Kate Jacobs (38 page)

* * *

James had been in and out of the shop to pick
up Dakota and such, but he had been spending most of his available time at the
hospital. Then he'd stop by his East Side apartment to get a change of clothes
and return to sleep on the couch in Georgia's apartment, just to feel close to
his family. He got up early so Cat wouldn't notice he wasn't sleeping in the
bedroom; it was too lonely without his Georgia next to him.
He had taken several days off work when she'd first had the surgery, then gone
back, saving up his vacation days for the chemo to come. Still, he showed up at
twelve-fifteen daily, using his lunch hour to sit at her bedside and tell her
jokes; he came back later for the evening visit, annoying the nursing staff by
staying too late.
"I figured you'd cut and run," Georgia said to him after a few
visits, a teasing tone but real sentiment underneath.
"Oh, cutting and running," he said. "Been there, done
that."
He tried little ways to make her feel better, buying her an iPod and
downloading her favorite songs, bringing framed photos of Dakota to put at her
bedside, finally buying a knitting book and reading aloud the patterns.
"You do one
kay
, then one pee, asterisk, repeat
five," he read. "Then
yo
,
kay
two tee, and
yo
again. This
is wild stuff, isn't it?"
"It's awesome," she said. "You're doing great. Keep going."
He sat up late with his daughter in the apartment, trying to be reassuring but
really just faking his way through answering all her questions—"I don't
know" does not bring a restful night's sleep to a worried
thirteen-year-old—and he brought in sandwiches and coffee from Marty's, just to
do something to thank the women from Georgia's club who were covering the shop.
He and Anita kept up with their lunches, in a manner of speaking, now meeting
for quick bites in the hospital cafeteria between sitting with Georgia and
talking to doctors and trying to get in as much work as possible.
His mother, Lillian, even took the train from Baltimore and brought a selection
of homemade casseroles, making sure that he and Dakota could have a home-cooked
meal. And she brought a card and a plant for Georgia.
"She doesn't need a woman she just met barging into her hospital room and
getting up into her business," Lillian explained. "But she does
deserve to know we're thinking of her and wishing her a speedy recovery."
Sometimes it made him feel worse, everyone being so understanding and
thoughtful, especially given the fact that he hadn't been around for very long.
"I don't deserve everyone being so kind," he confided in Anita, who
was heading into Georgia's room with her latest request: her red journal and
some pens.
"We don't always get what we deserve," she replied, patting James
over his heart. "Sometimes we get more; sometimes we get less. At least we
get something."

* * *

He'd insisted on carrying her up the stairs in
a wheelchair, turning it around and pulling her up backward. Which was good,
because she didn't fancy two steep flights, thank you very much. It was good to
be home, thought Georgia, sinking into the soft spots on her faded old couch,
noticing the large new window air-conditioning unit that James must have
bought.
The apartment was cool, unbelievably clean, and desperately quiet. Even though
there were five of them in the room.
"How do you feel?" asked Cat, breaking the silence. "Too cold?
Need a blanket?"
"I made you some cookies and fudge," interrupted Dakota. "Are
you hungry? Do you want both? Let me get it."
"Don't fuss so much—you'll excite her," warned James.
"I think she needs some sleep," Anita insisted. "I'll stay here
and you can all go get some dinner."
"Whoa, hold on there, folks." God, Georgia really loved all of them
so much. But they didn't know when to back off. "I am actually right in
front of you, so don't talk to me as if I'm not there. Next, I know what I
need, and it's a hug. Four of them, in fact. So line up, one after the other,
and let's go."
Ah, Georgia was back. Even if she was lying down on a sofa. The lady was in
control.
"Now bring on this fudge and let's call this a homecoming party,"
said Georgia, as everyone began to relax. "
Psst
,
Cat—you won't believe how much weight I've lost. I think I'll be borrowing your
clothes from now on."

* * *

Being at home wasn't easy, though, especially
as the new school year drew closer. Dakota went shopping with Cat and came home
with far too many new outfits, but Georgia just gave her a thumbs-up as Dakota
modeled each one, the glittery jeans and fluttery-sleeved tops and the bright
Lilly Pulitzer dresses. (She passed on the matching frock Cat bought for her.)
They'd been through so much, why not splurge on a little retail therapy?
She'd been home a few days, mostly on the couch, often in bed, when Cat gave
her a heads-up.
"The club wants to come up and have a meeting—a little one," she
said. "Are you up to it?"
She was. And so the Friday Night Knitting Club became, for one day, the
Friday-it's-still-afternoon Knitting Club, hanging a note on the shop door and
thundering up the stairs like a herd of little elephants. A round of hellos and
get-well cards later, and Darwin brought forward a large box wrapped in comics
as Georgia rested on the couch, her living room filled to bursting with women.
"Ta-
da
!" she said, as everyone clapped.
"Who knew getting sick would mean constant presents?" said Georgia,
tearing off the paper. With Anita's help, she lifted out the afghan.
"Whose idea was this?"
Another day, another Darwin would have jumped to the front of the line. But not
anymore. She hung back for a moment, then spoke up.
"It was the club's idea," she said. "A group effort."
Soon after Georgia let them in on her illness, Darwin had presented Lucie with
several afghan patterns she'd found on the Internet, trying to select the
prettiest blanket for Georgia.
"You do realize this would take me a long time to do—and I am, let's be
honest, pretty good with a pair of needles," Lucie had pointed out
matter-of-factly to the lacy extravaganzas. "Why don't we come up with
something simpler? I mean, where are you with things right now?"
"I can do a pretty mean garter stitch," said Darwin. "I've been
working on the hem of the sweater back and it's looking fine. Check it
out." She brought forth fifteen rows of heather-gray garter hanging off
her needle.
"Isn't it a little, uh, substantial for the hem?"
"Oh, I'm getting creative, mixing it up."
"But it won't match the front. That has a much shorter hem," said
Lucie. "And I thought you got tired with doing the front—did you even get
to the neck?"
"Nope. I bought a second set of needles and just started the back before I
finished the front. I just like hems."
"Darwin, most people don't invent a pattern for their very first project,
you know that, right?"
"I know. But I'm not like most people." Darwin was confident, beaming
with pride over her little piece. "I'm generally advanced."
"How long did this hem take you?"
"Four hours."
Lucie let out a breath.
"So here's what we're going to do," she said. "We can make this
afghan thing happen, but we're going to have to get the whole club involved.
And I mean everybody."
She was Johnny-on-the-spot by the next meeting; Georgia had barely been in the
hospital by that point. But Darwin had handed out photocopies of the basic
pattern with zeal (thanks in no small part to Lucie): a basket-weave pattern in
which everyone would do one long—but thin—row. On big needles—size fifteen—with
the softest, chunkiest machine-washable acrylic in the store.
"So, okay, cast on 38 and do 16 rows of garter stitch—my favorite,"
explained Darwin to the room of K.C.,
Peri
, Anita,
Lucie, and Dakota, who had just come back with Anita from the evening visit at
the hospital. A few of the more frequent drop-ins were also in the shop, and
they took photocopies as well. "That's the border. Then we'll do 8 rows as
follows: knit 4, purl 5, knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, knit 4. Then
do 8 rows this way: knit 4, knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, purl 5,
knit 4. Repeat 30 times. Then finish up with 16 rows of garter stitch. It's
still my favorite."
She had grinned with excitement, imaging the moment when she would show Georgia
the blanket she had organized. A little bit of a thank-you, you know? For
everything.
Now the finished product was in Georgia's hand, a rainbow of sorts. Darwin had
let everyone pick out their own colors and that may not have been the wisest
choice, she realized. But still, the afghan had that particular kind of beauty
that appears when something is made with love.
Lucie had sewn all the pieces together, making them fit quite well, even though
the tensions had all been so different. Darwin's stitches were tight, her
frustrations and anxieties over Dan squeezed into every row of forest green.
K.C.'s
section was a Silverman Special, the yellow littered
with mistakes and lines in which she'd mixed up the knit and purl. Anita hadn't
slept in weeks, even with her sleep mask to fight the apnea, kept awake by her
constant fretting over Georgia, and had found the time to do a long, white
section that formed the middle of the afghan, the stitches even more stunningly
perfect when flanked by the segments done by Darwin and K.C.
Lucie had made certain to do both end sections, one in a bold pink and another
in red, so that the edges were smooth.
Peri
had
quickly knitted up a sky-blue segment—Georgia's favorite color, she knew. Then
she had worked on another in dark blue, making a point to ask Dakota to knit
some rows and then, with great care, giving the needles to Cat for the final
garter-stitch border, placing her own fingers over Cat's hands to work the
stitches for her.
"It's amazing." Georgia was genuinely moved. "But I guess this
means you're all behind on your sleeves!"

thirty-one

Zero
zero
zero
zero
zero
zero
. She counted the numbers
once, then twice. A tidy sum,
indeed. Cat had figured that receiving a big fat check from Adam—it was
actually a wire transfer—would make her feel secure. Finished. Complete.
Instead, she once again found herself with the sense that she was lost, while
everyone else knew where they were going. Georgia had been home for weeks and
was recovering with ease, building up her strength for the chemo that would
start by the middle of September. But she was already spending part of every
day in the shop, and made a point to get up with Dakota in the mornings. Cat
was still sleeping on the
Aerobed
, but lately she'd
sensed that it wasn't so much that she was needed to help out as mother and
daughter were reluctant to upset their rich little transient.
"I need a career," she told Georgia for the umpteenth time, eating
her Cheerios dry. "No, really, I do."
"Have you heard back from anyone about your résumé?"
"Got a few calls when you were in the hospital, but it just wasn't a good
time for me."
"You're never going to get hired with that attitude, Cat."
"I just want to be like you, Georgia," she said. "Inspired by
something I love."
"Oh, please," said Georgia. "I was single and pregnant and
couldn't afford child care. I liked to knit! So poof I started a business? Um,
no."
"What?"
"I worked shifts at Marty's, knitting on commission, and then I got a big
fat loan from a major supporter."
"Anita."
"Right you are," said Georgia. "Cat, I'll let you in on a little
secret. We don't all love our jobs every day. And doing something you have a
passion for doesn't make the work part of it any easier."
"It doesn't?"
"No, it just makes you less likely to quit."

* * *

The first session—on a Friday—had been fine.
Really. Cat had gone with her as they hooked her up to the chemo drugs and
waited; the nurses were chatty and upbeat, and frankly, it didn't seem so bad.
There was even a little gift at the end of the treatment, courtesy of Cat: a
pair of gorgeous diamond earrings set in platinum.
"I figured they're putting platinum into your body with those drugs, we might
as well put a little on it, too," said Cat, pretending to be casual.
"It's a little motivational technique: you show up, you get a present for
every session."
"Part of your life-coach thing?"
"Part of my support-Georgia's-life thing."
But she didn't need any extra motivators that first time. In fact, Georgia felt
good enough after that initial round of chemo to go back to work, had even
stayed up a little late to hang out at club, admiring Darwin's mismatched (and
unfinished) front and back of the sweater, had even given her a new pair of
needles to start on the sleeves.
"She's all yours," she said to Lucie, who had finished her own
sleeves up quite nicely and bound off, all her pieces ready to go. (Not to
mention the entire layette she'd worked up on her own time, while waiting for
all the slowpokes to get on with it.)
"Now I see why we started on a wintry sweater," added K.C., suffering
through the increase on the sleeves of her baby sweater. "Because it takes
a fucking year to make one of these things."
"I thought all that practice on the afghan would have made your needles
move a little faster, K.C.?"
"Oh, please, honey," she said. "I knit that
afghanistan
out of sheer fear." K.C. winked at Georgia. "I'm glad to see you back
around here, kid."
And they spent the rest of the session focusing on K.C., who was going to take
her LSAT the next day; they took turns shouting out questions and Cat offered
words of inspiration she'd gleaned from one of her many self-help books.
"If it's meant to be," Cat told K.C., "it will be."
"Oh, blow it out your ear," K.C. answered. "If I don't kick ass
on this thing, I'm going to spend the rest of my life packaging purses for one
Miss
Peri
Gayle, handbag designer."
"Gee, not like I even pay you," said
Peri
,
who was using almost all of her free time and a good chunk of her working hours
on her bag line.
"Yeah, that's the worst part about it," said K.C., who then asked if
she could borrow Georgia's iPod to play Queen's "We Are the
Champions" before taking her test.
"But of course," said Georgia, reclining in the leather desk chair
that Anita had rolled out of her office. "If the seventies inspire, who am
I to stand in your way?"
It was standard club. Lots of chatting, too much eating, a teeny amount of
knitting getting done.