The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches (15 page)

The truth is I'm a little ashamed of the way my parents and I live with my aunt and uncle, so I try not to even admit it to myself. I mean we don't even pay rent or anything. In fact, my uncle even gives my mom an allowance for groceries. We are complete dead-beats.

But this picture in the paper is going to blow the lid off of everything.

My aunt was livid when she read that the paper says the house belongs to my parents. She is so proud of that house. Of course, we all know that she and my uncle own the house, but she worries about what the neighbors will think. And she's got a point. Some of the neighbors are nice, but those who came out when the police were there will believe any crazy thing they hear. And if they read it in the newspaper, well…

I don't know what to do, but I got my aunt flowers and I'm going to get a leash for my cat just as soon as I can find one. I won't use the leash with Marie while she's inside my rooms, but when I take her outside of my rooms and through the rest of the house, she will be on a leash.

I wonder if I can convince Marie the leash is a cat necklace. Maybe I'll get one that sparkles.

Anyway, that's all I have for now. I'm folding these pages back so no one else can read them. Thanks for listening. I find it always helps me think things through when I can write them down in this journal.

I'll keep you posted. For now, I'm going to go out and eat lunch with the Sisterhood.

Wait a minute—I just realized what I heard Marilee say about the flowers. She thought Randy was sending them
to me.
Oh, dear, I can't let that impression grow. Randy is wonderful and under different circumstances, but—well, there's no point in wishing for what can't be. He's not the man for me.

Or, should I say, I'm not the woman for him.

No matter. You understand.

I
t was when we were recovering from our cancer and starting to feel better that we became most frustrated. Rose brought this quote to us during that time. I haven't said much about Rose in this journal, but I'm thinking we should dedicate the whole thing to her. Maybe we'll even get it typeset one of these days and present it to her like a plaque.

As you know, Rose was a student counselor at the hospital where she met all of us and it was her idea to start this group. She was very wise at the time, because she didn't pretend to know everything. She mostly just let us talk and talk. I think that's why
she'd like this journal. It's just more of the talk she's heard for years from us.

Sometimes I wonder if we have any more answers today than we did back then. Rose would know. She's always the one who knew when we were going forward even if it was slowly.

 

None of us need to be served when we're in The Pews so we each just pick up our order and take it into the Sisterhood room. We call it that even though other people can use the room if it's not Thursday night. Today there's no one sitting in there until we enter—which is nice.

Carly brought the journal with her when she came out for lunch, and so this is Marilee back with her pen—well, technically, it's a different pen now, but you know what I mean.

We're all eating salads, so there's some talking as we see to our dressings. Some of us take vinegar and oil, some Thousand island, some French—the bottles all go around. In the middle of all this, Carly keeps asking me why I would even think Randy would send her roses when he had just gone out with me, and I keep saying something light—you know, that he's a nice guy and that kind of thing and maybe he was happy her cat was finally back home or he was sorry he had to use the box trap thing.

What
can
I say? I don't want to make Randy's move for him by telling Carly that he still hopes to
go out with her. I was going to tell her earlier, but she's so agitated today I can't predict what she'll think about anything I say. I also don't want to say anything that might make her not want to go out with him.

The best thing to do, I decide, is to change the subject. Besides, even though Lizabett seems to be interested in the conversation about the roses and Randy, Becca sure isn't.

“It's called Feline Fancy,” Becca is saying for the second time to Carly as Carly is muttering yet again that Randy should be sending me roses. Becca stabs at her salad and then presses on, “It's got different flavors. Ground-up fillet mignon for one, I think. And crabmeat or something exotic like that. Maybe liver pâté.”

“For a cat?” Carly finally zeroes in on Becca's conversation. Carly's fork is suspended in midair. “I'm not so sure you'd give a cat liver pâté.”

“If you want your cat to stay at home, maybe you do,” Becca says as she forks another bite of salad. “A happy cat is a cat that stays where she's put.”

“Marie is a very good cat,” Carly says. She lays her fork down on her plate and looks at Becca fully. “She's just high-energy.”

Becca nods, “Then she'll like Feline Fancy. The ads make it sound positively addictive.”

Carly frowns but before she can say anything, I jump in.

“That's just a figure of speech,” I say. “Becca just
wants to be sure Marie will be there on Thursday so we can count her as a goal accomplished.”

Carly's frown clears and she picks up her fork. “Of course, the goals.”

This doesn't make Becca too happy. “Don't tell me you've forgotten the goals, too?”

“Of course not,” Carly says.

“Me, neither,” Lizabett adds.

I lift up my hands. “I'm trying.”

“We're not going to make it,” Becca mutters.

I don't think it's diplomatic to remind Becca that she might be the furthest of any of us from her goal—well, maybe she'd tied with me. I'm pretty far away from meeting my goal, too.

I'm thinking about this when the door to the Sisterhood opens and there stands Quinn in his full fireman uniform. His arms are full of frothy, sparkling wings.

“You brought them.” Lizabett stands and greets him.

“I'm on my lunch hour, and I only have fifteen minutes left,” Quinn says as he surveys the rest of us with a scowl on his face before turning back to Lizabett. “I don't know why you need your wings today anyway.”

I have been smiling at Quinn since he appeared in the doorway, but my lips are growing a little stiff since he hasn't even nodded or said hello or anything. I must admit I am surprised that there's not a little bit of a hello for me considering everything.

“Would you like some lunch?” I offer as I stand. “I could make you something—a sandwich if you need to be quick.”

“No, thanks,” Quinn says as he finally looks at me. “I saw your roses. Must have been some date.”

“Oh, the roses are Carly's,” I say.

“Oh,” Quinn says as he gives a quick look at Lizabett. “I didn't know that.”

“Yes, they're mine,” Carly says cheerfully from the table. “Bought them myself to give to my aunt.”

“That's nice,” Quinn says. He's looking a little puzzled. “Considerate.”

“Necessary,” Carly mutters.

“I did hear the date went well, though,” Quinn says as he walks a step closer to me. “Congratulations.”

“It was only coffee,” I say.

Quinn shrugs. “At least it was good enough to earn a point. That's something. I hope you get the other two in before Thursday.”

Quinn is not saying that in any friendly way, so it's clear he's not offering to be any of those points. What he says next confirms it. “If you need a backup, my brother Gregory is off the next couple of days.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Quinn leaves as quickly as he came, and the only evidence that he'd even been here is the wings Lizabett is holding.

“Are you practicing today?” I ask Lizabett.

She nods. “I guess I better.”

Lizabett doesn't look any happier than me, but we both go back to our salads.

“He should have taken a sandwich,” Lizabett finally says. “He'll get hungry.”

Well, that's that, I say to myself as I take another fork of salad. Quinn is definitely cool toward me. Maybe he's worried I will make more of the times we've had coffee together than I should. Well, and maybe he's right—I certainly had been thinking we had something going on, and I'm clearly wrong.

You know what the worst thing about having cancer has been, well, apart from maybe dying? It's not knowing the things I'm supposed to know about things like dating.

I'm one of those people who got a late start at dating anyway. And then with my years of not dating because of the cancer, I feel as if I'm a whole decade behind where I should be in understanding the whole thing. I wish there were some remedial dating class I could take so I could figure it out.

My hunch is that the whole thing is twisted up with not understanding my father. Maybe I'm not expecting anything from men and so not getting anything. I'm sitting here eating my salad and thinking about the baseball caps I have back in my office.

Over the years, I've been so thrilled with those
caps. Can you believe it? They're only baseball caps. They don't mean anything. They will never be enough to make up for what my father didn't give me—his care and concern when I was sick.

I'm not even listening to the others talk and eat their salads. I'm getting more and more upset. Finally, I decide I'm going to go over to that car dealership where my father is working right now and—and…well, at least I'm going to ask him about the use of the dealership for the ballet.

“Here,” I give the journal back to Carly as I stand. “You keep this while I'm gone. I'm going to talk to my father.”

I must have looked funny, because Lizabett says, “You don't need to—not if it's a problem.”

“It's no problem,” I say as I walk out the door of the Sisterhood room and into the main part of The Pews.

“I'm going to the dealership to see my father,” I say loud enough for Uncle Lou to hear it behind the counter. “I won't be gone long.”

I don't wait to hear if Uncle Lou has anything to say about my announcement. What can he say anyway? It is time for me to have a talk with my father. I don't care if I'm interrupting him and he's writing up the paperwork for the most expensive car on the lot. It's time for him to talk to me.

I march down Colorado Boulevard until I get past the bridge. Even then I don't slow much. It only
takes me about ten minutes to reach the other side of the bridge. I see the dealership over by the Norton Simon museum. The dealership is mostly windows and there's a big swath of green grass in front of it. Some flowers are planted around the front of the building. Everything looks very upscale.

I, of course, go straight to the doors that enter into the main display floor. There's enough chrome and leather in the showroom to intimidate someone wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. I suddenly realize I might feel more comfortable if I'd changed into something other than my work clothes. But it's too late now.

“I'd like to talk to Mr. Davidson,” I say to the first man I meet. “He works here.”

“I'd be happy to help you,” the man starts to say and then smiles. “You're Marilee, aren't you?”

“Yes.” I'm a little taken back at this.

“I'd know you anywhere,” the man says. I look at him more closely to see if I recognize him from when I used to visit my dad here over six years ago. He doesn't look familiar.

“From your pictures,” the man finally says. “Your dad has pictures of you in his office.”

“Oh.”

“I guess you don't know that your dad's been out sick today,” the man continues.

Both the man and I look up when we hear my dad call out to me, “Marilee!”

My dad isn't wearing his usual working suit, and he looks a little pale.

“I heard you were coming, so I hurried over,” my dad says as he walks over to us. “Don't worry. I'm not contagious. I sound like I have a cold, though, and I didn't want to scare customers off, so I stayed home this morning.”

“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.”