sure,” Marilee says as we step outside. “I wouldn’t miss it. You’re my favorite blocker.”

We’re already on the 101 Freeway headed back to Pasadena when it occurs to me that I need to decide whether or not to tell my mother what I’m doing. If I do, she’ll want to invite the whole town of San Marino to the performance.

My mother has been—how shall I say it—overly anxious to promote me since I was interviewed in the
Pasadena Star News
when my cat ran away. It’s a long story, but the important piece is that the reporter took a picture of me in front of my uncle’s house and said it was my parent’s house. It’s a natural mistake because my parents and I have lived with my uncle and aunt for the past twelve years. The house is huge and we have our own set of rooms, but still my aunt was upset that the neighbors might think she and my uncle are the freeloaders when it’s me and my parents who are the charity cases.

I told my aunt and mother both that I would call the
Pasadena Star News
and ask them to print a correction, but they were both horrified at that idea. In the meantime, my aunt and my mother are defensive about who is the important one in the house and my mother wants to show that she has something my childless aunt doesn’t. Which means she wants to show me off.

My mother and I have been through all of this since the competition for the Rose Queen the fall before I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. I couldn’t help but notice that she told all of the neighbors about me being Rose Queen, but refused to tell any of them that I had cancer. Of course, everyone could see I was sick so she told them I had gotten mono from kissing some guy. In her mind, kissing makes everything more glamorous, even diseases.

I didn’t know about the mono story until I started getting these fluffy little “get well” cards and my mother told me what she’d done. I tried to tell her there was no shame in having cancer, but I could tell she didn’t really believe me. In her mind, there was shame in being imperfect and I had to admit she was right there. I could no longer even pretend to be her perfect little daughter.

I used to think my mother would become used to imperfection because of my dad’s drinking problem, but she hasn’t. As far as I know, she hasn’t told anyone, except for me and my aunt and uncle, that my dad has been in and out of an alcohol rehab center this past year. Somehow she must think that, if she doesn’t say something aloud, it won’t be true. I’m not even sure she’s completely accepted that my dad is an alcoholic and needs help.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m waiting to become perfect before I move out of my uncle’s house. I got my cat because I wanted to move out and get a place of my own. But my mother looked so horrified when I mentioned I might leave that I decided to wait a while longer, especially because my dad has been gone for a couple of months in this latest rehab phase of his. That must mean he’s getting better this time. When he comes back, maybe that will be a good time for me to move. I would hate to leave my mother alone.

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery and death.”

—Anne Frank

O
ne day Marilee brought us this quote. She had printed it out by hand in big block letters and said she was going to put it over her desk in the diner to remind herself that everyone needs hope. The one thing we all learned from cancer was that we could only be distressed for so long. Then we had to reign in our terror and find hope somewhere. We talked about Anne Frank that night. For the first time, we felt like we were the fortunate ones. At least this thing trying to kill us was a disease and not the people we used to sit next to in school.

I don’t know that it’s a good thing this was the quote that came into my mind when I sat down to write about my new acting job. Marilee and I got back to the diner in time for us to have a salad before I needed to go home. The more time that has passed since I auditioned for the part of Mary in the play, the more I am glad that I got the understudy part instead of the real thing.

I’m torn. If I had the regular part, I might disappoint people. And there’s my secrets. I’m not sure I want to pretend to be something I’m not anymore. Besides, the audience might expect Mary to have a glow about her and I wouldn’t blame them. She had to have something special. She talked to an angel. That would make a girl stand up tall. It’s much safer to be on the sidelines watching someone else portraying the woman who gave birth to the baby who changed the world than it is to be front and center oneself.

That’s heavy-duty stuff.

I didn’t realize quite what I might have gotten into until I talked to Randy. He asked me if I had a ride home and Marilee said she would like to do some grocery shopping so, if Randy could drop me off, that would be helpful.

I know Marilee only said that so Randy would take me home. Oh, she’ll stop at a grocery store on her way home. Marilee wouldn’t lie. She’s just not above arranging her schedule so that Randy and I spend some time together.

Randy has a stripped-down white Jeep. He parked it behind the diner in the spot that belongs to Uncle Lou.

“Let me get that,” Randy says as he walks around to open the door to the Jeep.

The night is dark and cold. It feels a little damp like it might rain later. Colorado Boulevard is quiet tonight. There is a streetlamp giving off a dim light.

Randy has to move some snorkeling gear into the backseat so I can sit in the passenger seat.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” I say and, to tell the truth, I am kind of relieved to see the gear sitting in the passenger seat. That means this is just a casual offer to help a friend; it’s not something he had planned in advance. I never liked dating campaigns; they always make me nervous.

I have the Sisterhood journal with me and I lay it flat on my lap.

“I didn’t know you snorkel,” I say after he walks around to the driver’s door and gets in the Jeep.

“You’ll have to come with me sometime,” Randy says as he turns the ignition key and looks behind him so he can back up and turn around. “Even if you don’t snorkel, the beach is good.”

“Sounds nice,” I say and then wait a minute. “I’ll probably have to dye my hair brown for the play.”

“Makes sense,” Randy says as he turns onto Colorado Boulevard.

I smile to myself. He passed the blond test. I don’t know why guys always think blond and beach in the same sentence, but when he invited me snorkeling I wondered if he had some particular picture in his mind. But Randy doesn’t sound like he cares what color of hair I have. Which is good. Maybe he’s not like some of the other guys I’ve dated.

“I might need to get some freckles, too,” I say.

“Mary had freckles?” Randy looks over at me in surprise.

I shrug. “Maybe.” She would if she had been me.

I don’t know anything about what Mary looked like or how she felt. I can’t help but wonder, though, if she felt as cozy riding beside Joseph on that donkey of hers that starry night long ago as I feel tonight riding beside Randy in this Jeep. I’m thinking, after my conversation with Marilee last night, that maybe I should get to know Randy a little better. Marilee has found her guy in Quinn. I need to accept that. Maybe I need to stop running and give Randy a chance.

I grab the journal a little tighter as it sits in my lap. I’m going to need to write some more before tomorrow. Surprisingly, the pages are filling up even though last night, I didn’t write at all because my mother was upset when I got home. My aunt had left a note telling us that the house was going to be part of the San Marino Holiday Home and Garden tour this year, just like it has been in past years, so we would need to use the side entrance to the house next Saturday.

My parents and I always use the side entrance so my mother says my aunt just left that note to remind us of our place.

When I get a good job, I’m going to buy a house so my parents will have their own place and can use the front door. It might not be in San Marino though. Not many people can afford to buy houses here.

I have to tell you about my uncle’s place. It’s a three-story house with forty-five hundred square feet on each level. An army could live in it. The main floor has a master bedroom suite in addition to three living rooms, a dining room large enough to fit a twenty-foot table, and a kitchen. The maid has a bedroom and bath for her use behind the pantry. The housekeeper lives out.

The second floor is mostly suites of bedrooms—there are seven suites total, each with a bedroom, bathroom and second room. The suites used by my parents and me are at the opposite end of the house from the rooms used when my aunt and uncle have company. We seldom take our meals with my uncle and aunt anyway, but we definitely do not when they have guests. We double definitely do not if my father has been drinking, which seems to be all the time when he’s home.

I wonder if my aunt and uncle will have visitors for Christmas this year. Sometimes they do. I like it when they do because my aunt scents the air with this special cinnamon and the fumes come up to my rooms. One year I learned the word
redolent
just to describe it. I can still remember going to sleep with that smell in the air.

My uncle’s house is always decorated for Christmas. The housekeeper puts white twinkling lights around all of the windows and hangs big pine wreaths in all of the windows in the downstairs. All of the decorations are the best money can buy; my aunt sees to that because of the tour. There’s enough gold foil and bright lights tucked around the house to make it all look like the Christmas window in Tiffany’s in New York. The whole thing glitters.

“Some place,” Randy says as he turns into the driveway of my uncle’s house. The drive goes in a half circle so that cars can drop off someone and not have to back up or turn around or anything as lower class as that.

Randy stops by the front porch and turns off the Jeep’s ignition.

This is always the awkward part of having a guy bring me home. It’s not that I’m worried about whether or not the guy will kiss me. It’s that I can never think of any graceful way to say that I don’t go in the front door of this house. I have keys for a side entrance. It’s not that I mind telling people about the doors; it’s just that I don’t want to then have to answer any questions about how the arrangement came to be.

This isn’t the first time Randy has been to my uncle’s house. He and the whole Sisterhood were out here looking in all of the trees when my cat ran away. Even when Marie was missing, though, Randy didn’t look at my uncle’s house and frown like he’s doing now.

Randy looks over at me and swallows. “I grew up in Fontana. In a trailer park.” He pauses and looks up at the house again. “I just thought you should know.”

I smile. Sometimes I’m brave. “It’s my uncle’s house.”

Just like that, I said it. My mother would be appalled that I told anyone.

I decide to add to it, “If it wasn’t for my uncle, I would be homeless. My parents, too. There’s nothing wrong with a trailer park.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Really. At least you had your own place and didn’t have to worry about being told to leave.”

I can see Randy is relieved, and that makes me feel good. If he doesn’t care whether I’m blond or rich, he’s definitely not like the other guys I’ve dated.

This is the first time a guy walks me to the door and it is the right door. We talk for a while, just standing on the steps, and I explain more about how it is with my uncle. Then we talk about me playing the Mary role and how people might expect me to be perfect if I had that part. Since I’ve spent so much time trying to be perfect, I wonder if it’s a good role for me. Talking to Randy feels good. The fact that he kisses me doesn’t hurt either.

Randy is long gone and I’m getting ready for bed before I remember that I have the journal and meant to write in it tonight. It’ll have to wait for tomorrow.

Hi, this is Carly again. I came down to The Pews this morning after my Saturday class. Becca and Marilee are going to meet me here for lunch, but I am early so I’m writing in the journal.

I’m starting an English literature major at Pasadena City College, incidentally. I’m five years behind my original schedule because of what we in the Sisterhood call IDC, or interruption due to cancer, but I’m getting it done.

I’m not as career-focused as Becca is. She went after the internship of hers with everything she had. She really wants to be a lawyer or a judge. It might sound corny, but Becca is determined to make the world right, and I applaud her. She’ll learn a lot working as an intern with that judge.

I don’t know what I will do with my degree, but I thought that I couldn’t go wrong learning more about books. I love books. After the past few days, I’ve wondered if I was drawn to English literature because of all of the drama that surrounds me.

I thought about secrets last night. When I think about it rationally, I realize it is silly for my mother to want us all to keep it a secret that we are living in my uncle’s house and have no actual home of our own. I don’t even know why I have gone along with it for the past twelve years. When we moved into my uncle’s house, I was in junior high school. Back then, I thought my mother kept our housing arrangement a secret because she worried I might feel bad if my school friends knew we didn’t have our own house.

Since I went to school in San Marino, all of my classmates had families with huge houses. I’ll admit I might have felt a little strange back then if people knew I had nothing, especially because my father was having a hard time finding jobs then and his drinking problem was starting to become much worse.

I don’t need to impress anyone now, though. I have known that the Sisterhood wouldn’t care if my parents own a house or if my father makes a dime. I really can’t think of one good reason that I’ve kept it a secret all of these years.

Except for my mother. Sometimes I wonder if my mother is well.

I have such ambivalent feelings toward my mother that I don’t even like to talk about it with anyone. Once in a while, I make a comment in the Sisterhood meetings and the others ask a question or two inviting me to speak more about it, but I can’t quite wrap any words around it. It’s hard when your mother lives for you. It feels very ungrateful to complain. It’s not like she’s ignoring you. It’s the opposite, in fact.

I wonder how Mary in the Bible got along with her mother. Did she tell her mother about the visit from the angel?

My mother would be all over it if I’d had a visit like that. She’d want to impress the neighbors. Of course, my mother wouldn’t like the being-pregnant part. So she’d be torn since she couldn’t really tell everyone about the angel visit without mentioning what the angel said. People would definitely want to know that.

Oh, I see Becca now. She’s just opened the door and is in the outer part of the diner. She’s heading back this way.

“Law!” Becca exclaims as she opens the French doors to the place where the Sisterhood meets. She uses a tone of voice usually reserved for members of the opposite sex by both sexes when they’re annoyed. She’s got her dark hair tucked back to show off her long silver earrings.

I’m used to Becca talking about the law, but usually she seems in favor of it, especially now that she has this internship. “Something wrong?”

Becca shakes her head as she sits down in one of the chairs around the table. “I can’t believe the judge did that.”

Having said that, Becca stands up again, looking like a warrior, and begins to pace. “It’s not right to let that man go free.”

I’m assuming something happened in the internship Becca has.

The room is not wide enough for Becca to pace for long so I stand up and move a chair that’s in her way. “What happened?”

“Some policeman forgot to read the man his rights when he arrested him.”

“I’m sure that happens.”

Becca stops pacing and looks at me. If I’m not mistaken there’s a tear in one of her eyes. “The law is supposed to give everyone justice. That poor girl he beat up isn’t getting justice. Not with him walking away on some technicality.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

Becca nods. I see the tear start to fall. I wish Marilee were here. She’s so much better at comforting than I am. I see another tear fall on the other cheek. What can I do? I open my arms.

It’s hard to see the polish come off of a dream. Even something like the law isn’t always perfect.

Becca and I sit together for a while. We both have our knitting with us and eventually we take it out and start to knit. We’ve knitted out our problems so many times it’s almost second nature to us.

“They’ll catch him on something else,” Becca finally says. She’s doing a purl-stitch pattern so she needs to concentrate. “I just hope that no one gets hurt next time. He can’t just go around beating up on people who are standing in a doorway he thinks belongs to him.”

“At least he got a good scare,” I add. “If he has any sense, he’ll think twice before he attacks anyone again.”

“And the judge does have to uphold the law.” Becca finishes a row.

“It’s for the greater good,” I say.