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So he stopped in for videos on his way home from work. Lots of people did.
“You can tell a lot about a person from the videos they rent,” she said casually. She tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it with the toe of her combat boot.
“I’ll bet you can.”
“Do you want to know what I learned about you?” This was one of her best conversational gambits—character analysis through movie selection—although she didn’t have much opportunity to use it.
He grinned, and she was struck by how cute he was when he smiled. Laurel couldn’t understand what Alix saw in a guy as average as Jordan. She couldn’t explain it to her friend, either. Someone attracted to a guy who rented XXX videos just wouldn’t get it.
Jordan leaned against the wall beside her. “Go ahead and tell me what you’ve figured out.”
Flustered now, Alix suddenly found it difficult to express herself. She faltered and struggled with what she wanted to say and to her utter humiliation, she couldn’t do it. In one final attempt to redeem herself, she gestured weakly with her hands and said. “They’re cool, you know.”
“Cool?” Jordan repeated. “You mean I pick cool movies?”
“Yeah.” She wanted to crumple onto the sidewalk and disappear.
“Thank you.”
The heat was radiating from her face. “I’ve got to get back to work,” she said gruffly and without another word, she practically ran back into the store.
To make matters worse, Laurel was waiting for her. “How’d it go?” her roommate asked eagerly the instant Alix returned.
Alix glared at her.
Laurel raised both hands. “That bad, huh?”
A sick feeling attacked Alix’s stomach. It was like the nausea she’d experienced as a kid when her parents started to fight. That painful sensation used to corrode her stomach—as if she were somehow responsible for every bad thing that had befallen their lives. Jordan might be the same Jordan Turner she’d once known, but there’d been no time to ask. And she couldn’t now, not after she’d run away!
“You okay?” Laurel asked, studying her.
Alix brushed aside the question and marched to the back of the store, where she walked into the employee rest room. The toilet was disgusting. She didn’t want to guess how long it’d been since the last cleaning. The blue additive didn’t begin to disguise the yellow ring around the inside of the bowl. Funny she’d notice that now.
Standing in front of the sink, Alix stared into the mirror. The voices that came to taunt her were familiar ones. They were the ugly, negative voices that shouted words she tried to ignore. Voices that laughed in her face and said she was a loser. No matter what she did or how hard she tried, she’d never amount to anything. Her life was doomed. This was her lot. She’d never earn more than minimum wage, never be loved, never have a real home with things that normal people took for granted, like a phone and a dishwasher.
Pressing her hands to her face, Alix closed her eyes and felt the dark misery descend. She could feel its oppressive weight settle on her shoulders, shoving her down to a place deep inside. She tried unsuccessfully to shake off the depression, tried to shake off the ugly words that echoed in her mind.
The repulsive names her mother had called her rang through her head. She could hear a teacher’s chastisement and belittling comments next, and the humiliation returned as strong now as it had been twelve years earlier. She wanted to bury all the hurtful words. Instead they reverberated through her mind with such force she nearly slumped to the rest room floor.
A knock sounded at the door, startling her. Alix jerked her head toward the noise.
“Alix, you in there?”
Laurel. Damn. “What?” she snapped.
“He’s back.”
“Who?”
“The guy you were just talking to. I don’t know his name.”
Alix bit her lower lip. “You help him.”
“He asked for you.”
“Why?” she asked, frowning.
“I don’t know,” Laurel said irritably. “Am I supposed to read minds, too?”
“I’ll be out in a minute, all right?” Alix straightened, brushing her hands through her hair as she came to grips with this information. She wondered what possible reason Jordan could have for seeking her out.
Because her face was beet-red, she ran cold water over her hands and then brought them to her cheeks, not caring what it did to her makeup.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before she finally found the courage to come out and face Jordan.
He was standing at the counter waiting. He smiled as she approached.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked as if he’d interrupted her. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was happy to see him, and in truth, she wasn’t. After humiliating herself once, she didn’t feel like doing it again. Not this soon, anyway.
“You said you’d put aside The Matrix for me?”
Her relief was intense. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I’ve got it up front.” She moved past him and behind the counter to the spot where she’d placed the video.
“I appreciate you doing that for me.”
“No problem,” she said, busying herself with the computer screen. She rang up the total and asked for his card. After he’d paid her the rental fee, she set the video in its protective plastic case, then slipped it inside a bag and handed it to him over the counter. “We’ve got a special on microwave popcorn this week if you’re interested.”
“No, thanks. I bought a case at Costco my last visit. I’ve got enough popcorn to last me for the next ten years.”
She rested her elbows on the counter, feeling awkward and a bit embarrassed. She had no idea what to say, what to ask. If she mentioned the Jordan Turner from sixth grade, it would sound like a pick-up line. “Uh, any other movies you want me to put aside for you?” That wasn’t exactly a scintillating question but at least it made sense.
He shrugged. “Can’t think of any at the moment, but if I do I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.”
With a nod, Jordan left. The glass door closed and as if by magic Laurel appeared. “What did he want?”
“A movie, what else?”
“How come he only wanted you to help him?”
Alix didn’t feel inclined to go into the details. “How am I supposed to know that?”
“There’s no need to get all snappy with me.”
The door chimed and to Alix’s astonishment, Jordan stuck his head inside. “Alix, what time do you get off work?”
She was too shocked to answer immediately. “Eleven. I close three nights a week.”
“Do you close tomorrow?”
“No. I’m here until nine on Wednesdays.”
“Do you want to meet for coffee then? After work?”
“Ah …” She found it hard to believe he was actually asking her out. Well, sort of out. “Yeah, I guess,” she said as if it wasn’t any big deal.
“Great, I’ll see you then.” He waved and was gone.
A bubble of happiness rose up inside her. It demanded every ounce of restraint she possessed not to stamp her feet with joy.
13
CHAPTER
“Knitting—my Amazing Grace.”
—Nancie M. Wiseman, Editor, Cast On magazine and author of Classic Knitted Vests and The Knitter’s Book of Finishing Techniques
LYDIA HOFFMAN
My mother phoned me early in the week to suggest she, Margaret and I go out to the cemetery together on Memorial Day to visit my father’s grave. It had only been a few months since we laid Daddy to rest. These were difficult days for Mom as she had yet to find her footing as a widow.
I readily agreed to join her, but I wondered about Margaret’s response. She’d managed to manipulate the situation so we didn’t see each other on Mother’s Day. At every family function, my sister acts prickly and standoffish. It seems she’d prefer to forget we have the same parents. More than once, the thought has passed through my mind that Margaret would rather I was the one who’d died instead of our father. That isn’t a pleasant notion to entertain, but given her attitude, I feel it’s true. Yet I continue to try. Some perverse part of me refuses to let go. She’s my sister. Having been so close to death, I feel that even though we might not like each other, we need each other.
I arrived at my mother’s place early Monday afternoon and found Mom sipping tea on the back patio near her garden. She’d dressed in her long black skirt and silk blouse and sat in the wicker chair, enjoying the sunshine.
The roses were trimmed and budding, and the sweet aroma of the lilac bush scented the air. I could see from the linen hankie clutched in her hands that Mom had been weeping.
I moved beside her, wordlessly pressing my hand to her shoulder. She glanced up and managed a teary smile before she laid her hand over mine and gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I still miss him, you know.”
“Me, too,” I whispered, emotion choking my voice.
“Dad would be upset to see us so maudlin. It’s such a lovely day and soon I’ll have both my daughters with me. How can I possibly be sad?” She reached for the teapot and I realized she’d brought out a second cup, expecting me to join her. Without asking she poured and I sat down beside her.
We chatted a bit. Mom was full of questions about A Good Yarn, my beginning class and the three women who’d signed up. I mentioned Jacqueline, Carol and Alix frequently and talked to her about my other customers, too. Slowly, one by one, I was building my clientele and perhaps just as importantly, I was making friends. My world expanded a little more with each day and I was happy. Whiskers was, too, and has taken to spending time in the shop, often sunning himself in the front window. My cat’s become a real conversation starter, and charms my customers no end. He accepts all the attention as his due.
Because of the holiday weekend, my beginners’ class decided to skip the previous Friday. Jacqueline and Carol were both going out of town. Alix didn’t divulge her plans, but I suspected she didn’t have much opportunity to get out of the city.
I was pleased with the progress each woman had made. I’d had a bit of a challenge talking Jacqueline into staying in the class. She’d planned to quit before the third session, but I convinced her to keep at it. I had the feeling she wanted me to change her mind and I’m glad I did. There’d been a couple of rough moments when Alix dropped a stitch during the second class and let loose with a blue streak that nearly put Jacqueline in a coma. Immediately I suggested Alix find an alternative method of expressing her frustration. To my surprise, she apologized and my appreciation for her increased. Alix isn’t so bad once you get to know her.
Carol’s my star pupil, already half done with the baby blanket, and eyeing other projects. She’s been coming by the shop at least twice a week, often staying to chat. Whiskers sat in her lap a couple of times, just to show he approves of my choice of a friend.
Mom loves hearing stories about my customers. We talk nearly every day. She needs that and frankly, so do I. I might be thirty years old but a girl never outgrows her need for her mother.
“Margaret and the girls will be here at one,” Mom said conversationally, but I wasn’t fooled. She was giving me fair warning. She set her china cup in the saucer and rested her hands in her lap. My mother possesses a natural grace I envy. Margaret’s a great deal like her in that regard.
I’m not sure how to describe my mother. One might well assume she’s as fragile as she looks, but that’s not the case. She’s strong in ways I can only admire. She was a fierce advocate for me in dealing with the doctors and the insurance company during my bouts with cancer. She’s loving and generous and constantly tries to meet the needs of others. Her one drawback is in coping with sickness. She couldn’t bear to see me—or anyone else—suffer and tended to simply withdraw. Fortunately, Dad was always there for me.
“Are Julia and Hailey coming with Margaret?” I asked. My two nieces are a source of wonder to me. The likelihood of my ever bearing children was slim to none, so my sister’s daughters hold an important place in my heart. Margaret seemed to sense this and, for whatever reason, jealously guarded her daughters, keeping them away from me as much as possible.
Julia and Hailey, however, recognized my genuine affection and much to Margaret’s consternation, loved me unabashedly. Their undiluted joy at every chance encounter rankled Margaret so much that she did whatever she could to block my access to my nieces.
“Grandma!” Nine-year-old Hailey loped into the backyard, her arms extended. When she saw me, she squealed with delight and after hugging my mother, vaulted into my arms, nearly strangling me in her enthusiasm.
Fourteen-year-old Julia was a bit more restrained, but her eyes revealed her pleasure at seeing me. I stretched out my free arm to her and when she stepped toward me, we clasped hands and I squeezed her fingers. How tall Julia had grown, more woman than child now, and such a beauty. My heart swelled with pride at the sight of her.
“Aunt Lydia, will you teach me how to knit?” Hailey begged, still clinging to me.
I looked over my shoulder just in time to see my sister and brother-in-law come out the back door and onto the patio where I sat with my mother and the girls. From the frown Margaret wore, I could see she’d heard the question. “I’d love to teach you, but it’s up to your mother.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Margaret said sharply. Hailey placed her arm around my shoulders, unwilling to release me.
“Hello, Matt,” I said.
My brother-in-law grinned and winked at me. I remember when Matt and Margaret first started dating. Because she’s five years older than me, I viewed seventeen-year-old Matt as mature and sophisticated, a man of the world. They’d married young and my father disapproved, believing Margaret should wait until she’d graduated from college. She did finish her schooling but hasn’t used her education in the way Dad wanted. My sister has worked at a number of jobs through the years but she’s never found any position that’s really suited her. Margaret is currently employed part-time at a travel agency, but she’s never discussed her job with me. I do applaud her decision to be home as much as possible for the girls, but I’ve avoided sharing my thoughts, uncertain of their reception.
After a brief exchange of chitchat and news, we drove out to the cemetery in two cars. Mom had brought a large bouquet of lilacs from her garden, and Julia and Hailey set them in the receptacle at my father’s gravesite. A large number of American flags flapped in the wind across the cemetery, reminding us of the men and women who sacrificed their lives for our country.
I’ve always found cemeteries curious places. As a child, I had an almost ghoulish fascination with tombstones. I especially enjoyed reading the epitaphs on those from the 1800s and early 1900s. While Margaret and my parents paid their respects to my grandparents, I’d invariably wander off. I broke my leg when I was five when a statue of the Virgin Mary fell over on me. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that I’d been climbing on her at the time, hoping to look at her face.
I never really knew my grandparents. One set lived on the East Coast and visited only on rare occasions. My mother’s family had come to Seattle at the time of the Great Depression, but her parents had died shortly after I was born. Each Memorial Day we visited their graves and placed flowers by their headstones. I felt little emotion for my long-dead relatives, perhaps a twinge now and then, wishing I remembered them, but that was about it.
Now as I stared down at my father’s marker, so fresh and new, a surge of harsh grief came over me. The marble tablet said so little. His name, JAMES HOWARD HOFFMAN, and the dates of his birth and death: May 20, 1940—December 29, 2003.
Birth to death, and all that appeared between those two events was a dash. That silent dash said nothing about his two tours of duty in Vietnam, or his unwavering love for his wife and daughters. That dash couldn’t possibly reveal the countless hours he’d spent at my bedside, comforting me, reading to me, doing whatever he could to help me. There are no words to describe the depth of my father’s love.
The familiar blinding pain struck me then. One consequence of the tumor that continues to linger is migraine headaches. With the new medicines now available, I can almost always catch them early. The telltale signs are unmistakable. This one, however, had caught me by surprise.
I fumbled in my purse for the pills I carried with me constantly. My mother, aware of my situation, came toward me when she saw me stumble. “Lydia, what is it?”
I breathed in slowly and deeply. “I need to get home,” I whispered, closing my eyes to the blinding sunlight.
“Margaret, Matt,” Mom called urgently. She slid her arm around my waist. Within minutes she’d bundled me into the car but instead of having Matt drive me to my own small apartment above the yarn shop, my mother insisted on bringing me to her house.
It wasn’t long before I was in bed in the room where I’d spent most of my childhood. The shades were drawn. Mom draped cool washcloths on my forehead and then tiptoed out of the room to allow me to sleep.
I knew that once the medication had been given a chance to work, I’d sleep for a couple of hours. Afterward I’d be fine, but reaching that point—the beginning of relief—was difficult.
Soon after my mother left and the horrible throbbing was at its peak, I heard the bedroom door creak open again. Although I was completely prone and my eyes were closed, I knew it was my sister who’d walked into the room.
“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Her words were weighted with bitterness. “You can’t let a day pass without being the center of attention, can you?”
I found it hard to fathom that my sister would seriously believe I’d intentionally bring on a migraine for the sake of a few minutes’ attention. If Margaret had ever suffered with one, she’d know differently. But I was in no shape to argue, so I kept silent.
“Someday it’s only going to be the two of us, you know.”
I did know and wanted so badly to have a good relationship with my sister. If I hadn’t been hounded by pain I would’ve tried to explain how much I wished things could be different between us.
