The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches (6 page)

“That's a bad thing?” Quinn asked cautiously.

I smiled nervously. “Of course not. Don't mind me. A lot of people pray about their troubles.”

Quinn nodded. “But you wanted something else?”

“I wanted her to talk to me, not to God,” I finally said.

Not that my mother didn't talk to me back then; it's just that she seemed to talk to God a whole lot more.

I sighed. Sometimes there's just no use pretending that I have my life all together.

Quinn was wearing a navy nylon jacket over his fireman's uniform. The nylon moved smoothly and felt good on my cheek when Quinn put his arm around me. “Maybe she needed to talk to God so she'd know what to say to you.”

It was kind of nice to think that my mother had been taking steps to talk to me all that time she was praying. I'd never really thought of it that way. Instead, I'd always felt left out when she was praying, as if she and God were off by themselves doing the Christian thing and I was in another room by myself doing nothing.

I liked thinking I was part of the thing with my mother and God, and I was grateful Quinn had seen
it that way so he could share it with me. It was nice. It was even nicer when Quinn drew me a little closer to himself, as well. For the first time, I could see why Lizabett called her brothers teddy bears.

After Quinn settled me next to him, he kept talking. “I know I used to pray up a storm to figure out what to do for Lizabett.”

“My mom kept wanting me to go to church with her,” I said.

Quinn chuckled. “Is that so bad? I go to church every Sunday, and I think it does me a world of good.”

I was quiet at that one.

“You should come with me Sunday,” Quinn said.

“Thanks, but—really, I couldn't—”

“It would count as a date,” Quinn said softly and gave me a wink. “I figure one date tonight and one on Sunday. That only leaves us one more.”

“You know?” I look up at him. I don't know why I had even held out hope that he didn't know.

It occurs to me all of a sudden that Lizabett has told Quinn a lot of things. Maybe all this talking back and forth isn't such a good thing after all.

“You know I could have picked an easy goal like getting a cat,” I say in my own defense.

“I'm glad you didn't,” Quinn says. “I'm hoping you'll have lunch with me on Sunday after church.”

Well, what could I say? I'm thinking church counts as one date and the lunch afterward counts as
another. As long as my mother doesn't know I've gone to church, it doesn't even need to mean anything in my life. If my mother knew, she'd renew her efforts to get me to go to church regularly; but if she doesn't know, everything will work out okay.

Quinn, Lizabett and their brothers left soon after Quinn invited me to church. Becca and I rode back to The Pews together in my car, but I didn't tell her about the final date with Quinn yet. She knew about tonight and the ball game on Saturday, but she didn't know about the third date on Sunday. I don't know why I didn't tell Becca exactly.

Maybe it was because the darkness along the roads was so restful. There aren't a lot of streetlights in San Marino, and it felt calm to be driving in that area. Also, I wanted to think about the dates a bit before I saw them chalked up on our board as fulfillment of my goal.

You know by now that Becca thinks the grill guy is the only man in the world, but I think there might be something to be said for a man like Quinn who worries about his little sister. I know most people worry about others who are sick with cancer. I guess it's natural.

After my hair loss, I had strangers come up to me and wish me well—which was kind of nice. But none of that made up for not hearing any words of concern from my own father. I had the baseball caps, but that was all. I used to wonder if my dad thought he was
no longer my dad because he'd left my mother and me.

I don't mean to get too distracted here, I just want to say that I think Quinn is a special brother. I'd put him up against the grill guy any day. It's not all about stormy eyes; sometimes it's about a man's heart, too.

L
izabett had already lost her hair when we started the Sisterhood, so I thought she would tell us that it was no big deal to go bald from the chemo. Instead, she grieved with each of us as though it was the final betrayal. In some ways, it was—there was no hope of hiding the cancer once the hair was gone.

Lizabett brought the princess quote to the Sisterhood after Carly, the last one to lose her hair, came in with a scarf tied around her head. Lizabett read us the quote and then handed us cardboard crowns to wear. We all took off our scarves, caps, and wigs. The crowns had shiny jewel-colored pieces of foil on them and someone had glued a band of felt around
the bottom of each princess crown so the cardboard wouldn't rub against our bald heads.

Oh, we had fun that night. I couldn't remember the last time I had really laughed. You should have seen us with our bald heads and our crowns.

 

I didn't sleep well last night. I think that's what reminded me of the princess crowns. I didn't sleep well after wearing my crown, either. I wanted to savor the good feelings I'd had with the others that evening, and I was afraid if I slept, the feelings would be gone when I awoke.

I went to sleep last night knowing that this feeling that all was well for me would not last until the morning, either.

I have no doubt we will find Carly's cat. In fact, the cat is probably curled up in front of the massive door to Carly's house even as we speak, meowing for the maid to bring her breakfast on a silver tray. Once that happens—and Becca gets the acceptance letter she's expecting and Lizabett performs in her ballet—I will be the only one who will not have met my goal.

The solution of last night will not work in the cold light of morning today.

I know Quinn will see to it that I get my three dates if that's what I want. And that's nice of him. But I have to acknowledge that they're not
real
dates. He's just so used to taking care of Lizabett that his
goodness overflows to me a little. I hate to meet my goal like that—with “pity dates.”

The only thing for me to do is to actually get some real dates from a guy who doesn't feel obligated to ask me out. Of course, I don't know anyone who might be a prospect for a date like that unless Becca is right and the grill guy does remember me.

Actually, I hope he doesn't recall me too well. Maybe he will remember that he liked me enough to ask me out without remembering that I turned him down.

Yes, that would work.

I fluff up my hair and snip off a few rough edges before I pull out my old curling iron from the back of my closet. I'm not sure the iron will work, but the red light goes on, so it must. While I wait for the curling iron to heat, I put on some makeup—I actually found some eye shadow in a drawer by the bathroom sink.

It's ten o'clock in the morning when I get back to The Pews. That's my usual time to check in for work. Uncle Lou is the one who opens up the diner at six o'clock in the morning and handles the breakfast crowd.

I've always thought that Uncle Lou likes those four hours best of all the hours in the day because, at least in the first hour or so, he's alone in the diner and can remember the way things used to be. He plays old fifties music on the radio and I've noticed
he puts the old salt and pepper shakers out for breakfast. He's muttered more than once that he's glad breakfast stays the same and hasn't gone all trendy on him. I haven't had the heart to tell him that some restaurants are adding cream cheese to their scrambled eggs and turkey sausage to their selections of meats.

Anyway, I have to park my car in a big, concrete parking structure a few blocks away from The Pews and walk to the diner. Since I have eyeliner on, I feel better about everything. It's a good morning for a walk. It is winter in Pasadena and the morning is bright and sunny. We get a lot of days like this in February. It's weather to make a person glad they are alive.

In the strong light of day like this, I feel ready for anything. On the way to the diner, I make my decision; I will find some real dates and let Quinn off the hook. Not that I won't still go to church with him, but I'll do that for a different reason.

As long as I'm doing things the right way, it's time I stopped being so superstitious about going to church. That's really what it is. I'm afraid that if I go to church once, Dad will somehow know and think I've gone over to Mom's side. And, if that doesn't happen, I'm nervous that Mom will know and start to hope I'll become a Christian.

But nothing will automatically happen just because I go to church. The roof will not cave in and the sky will not collapse. There is no bad luck that
will automatically come to me. Neither one of my parents will even know I've been to church unless I tell them. Besides, I can't live my life worrying about what my parents will think if I go to a religious service. I need to free myself of my fears.

I can smell bacon when I step into The Pews even though we stop serving breakfast at ten o'clock. I see Uncle Lou is leaning on the counter and talking with one of our regular customers.

“Good morning, Mr. Rushton.” I nod to the man. Mr. Rushton is a retired schoolteacher and he eats breakfast here several times a week. He always orders the same thing—whole wheat toast with no butter and a bowl of oatmeal. I keep hoping Uncle Lou will take a hint or two from Mr. Rushton's diet, but I have a suspicion the bacon I smell frying is for Uncle Lou's midmorning snack since Mr. Rushton never eats fried meat.

I hang up my jacket on the hook behind the counter and reach for the coffeepot. I like to start my day with coffee.

“You're not wearing a cap.” Uncle Lou stops talking to Mr. Rushton and turns to me. “I never see you without a cap.”

You would think I'd left my head off my shoulders instead of my cap off my head.

“And you've got makeup on,” Uncle Lou continues as he steps a little closer to me and looks at me more carefully.

I shrug and reach for a cup for my coffee. “The Sisterhood thought it was time for me to get back to the regular way I look.”

“You regularly wear a cap.” Uncle Lou is looking at me as though he can't believe what he's seeing.

“Well, not before the—” I stop because I don't want to say
cancer
in front of Mr. Rushton. “Before my difficulties.”

“But your father's coming by today,” Uncle Lou finally says. “There's some baseball thing on television this afternoon, and he has the day off. And, he's bringing you a new cap. A special cap he ordered on eBay. From the New York Black Yankees—some all-black team that played in the late 1930s. He's all excited about it. The guys came out of Harlem and were some of the best ballplayers of their day. You don't find those caps everywhere.”

My father has never brought me an historical cap before. He has given me caps from most of the current big-league teams, but there has never been a collectible cap. And him buying it on eBay—that's a first, too.

“You mean he bought a cap?”

“Of course. He buys all the caps,” Uncle Lou looks surprised. “Nobody gives away those kind of caps anymore.”

I always assumed my dad got the caps for free from his work. He works in the accounting department of a car dealership. I always thought the caps were leftover giveaways from sales days, and he just
passed them on to me because he didn't want the caps himself.

“Oh.” I swallow. I don't know why I always assumed Dad got the caps for free. I guess I never thought the caps meant that much to him, but were something that was just convenient for him to give me. I always pictured him grabbing one from a big bin on his way out of the office on the nights he planned to stop by the diner. “I have some of the caps in my office. I'll go put one on.”

Uncle Lou nods. “Your dad likes to see you wearing the caps he's given you.”

I nod. I don't know what to say. Fortunately, Mr. Rushton stands up, so I smile at him as I reach out to pick up his plate. “Have a good day.”

As I take hold of the plate, Mr. Rushton pats my hand and says, “You're a good girl. Your dad must be proud.”

Uncle Lou takes a deep breath. “Of course he is. We're all proud of our Marilee.”

“I am very fortunate,” I say as I wait for Mr. Rushton to give Uncle Lou and me another nod as he walks to the door.

The truth is that I know I am fortunate. Things could be so much worse for me. I'm cancer free. I am a part-owner of a business I love. Uncle Lou is great to me. My mom is there any time I need to lean on her. And my dad—who knew he was actually buying me the caps?

It doesn't take long for Uncle Lou to get back behind the counter and start getting ready for the lunch crowd. I slip back to my office and find a baseball cap to wear for the day. I haven't worn the Boston Red Sox one for a while. As long as I'm back in my office, I decide to check my messages. Carly sent an e-mail this morning to the Sisterhood that her cat is still missing. Then she asks if we'll help look some more for the cat later today.

After I read her e-mail, I realize this is the first time I have ever heard Carly ask for help. So I call her on her cell phone.

Carly answers, and I can tell she's been crying. I've never heard Carly cry. She went through all her chemo without shedding a tear as far as I know. I've got to tell you, the sound of Carly crying alarms me.

“You didn't find—” I can't ask Carly if she's found her cat's body. That'll make her cry even more. “I mean, do you have more news on your cat?”

Carly takes a tearful breath. “No.”

“I can come over to your place right now if you want me to,” I say. Uncle Lou will understand if I need to leave for a little while.

Now I can really hear Carly crying.

“No, don't come here,” Carly says. “But can I come there?”

“Of course.”

“I'll be right there,” Carly says, and we hang up.

Okay, now I am over-the-top worried. I have been assuming that Carly's cat would have already realized she was hungry and turned her nose toward the kitchen. I know Carly is worried about her cat, but I had no idea she is this worried.

Carly lives about ten minutes away from The Pews, and it will take her an additional five minutes to park and come inside. I give Lizabett and Becca both a call, leaving messages for both of them on their cell phones that they should call me since we need to find Carly's cat.

I'm glad I have my baseball cap on again as I walk out of my office. Those caps give me some measure of comfort, and I may wear one for the rest of my life on the days when I am worried.

The smell of bacon is still there when I step into the main part of The Pews. I hear voices in the kitchen, but there are no customers at the moment. It's usually quiet in the middle of the morning like this, so Uncle Lou will be fine if I go back with Carly and spend some time looking for her cat.

I figure one of the delivery guys is in the kitchen, and I give Uncle Lou a minute to finish with him before I go in. I'm afraid my worry shows on my face, and I don't want to alarm anyone, especially not some guy who is just delivering the bread order. I start refilling napkin dispensers for something to do with my hands. The dispensers are still almost full.

I must admit, I am surprised about Carly and her cat. I assumed she wanted this cat because the cat had that history with Marie Antoinette. If that was the case, though, Carly wouldn't be this upset. I mean, let's face it, the cat might be cold and hungry, but it's probably all right. It's not time to panic yet.

I finish up with the napkin dispensers and look around for something else to do to keep my mind busy. Uncle Lou is still talking to whoever is in the kitchen. Carly must be on her way over here by now.

It all worries me. You probably know what I am thinking. Every time someone in the Sisterhood gets more upset than we'd expect, the rest of always ask the same question: Did she get a bad test result that she hasn't told us about? I think Carly would tell us if something was wrong, but I'm not sure.

I line up the sugar packets in their container so they are straight.

Even though everyone in the Sisterhood has been cancer free for almost six years now, we are not sure we will stay that way. Of course, no one anywhere is sure. Cancer tends to come or recur whether it's expected or not. We are just more aware than most people of the way our bodies can turn on us.

I hear Uncle Lou's voice growing louder and look up to see him and Randy Parker walk through the kitchen door and back into the main part of the diner where I am standing making the sugar packets orderly.

I don't know what the grill guy is doing here, but he couldn't have picked a worse time to come and talk with Uncle Lou.

I have my eyeliner and lipstick on, but with the baseball cap hanging over my face, I'm sure none of my new makeup shows. I would take the cap off, but my hair tends to fly in every direction when I do that, so I just push the brim up so that, hopefully, my newly made-up face shows. Maybe I'll look sporty cute.

“You're here,” Uncle Lou says, sounding happy to see me. “I was just telling Randy you could give him a tour of the place—get him reacquainted.”

The day is nice and bright, and sun is shining in through the diner's open blinds.

I can see the grill guy, and he is looking friendly. Becca is right. The guy has a nice smile, and he doesn't seem to be aware that he's at the top of the list when it comes to looks.

“I'd be happy to show you around, but I can't right now.” I look at Randy. My timing just isn't good with this guy. “A good friend of mine is coming here any minute, and I need to talk to her first.” That doesn't sound adequate. I don't want to blow the grill guy off twice even if he probably doesn't remember the last time I turned down an opportunity to be with him. “It's Carly—she lost her cat.”