the same time feeling like she might stop breathing if she had to take it.
Knitting might help. She took out the green sock she’d been working on for months. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in enthusiasm. Or at least she hoped her enjoyment of knitting would help hide the two holes she’d already left behind, one in the toe, the other at the heel. She was knitting them toe up and would stop eventually, when they were long enough. Her friend Lily had said they were ugly. “Puke green, that’s what that is. That yarn should be illegal.”
Lily. She’d almost told her. Almost spilled the diagnosis a few weeks before when they’d met at a coffee shop to knit together. “I know you’re hiding something,” Lily had said. Her nimble fingers made the lacework she was doing look easy.
Nora had held her sock in progress crumpled in her fist. She’dgotten as far as, “I . . . ,” before her voice stopped as if she’d swallowed a cork.
She and Lily had met two years before, when Nora had shown up at a stitch-n-bitch. Nora herself knitted a little bit, just like she quilted and crocheted and scrapbooked. She knew how. These women were different—knitting was their language, how they moved through the world. They recorded what they believed by the yarn they held. Nora’s recorder on the couch next to her, her notebook on her lap, she’d attempted to divine from the knitters what it meant to them—this yarn-as-life movement.
Is it a reclamation of the domesticity of the hearth?
she’d asked.
Does it bring you back to your roots? Were your grandmothers shepherdesses? Do you feel wisdom in the fiber?
Lily had pushed down her oversized black glasses and said, “Cut the shit. We just like to drink wine together. This is more fun than a damn book club. Put your recorder away, huh? Just knit with us.” They’d been close friends since that moment.
But that morning, a few weeks ago, Nora hadn’t been able to tell her. Lily had known something was wrong, but she’d just waved her ice blue yarn in her direction. “Just knit, darlin’. Tell me if you want to. I’m here. Till then I’m going to tell you how I found not one, not two, but
three
vaporizers in my son’s room. I would think if you had one, you wouldn’t need another one, right? How much weed can one eighteen-year-old smoke? Or vape, or whatever it is they’re doing these days.” She threw her yarn over the needle with a sigh. “Be glad you have a girl. Boys are the
worst
.”
Nora had gone home, the destructive secret still caught inside her. She couldn’t believe she’d even considered telling Lily before Mariana. Before Ellie. If she said it out loud, it might make it true, it might make her believe it, and while she was
almost
there, it still wasn’t real. Not quite yet. When she told Mariana, it would be true. When she told Ellie, she might stop breathing forever.
The Alcatraz boat rolled with a wake and Nora felt her stomach answer. Ellie giggled and pointed happily to something on her screen. Mariana nodded and said something Nora couldn’t catch.
Suddenly Nora couldn’t remember the last time she and Ellie had slept in the same bed. Ellie always used to want her to climb in bed with her. God, could it have been two years? Was she fourteen the last time they fell asleep listening to each other’s breathing? Or thirteen? Was this the disease? Or just a misplaced memory that anyone could have lost?
Nora missed Ellie desperately, and she was only a chair away on the other side of her twin. How much worse would it get? The balls of Nora’s feet ached with longing. If only she could just reach around Mariana and wrap a tendril of Ellie’s hair around her finger. For that matter, she wanted to grab the edge of Mariana’s wool coat and dig her fingers in and hold on, long after the ferry docked and the tourists departed. They’d be the last three on the boat. Nora would be wrapped in and around Mariana and Ellie, her feet
Knitting might help. She took out the green sock she’d been working on for months. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in enthusiasm. Or at least she hoped her enjoyment of knitting would help hide the two holes she’d already left behind, one in the toe, the other at the heel. She was knitting them toe up and would stop eventually, when they were long enough. Her friend Lily had said they were ugly. “Puke green, that’s what that is. That yarn should be illegal.”
Lily. She’d almost told her. Almost spilled the diagnosis a few weeks before when they’d met at a coffee shop to knit together. “I know you’re hiding something,” Lily had said. Her nimble fingers made the lacework she was doing look easy.
Nora had held her sock in progress crumpled in her fist. She’dgotten as far as, “I . . . ,” before her voice stopped as if she’d swallowed a cork.
She and Lily had met two years before, when Nora had shown up at a stitch-n-bitch. Nora herself knitted a little bit, just like she quilted and crocheted and scrapbooked. She knew how. These women were different—knitting was their language, how they moved through the world. They recorded what they believed by the yarn they held. Nora’s recorder on the couch next to her, her notebook on her lap, she’d attempted to divine from the knitters what it meant to them—this yarn-as-life movement.
Is it a reclamation of the domesticity of the hearth?
she’d asked.
Does it bring you back to your roots? Were your grandmothers shepherdesses? Do you feel wisdom in the fiber?
Lily had pushed down her oversized black glasses and said, “Cut the shit. We just like to drink wine together. This is more fun than a damn book club. Put your recorder away, huh? Just knit with us.” They’d been close friends since that moment.
But that morning, a few weeks ago, Nora hadn’t been able to tell her. Lily had known something was wrong, but she’d just waved her ice blue yarn in her direction. “Just knit, darlin’. Tell me if you want to. I’m here. Till then I’m going to tell you how I found not one, not two, but
three
vaporizers in my son’s room. I would think if you had one, you wouldn’t need another one, right? How much weed can one eighteen-year-old smoke? Or vape, or whatever it is they’re doing these days.” She threw her yarn over the needle with a sigh. “Be glad you have a girl. Boys are the
worst
.”
Nora had gone home, the destructive secret still caught inside her. She couldn’t believe she’d even considered telling Lily before Mariana. Before Ellie. If she said it out loud, it might make it true, it might make her believe it, and while she was
almost
there, it still wasn’t real. Not quite yet. When she told Mariana, it would be true. When she told Ellie, she might stop breathing forever.
The Alcatraz boat rolled with a wake and Nora felt her stomach answer. Ellie giggled and pointed happily to something on her screen. Mariana nodded and said something Nora couldn’t catch.
Suddenly Nora couldn’t remember the last time she and Ellie had slept in the same bed. Ellie always used to want her to climb in bed with her. God, could it have been two years? Was she fourteen the last time they fell asleep listening to each other’s breathing? Or thirteen? Was this the disease? Or just a misplaced memory that anyone could have lost?
Nora missed Ellie desperately, and she was only a chair away on the other side of her twin. How much worse would it get? The balls of Nora’s feet ached with longing. If only she could just reach around Mariana and wrap a tendril of Ellie’s hair around her finger. For that matter, she wanted to grab the edge of Mariana’s wool coat and dig her fingers in and hold on, long after the ferry docked and the tourists departed. They’d be the last three on the boat. Nora would be wrapped in and around Mariana and Ellie, her feet
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