The Knitting Circle Read online

  “It took eight more years before he died. But we stepped out of that catalogue and into hell right then. Our world became T-cell counts and bottles of pills and late-night emergency trips to the hospital. One morning, early, I’m having coffee at her house after another night spent in the ER hoping they can save his life one more time, and Alice comes around the corner with these knitting needles the size of batons and this gorgeous Rowan chunky yarn and she says, ‘Just sit here and knit.’ She showed me what to do, and I sat at that table for four hours and then I had a scarf finished. My hands stopped shaking along the way and my heart stopped pounding and all I thought about was putting one needle into one loop of yarn and pulling it out.

  “Next thing I know, she’s got both of us knitting. You wait in enough doctors’ waiting rooms, or spend enough hours in hospitals, and you can knit a whole fucking wardrobe. Pretty soon, we’re going to the Wednesday night knitting circle. Different people back then. But Ellen was there. Bridget was only seven or eight.

  “That’s how I became friends with Ellen. She understood. I met her at the knitting circle and she had the same life as I did. Everything was about keeping the person she loved alive. Everything. But I couldn’t do it and she could. I failed.”

  “No!” Mary said. “Medicine failed.”

  “I’ve got to go see her,” he said. “Ellen, I mean. Talk about a lousy friend. I’ve been trying to figure out if all that time we both were helping each other through these medical emergencies and navigating these horrible conditions and watching our loved ones failing, were we expecting them both to die? Or to live? Because I keep feeling like one of us didn’t keep our promise to the other. I’m just not sure which one it is, her or me.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow,” Mary said. “We’ll bring something really decadent. Expensive chocolates or champagne.”

  “When your husband comes back, are you going to drop me?” Roger said.

  “He’s not coming back,” she said.

  “He’ll come to his senses,” Roger said.

  “I won’t drop you,” Mary told him.

  THE NEXT DAY, another beautiful sunny spring day, Mary and Roger drove together to Ellen’s apartment. Even her bleak neighborhood looked bright. In the park, Hmong families were having a party of some kind. Families dressed in elaborately embroidered outfits played music and ate food spread on folding tables. The sound of children’s laughter split the air. Two men walking identical pugs passed by, then a group of women pushing babies in strollers.

  Mary carried an oversized bottle of Veuve Clicquot and Roger had a balloon bouquet and a box of handmade chocolates wrapped with a giant gold bow. They went inside, up the stairs, to Ellen’s door, which was slightly ajar.

  Right outside it, Roger paused to hug Mary. “We are happy,” he whispered to her. “Remember that.”

  Then he pushed open the door.

  “Ta-da!” he shouted in his biggest voice.

  Bridget came running into the room, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, healthy. She ran into Roger’s arms, giggling. Ellen came in right behind her. Mary watched her face light up when she saw that Roger had come.

  “Honey,” Roger said, studying Bridget at arm’s length, “that new heart of yours has done wonders for you. Why, you’re positively gorgeous!”

  It seemed to Mary that Ellen looked stunned by the turn of events in her life.

  “Mary,” Roger said, “what in the world are you waiting for? Pop that cork!”

  Mary let the sweet foam of champagne spill down her hands and arms, in celebration. Ellen ran to get glasses, and returned with a collection of Winnie-the-Pooh jelly jars, holding them out for Mary to fill.

  “To life,” Roger said, looking directly at Mary.

  “To life,” she repeated.

  16

  THE KNITTING CIRCLE

  BY SUMMER, THE knitting circle met in the empty new frame of Big Alice’s Sit and Knit. Without a roof, sunlight poured into the shell. The women sat on beach chairs, slathered sunscreen on their arms and faces, and knit with cotton yarn: floppy hats, light lap blankets for cool summer nights. Someone always brought a pitcher of cocktails. Someone always brought snacks. They met earlier, while the sun was still bright, and knit until dusk. Even then they sometimes stayed on, sipping the last of their drinks, watered down from melted ice, and running their fingers across empty platters for the crumbs and bits left behind.

  At first, Beth arrived for these Wednesday nights with crab Rangoon or rounds of baguettes smeared with sun-dried tomatoes whipped with cream cheese. Her blond hair was short and chic, wisps of pale curls that showed off her angular cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes. She had end-of-the-year school pictures of her kids, all in their school uniforms—white shirts and blue ties for the boys; Peter Pan collars and plaid jumpers for the girls. Even Mary admired the straight parts and neat braids Beth had made. Holding the pictures, staring into a child’s gap-toothed grin, Mary remembered what a failure she had been at pigtails and braids, how slippery and impossible Stella’s hair had felt beneath her hands.

  Mary heard herself gasp. Scarlet’s eyes met hers, but there were no words to describe how in that moment her memory had become something pleasing instead of painful. Remembering the baby-shampoo smell of Stella’s hair, envisioning the flesh on the back of her daughter’s neck, had almost felt good, Mary realized. But right on the heels of that realization, she saw how her hand trembled when she passed the pictures to Ellen.

  It was Lulu who brought the tiki torches. She set them up in the dirt outside the frame of the store. Even though walls were going up, there were still enough empty spaces to let the flicker of the lights filter in. Then Scarlet hung red Chinese lanterns across the trees, and Harriet brought in an oversized silver candelabra—“a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary gift,” she explained, setting it on the small green plastic table that someone—Ellen, maybe—had picked up at Wal-Mart one afternoon.

  In July, after the Fourth, when everyone had returned from a long weekend of cookouts or trips to the beach, Beth came empty-handed.

  Harriet settled into her chair with the margarita Lulu offered her, and immediately began talking about the barbecue Beth had hosted.

  “She grilled portobello mushrooms,” Harriet boasted. “They were this big, weren’t they, Beth?” she said, holding her hands together to form a large circle. “So many vegetarians these days,” Harriet said, shaking her head. “You always have to serve an alternative entrée. Not that I would necessarily. But Beth thinks of everything. Absolutely everything.”

  As Harriet spoke, Beth remained still, staring straight ahead and out the empty doorway.

  “The cake,” Harriet was saying, “was like a flag. White frosting. Strawberry stripes and a field of blueberries for the stars.”

  “It’s back,” Beth said. “My cancer.”

  The late afternoon sun poured through the roofless building, lighting each of the women, the reds and golds of their hair and the shine of sweat on their foreheads.

  “They used the word ‘palliative,’” Beth said. “I went this morning, Aunt Hennie, and they were all there, waiting for me, with their somber faces. I can read their faces, you know. And I knew this news wasn’t going to be good.”

  “Oh no,” Alice said.

  “Don’t!” Harriet said, glaring at Alice. “Just seven months ago they were all so certain she couldn’t beat that. And did she? Of course she did!”

  “Auntie,” Beth said. But that was all.

  Ice cubes tumbled in glasses, knitting needles clinked against each other, but otherwise the women were silent into the evening.

  THREE WEEKS LATER, on an overcast Wednesday afternoon, Beth arrived leaning heavily on a cane, Harriet supporting her under one elbow. A week earlier her husband had brought a chaise lounge, a long redwood one with brightly striped cushions and a back that could be raised and lowered several notches. She eased onto this now and closed her eyes briefly while Harriet settled into the chair beside he
r. Harriet pulled out her knitting and began working in rapid sharp motions.

  Slowly, the other women got back to their own work. Ellen hummed softly. This was something she had started doing after Bridget came home. The sound was pure and lilting, and comforting somehow.

  After a while, Mary saw that Beth wasn’t knitting. Her eyes were open, her face impassive.

  “Did you have a treatment this morning?” Mary asked her.

  Beth had been getting chemo most mornings ever since she gave them the news.

  “They’ve stopped them,” she said.

  Harriet looked at Beth. “Already?” she said.

  “It’s not working, Auntie,” Beth said. “It’s just making me sick. Too sick to hold my babies. To sick to go to a Little League game or for an ice cream cone.”

  “But you can’t stop the treatments,” Harriet said, her eyes wild. “You have to keep going.”

  Mary noticed then that Beth’s left arm was grotesquely swollen and purple. She cradled it tenderly with her right arm.

  “You’re a brave one,” Alice said, her accent thick and strong.

  “You are a brave, brave woman.”

  The next two Wednesdays it rained, and the knitting circle didn’t meet. Mary used the time to finally visit Holly. She’d had her son Jasper a few weeks earlier. He was ten pounds, red-faced, and angry-looking. Mary brought him the sweater she’d knit that spring, and gerbera daisies for Holly. But even the vivid blue and green yarn and bright pink flowers did not help Holly’s spirits.

  “I’m not quite getting why this is considered such a wonderful experience,” Holly said. “I mean, it hurt like hell, my tits are leaking like crazy, and I’m sore.”

  Mary glanced around the apartment. All of the shades were drawn, and the sharp smell of diapers hung over everything. Mary looked at the unmade bed, the stack of dirty dishes, the pile of laundry.

  “First thing,” she told Holly, “we open the shades and let in some light. Then you’re going to point me in the direction of the Dumpster and the washing machine.” Mary remembered how Scarlet and Lulu had done these things for her. How they reached out to rescue her. “And then,” she added, “you are going to take a shower, put on clean clothes, and get out of this apartment.”

  “Yeah. Right,” Holly said. “Yesterday I washed both of us and got us dressed and got as far as the car before he pooped all over me. It isn’t worth all the work.”

  “It is,” Mary said softly. “You’ll see.”

  She walked around the small apartment, carefully opening each shade. By the time she’d emptied the diaper pail and put in a load of laundry, Holly had put the daisies in a makeshift vase.

  “Well, it looks better and it smells better in here,” Mary said.

  “Now get out. I’m giving you an hour all by yourself.”

  Holly handed Jasper to Mary.

  “I don’t know how I can thank you—” she began. But Mary shooed her out the door.

  When Mary held Jasper, she was surprised by his heft, how solid he felt in her arms. She remembered as if she had dreamed it, how fragile Stella had felt. Again, the warmth of the memory washed over her, before the pain cut into her.

  The next Wednesday, the diaper pail was clean and the shades were up, rain splattering against the windows noisily. Holly was already showered and dressed, grinning as she eased Jasper into Mary’s arms.

  THE RAIN LEFT hotter, stickier air. The knitting circle met, grateful that the roof was half done and now blocked out a good deal of the August sun.

  Lulu poured margaritas, chattering about the best tequila and the importance of using fresh limes. Scarlet set out platters of empanadas and Ellen brought bowls of chips and salsa.

  All the Mexican food made Mary think of her mother who had called just before she left, inviting her to come for Labor Day weekend. “Four days,” she’d said. “A short little visit.” “Sorry,” Mary had told her. She hadn’t had the energy to tell her mother about Dylan, to hear herself try to sound like it was fine that he was gone, to make light of her marriage falling apart.

  The sound of something large and noisy arriving forced Mary out of her thoughts.

  Harriet was pushing Beth in a wheelchair across the graveled and bumpy ground. Beth’s head lolled oddly, and Mary stepped outside, walking quickly toward them to help.

  As she moved closer, she saw that something had happened. Beth’s eyes were both glassy, but her left eye drooped and that side of her mouth drooped as well. Her arm was even more swollen and discolored, and she seemed to be having trouble holding up her head.

  “I told her not to come until she felt better,” Harriet said.

  “But she insisted.”

  Beth said something but her speech was too garbled for Mary to understand. Mary kneeled at Beth’s side. “What, Beth?” she asked her.

  “To say goodbye,” Beth managed.

  Mary squeezed Beth’s hand, unsure of what to say. She straightened and told Harriet, “Let me push her.”

  “It’s bad,” Harriet whispered, grabbing hold of Mary’s arm and clutching it tight. “It’s in her brain. Look what it’s doing to her. They’re giving her morphine, but they say that’s all they can do.”

  Mary hugged Harriet close to her, surprised by the older woman’s strong arms.

  “We have to hold ourselves together,” Mary said softly.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and prepare the others? I’ll take Beth from here.”

  Harriet took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Ready, Beth?” Mary said, bending close to her.

  Beth looked up at her with her one good eye. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My babies,” she said. “I don’t want to leave them.”

  “I know,” Mary said, willing herself not to cry.

  “Summer,” Beth said with great difficulty.

  “Summer?” Mary repeated.

  “Not good to die in summer.” She worked hard to get her words out so that Mary could understand. “Summer should be good memories,” she managed. “Fun. Ocean. Popsicles.”

  “Do you need help?” Scarlet called from the shop.

  Mary stood to give her a thumbs-up sign.

  “Beth?” she said, kneeling beside her again. “You have given them a lifetime of memories.”

  Mary thought of all those matching snowflake sweaters, the handmade Halloween costumes and the wall filled with turkeys made by their hands.

  “Those memories will be painful at first. But over time”—she stopped to hold back her own tears—“over time,” she continued, “they will bring them happiness. They will remember you, and they will smile.”

  “Promise?” Beth said.

  Scarlet was running down the path toward them.

  “Promise,” Mary said.

  THE NEXT WEDNESDAY was even hotter and more humid. Ellen set up a machine she said emitted carbon dioxide that kept mosquitoes away. Alice passed around bug spray. “With DEET,” she said. “That’s the only thing that works.”

  No one mentioned that Harriet and Beth hadn’t come.

  “That Beth,” Alice said, “can knit circles around me.”

  After the Chinese lanterns were lit and the tiki torches blazing, a car pulled up. Enough of the shop was built by now that the lights outside did not illuminate very much. In the still, hot air, the women paused to listen to the sound of one car door slamming shut and footsteps hurrying up the path that led to the shop.

  When Harriet appeared in the doorway she was a vague silhouette, lit dimly by the candles and the torches and the lanterns. She stood for a moment in the gaping doorway, then stepped into the half-finished room.

  “She’s gone,” she said softly.

  Ellen began to cry.

  “She suffered so much these last few days,” Harriet said.

  Alice wrapped her arms around her.

  “We’ll all go to the house tomorrow,” Alice said finally, stepping away from Harriet. She took her by the arm and led her to the chaise loun
ge, adjusting the back slightly.

  “I’ve lost everything now,” Harriet said.

  Mary heard herself saying that she still had her son, her home, her friends. The very words people had been telling her in her own bleak desperation. Were the words true? Mary wondered, even as she said them to Harriet.

  Scarlet poured a glass of the cold chardonnay she’d brought, and carried it over to Harriet.

  Then they sat, and slowly, each in their own time, returned to their knitting.

  “Aye,” Alice said, “that one could knit.”

  Everyone agreed.

  It grew darker, but they kept knitting. After a while, Ellen began to sing an old hymn, her voice lifting upward into the summer night.

  Part Nine

  COMMON SUFFERING

  Grief and sadness knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger than common joys.

  —ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE

  17

  MAMIE

  FROM HER OFFICE, Mary watched Jessica waddling down the hall. Jessica favored the new look in maternity wear: instead of hiding her belly, she flaunted it. At five months pregnant, even Mary had thought Jessica looked almost cute. But now that she was eight months pregnant, Mary found it unattractive. Even embarrassing. Today, Jessica was wearing low-cut black pants and a short sweater. Mary could see that her belly button had popped. Why didn’t she go on maternity leave already?

  Sighing, she swiveled her chair so that she faced the window instead of Jessica and her belly. When Jessica had announced a few weeks ago that she was definitely having a boy, Mary had been flooded with relief. Baby boys she could take. She could even enjoy them. Whenever Holly’s sister couldn’t babysit, Mary was happy to watch him for a while. But baby girls, little girls, girls in general, broke her heart.