Eighteen
Large or small, all types of women’s bodies are beautiful and I want to give knitters permission to express their beauty through what they make and wear.
—Joan McGowan-Michael,
and
author of Knitting Lingerie Style (2007)
Lydia Goetz
I’d noticed subtle changes in Casey since I’d taken her to see her brother, Lee, last Monday. A week had passed, and she’d begun spending more time with the family, instead of hiding in her bedroom with the door closed.
Without being asked, she’d set the dining-room table one night. I was pleased—and surprised—but I didn’t dare comment. She started doing her homework at the kitchen table, too. All this had taken place since seeing her brother. His encouragement, and his talk about going to college and getting a job so he could send for her, had given her hope. I prayed everything would work out for Lee and consequently for Casey.
Monday night, I served my special meat loaf, from a recipe Margaret had shared with me. She hadn’t gotten it via any of the usual methods today—cookbook, magazine or the Food Channel. Instead, my sister had heard about it at her hairdresser’s. Like Margaret, I’ve discovered that some of the best recipes come by word of mouth. It had certainly proved true in this instance. Her meat loaf had become a family favorite.
It was a cool and rainy afternoon and because I was home all day doing housework, I didn’t mind having the oven on, even if it was almost the middle of July.
I’d been to see my mother earlier that morning, having switched days with Margaret, and then after summer school, Casey had hung around me most of the afternoon instead of attending day camp. I thought she might want to make cookies again, but she declined. She asked if she could bake a cake instead. I agreed, and we found a recipe for an apple upside-down cake in my cherished old Joy of Cooking. It turned out really well, too.
Again without being asked, she set the table for dinner and called Brad and Cody once everything was ready.
“Janice phoned me this afternoon,” Brad said as he loaded his plate with a helping of peas and mashed potatoes, followed by a thick slice of meat loaf.
Cody’s mother hadn’t contacted them since school was dismissed for the summer. I’d been figuring we’d hear from her sooner or later.
“She wants to see Cody tomorrow afternoon.” Brad turned to me and then our son.
“That’s nice,” I said in what I hoped was an encouraging voice.
“What do you think about seeing your mother, buddy?” Brad asked, ladling gravy over everything on his plate.
Cody shrugged. “Do I have to spend the night?”
“Not unless you want to.”
Cody seemed torn. “She doesn’t have any computer games and she doesn’t like Chase. Can I see her and hug her and go home again?”
I hid a smile. Cody was more concerned about being away from his Xbox and his dog than spending time with his mother. And I couldn’t really blame him. Although he was only nine, he knew what Janice was like. He showed her the same level of interest she’d given him.
Casey frowned as she listened to the exchange. “I thought Lydia was your mother.”
“She is,” Cody said, smashing peas with his fork and mixing them into his potatoes. “I have two moms.”
“I married Brad when Cody was eight,” I explained to Casey.
“Why don’t you have more kids?” she asked.
I set my fork beside my plate. “As a result of the chemo and radiation used to treat my cancer, I can’t have children.”
“That’s why you applied for adoption?”
I nodded. The subject of my infertility wasn’t as painful to me as it’d once been. For years I’d been convinced that even if I found a man willing to live with the uncertainty I faced as a two-time cancer survivor, my inability to bear a child would kill any hope of marriage. And then I’d met Brad Goetz.... I counted my blessings every day. My feelings of inadequacy had diminished because of his unstinting love and support. And since we’d set our adoption plans in motion, I’d been feeling almost serene.
Casey was quiet after that, as though the conversation distressed her.
“Cody’s going to be with his mother tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come by the yarn store after school?” I asked her as we finished our meal.
At first Casey didn’t realize I’d spoken to her. “Me?” she asked as she looked around the table.
“Yes, you,” I said, laughing. “If you like, I’ll teach you to knit,” I offered yet again.
She gave me her usual shrug. “I guess so.”
“It’s not hard,” Cody piped up after he’d carried his plate to the sink. “Mom taught my whole class to knit last winter. Everyone made patches for Warm Up America, even the boys. Then Aunt Margaret crocheted them all together and we donated the blanket to a veterans’ home in West Seattle.”
For the first time since I’d mentioned knitting, Casey actually seemed interested.
“Knitting helps with math, too,” Cody told her as if he were an expert.
“Speaking of math,” Brad inserted, looking at Casey. “How’s your class?”
Casey replied in the same indifferent way she typically did. “All right, I guess. Math is stupid.”
“Unfortunately it’s a necessary part of everyday life.”
“I know,” she said a bit defensively.
“If you want, I’ll check over your homework,” Brad suggested. He’d made the offer before, but Casey had always turned him down flat.
“If you want,” she said after a moment.
Brad and I exchanged a private smile.
While Cody cleared the serving dishes, Brad and Casey sat in the living room as he reviewed her homework. I couldn’t hear everything he said but they certainly had a lively discussion.
Afterward, Casey moved to the kitchen table and exhaled loudly as she threw herself into a chair. “I have to do this assignment over,” she muttered.
I patted her shoulder encouragingly and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.
Tuesday afternoon, shortly before one, Casey showed up at A Good Yarn, backpack slung over her shoulder. She’d taken the bus by herself. I was nervous about her coping with the different transit schedules, but Casey assured me it wasn’t a problem. Apparently she was more skilled at finding her way around than I’d assumed, for which I was grateful.
“Hi,” I said, waiting until Mrs. Sinclair, a repeat customer, had paid for her purchase. “I ordered lunch from across the street.”
“Oh, thanks.” Casey went to the back of the shop, to the table where I taught classes.
My sister had been unusually quiet about Casey. They’d met a couple of times, but just briefly. I’d only recently told her that Casey would be with us until she’d finished summer school. Margaret’s reaction was to roll her eyes.
“I ordered us a Reuben,” I said to Casey, sitting down with her. “As you can see, they’re huge. I figured we could split one.”
I’d left a knitting instruction book, a pair of size ten needles and a bright variegated skein of worsted weight yarn on the table for her, as well. It’s been my experience that it’s easier to pick up knitting basics when you’re using larger needles and a thicker yarn.
“What’s in a Reuben?” Casey asked, eyeing the sandwich suspiciously.
I set her half on a paper plate and slid it across the table.
“Corned beef and mustard, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut,” I answered.
Casey studied it; her nose wrinkled as if she wasn’t sure she was going to like this. “How do they get the corn in the beef?”
“There isn’t any corn as far as I know.” Funny, I’d never stopped to wonder where the name had come from.
“And who’s this Reuben guy?”
“That I don’t know, either,” I told her. “But whoever he is, he invented a wonderful sandwich.” I reached for my half and took the first bite. It was just as tasty as I remembered. I opened the bag of potato chips and emptied them out on a spare plate, then poured a large bottle of iced tea into two glasses.
“Go ahead and give it a try,” I urged Casey, who seemed to do nothing more than stare at it.
She picked up her sandwich and tentatively took one small bite. Her eyes brightened. “Hey, this is good.”
“Told you so.”
By this time I’d eaten nearly half of mine. Still, Casey was finished before me.
“That was really good.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
I collected our paper plates and stuffed them in the recycling bin. “Ready for your first knitting lesson?”
Casey nodded.
I pushed yarn and needles toward her and sat in the adjoining chair. “How’d school go today?” I asked, making conversation as I delved into the center of the skein, searching for the beginning strand.
“I got an A on my homework.”
I paused to say, “Casey, that’s fantastic!” I’d located the strand I wanted and tugged it free.
Predictably, she shrugged at my compliment, but I knew she was pleased. Once Brad heard the news, he would be, too. I was proud of them both. Proud of Brad because he’d offered his help, been repeatedly rejected and yet tried again. And proud of Casey, too, because she’d been willing to admit she needed help.
I had to show her how to cast on two or three times. She couldn’t seem to grasp the technique. In the end I simply did it for her.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go any more smoothly when it came to learning the basic knit stitch. To her credit, Casey did try. I could see she was becoming frustrated, so I told her about other people I’d taught to knit.
“Does everyone have as much trouble as I’m having?” she asked. She bit her lip as she clutched the two needles. At one stage she held one needle under her arm as she wove the yarn around the tip of the other.
“Some do,” I said.
Margaret wandered by and threw me a look I recognized from our childhood. It said I should have my sanity checked. Maybe so, but I wasn’t willing to abandon hope yet.
Soon my nerves were frayed to the breaking point.
Unfortunately, Casey’s were, too. When the needle slipped out of her grasp and clattered onto the floor, Casey bolted upright and threw down the entire project.
“I can’t do this!” she yelled.
“Casey.”
“I hate knitting. I don’t want to do it.”
I longed to reassure her, to remind her that knitting came more quickly to some than it did to others. I didn’t want her to give up so easily. Apparently I hadn’t relayed that message effectively enough.
“You don’t have to learn to knit if you don’t want,” I finally said.
“I don’t. It’s stupid.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but realized there was no point. Picking up the yarn and needles, I set them back on the table. I was disappointed, although I made an effort not to show it.
“Would you like to read?” I asked, thinking I’d send Casey down to Blossom Street Books and let her choose a novel. Otherwise, I didn’t know how I’d keep her entertained for the rest of the afternoon.
“No,” she said flatly.
“So what would you like to do?”
Casey looked bored. “Do you have a TV?”
“Sorry, no.”
The bell above the door chimed and Jacqueline Donovan, a good friend of mine, walked in. Jacqueline and Reese, her architect husband, had taken a cruise to Hawaii and they’d just returned. I was eager to see her, so I left Casey to her own devices for a few minutes.
“Jacqueline!” I said, hurrying toward her with my hands out. “You’re back. Did you have a fabulous trip?”
“It was incredible. You and Brad should take a cruise sometime.”
I’d love that; unfortunately I couldn’t see it happening in the near future, especially if we were adding a baby to our family.
As she headed toward the yarn displays, Jacqueline burbled with all kinds of stories. She’d read a knitting magazine on the plane and decided she had to knit this wonderfully intricate vest for Reese. She examined an expensive hand-dyed alpaca yarn, choosing a lovely deep brown shade. I rang up her purchase.
When we’d said goodbye, with promises to see each other soon, I walked back to the table. To my astonishment, Margaret was sitting with Casey.
The two of them were crocheting.
Not knitting, crocheting.
Casey glanced up at me and broke into a smile. “This is fun,” she said.
“Fun,” I repeated, struck nearly speechless.
“I can do this.”
“She’s crocheting a washcloth.” Righteousness rang in my sister’s tone. “Look at her work, Lydia. The girl’s a natural.”
I wanted to wipe that grin off Margaret’s face, which wasn’t very generous of me. The thing is, she’d succeeded where I’d failed. Casey was relaxed, confident and actually enjoying herself.
“At the rate she’s going,” Margaret said, “she’ll have it done before we close up shop.”
“I’m impressed,” I told them both. I meant it.
The bell above the door chimed again, and I left to greet my customer. As I turned away, an unexpected feeling of happiness came over me. Who would’ve guessed that my sister, not me, would be the one to reach Casey?
My first instinct had been a twinge of jealousy; however, that quickly passed. Margaret, so judgmental and disapproving of Casey, had been patient enough to teach the girl crocheting. I was grateful for her kindness.
Maybe there was hope for all of us—Casey, Margaret and me.