Читать книгу Blossom Street Bundle - Debbie Macomber - Страница 63

“Remember that you need two socks. How to achieve this feat? Knit both at the same time, and release the idea that they need to be identical!”

—Deborah Robson, knitter, writer, publisher of knitting books

www.nomad-press.com

LYDIA HOFFMAN

I try to spend at least part of every weekend with my mother. It’s been difficult for her since Dad died. Difficult for all of us. I so regret that Brad never had the opportunity to meet my father. I feel certain they would have liked each other. My dad was open and friendly, and he always found something positive in everyone he met. He had a kind word and usually a joke or two; even when I was at my sick-and-despairing worst, he could make me smile. No one told a story better than my father. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about him, because it seems that he’s on my mind more and more instead of less.

The adjustment to life without my dad has been hardest on Mom, though; she’s aged ten years in the last fourteen months. She’s emotionally shrunken—I don’t know what else to call it. She’s become frail and sad and uninterested in much. And she’s shrunk physically, too, as if her body is reflecting her inner state, which is one of grief, of diminished expectations. In fact, at her last doctor’s appointment, we learned that Mom is a full inch shorter than she was a few years ago.

The results of her osteoporosis tests aren’t back yet. All at once, Mom has a number of medical problems, and I attribute this decline in her health not only to grief but to loneliness. My father was her anchor, her companion.

Although it sounds like a cliché, it seems as though part of her is missing; without him, she can’t function the way she once did. I understand that, and to some degree I experience the same feeling. Dad was such a vital part of the woman I am.

When I arrived early Sunday afternoon, I found my mother in the backyard pruning her roses, fussing over them. Her flower garden is her pride, one of the few things she still cares about. She prunes the roses, she tells me, so they’ll grow stronger. I consider Dad’s death in the same light. Losing him helped me discern what was important in my life, what was real. Mostly, I needed to find my own path to happiness and to accept the challenges of independence. It was losing my father that gave me the courage to enlarge my life, and I did this by opening my own store—and through my relationship with Brad.

I stood in the open doorway watching her for a few minutes. Caught up in her gardening, Mom didn’t hear me. She had on a big straw hat to shield her face from the sun and wore her green garden gloves. There was a bucket at her side in which she dumped the clippings. I didn’t want to frighten her so I called her name softly.

“Lydia!” Mom turned toward me as I stepped out of the house. “I thought you’d be here sooner.”

“So did I, but I got sidetracked after church.”

“By Brad and Cody?”

I nodded. “I’m meeting them in an hour. We’re going to walk around Green Lake.” The three-mile stroll was good exercise and I get far less of that than I should. Brad, on the other hand, is in marvelous shape and can run circles around me. Cody has a golden retriever named Chase—because of his terrible habit of chasing after everything and everyone. Cody would probably bring his dog, but he’d been warned to keep Chase on his leash. Maybe I’d get a book on dog-training and work with Cody to teach him some basic commands. Anyway, this afternoon would be fun and I was half tempted to take my in-line skates, just so I could keep up with the two—or rather, three—of them.

My mother’s hand trembled as she snipped another branch. I’d noticed the shaking more often lately. “What did you have for lunch, Mom?” I asked. Her eating habits were atrocious, and Margaret and I worried that she wasn’t getting the nutrition she needed. We also worried about her medications. My fear was that some days she took more than prescribed and on others she skipped them entirely.

“What did I eat for lunch?” Mom repeated as though she needed to think about this.

“Lunch, Mom?” I coaxed gently.

“Tuna and crackers,” she recalled and looked at me with such a triumphant smile that I smiled back.

Still, I had to ask, “That’s all?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry. Now, don’t pester me by insisting I eat when I don’t have an appetite. Your father used to do that. I didn’t like it then and I refuse to listen to it now.”

“All right, Mom.” I’d leave it for now, but we’d have to check out some alternatives. Meals on Wheels, perhaps. Or a part-time housekeeper if, between us, Margaret and I could afford one. I’d discuss it with her soon.

“Next Sunday is Father’s Day,” Mom pointed out. “Will you take me to the cemetery? I’d like to put a vase of my roses on your dad’s grave.”

“Of course. Margaret and I will both come.” I was speaking out of turn and hoped my sister would agree to accompany us. She’d been so prickly and out of sorts lately. The closeness we’d briefly shared had evaporated like a shallow rain puddle in the sun. Whatever was wrong, she didn’t feel comfortable enough to share it with me, and frankly, that hurt. We’ve come a long way in our relationship, but it was situations such as this that reminded me how far we had yet to go.

As if the strength had gone out of her legs, Mom reached for a patio chair and sat down. Lifting the hat from her head, she wiped her forehead with one arm. “My goodness, it’s hot.”

I glanced at the temperature gauge my father had hung on the side of the house, and it read seventy-four degrees, which surprised me because it didn’t feel that warm. Of course, my mother had been working outside for at least an hour, more likely two.

“Would you like to go out for dinner, Mom?” I asked, thinking that would be a treat for us both.

“No, thank you, honey. I’m not hungry. I met Dorothy Wallace at the Pancake Breakfast the Knights of Columbus held after Mass and we ate our fill.”

Translated, she had one small pancake without butter or syrup, followed by a lunch of tuna and crackers, and she’d probably skip dinner altogether.

“Besides, Margaret phoned and she’s stopping by with the girls later this afternoon.”

Some of my worry left me. Margaret would make sure Mom had a decent meal at the end of the day.

“She enjoys working with you,” my mother continued. “She’s not one to say it, but she does.”

I wondered if I should mention my concerns about my sister. I decided against it, although Margaret had been weighing heavily on my mind since my conversation with Brad earlier in the week. There was no need to bring Mom into this. She’d certainly mention my concerns to my sister, and that would infuriate Margaret; she would resent me for discussing her with Mom, and then I’d hear about it for weeks.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

Her smile was distracted. “I’d love a glass of iced tea.”

I went inside and poured one for each of us, then added slices of lemon. Several other lemons had shriveled up and I tossed them without telling Mom. A quick look in the refrigerator had revealed a carton of milk a month past its expiry date and a package of liquefying spinach. I’d tossed those too. When I returned to the patio, Mom had replaced the hat and was sitting with her back to the sun.

I joined her and handed her the glass, savoring the warm sunshine against my skin, the sound of birds in the distance along with the swish, swish of the sprinkler watering the lawn.

“Tell me about the shop,” Mom suggested. “Did you get in any new yarn this week?”

She especially enjoyed the stories about my customers; so many of them had become my friends, especially Jacqueline, Carol and Alix, my original class members. We’ve created a real bond, the four of us, and it’s rare for me not to see them during the week. If nothing else, one or two always showed up for the charity knitting session on Fridays.

I talked nonstop for almost twenty minutes about the shop and described the three women who’d recently signed up for the sock class. The one who interested Mom most was Courtney Pulanski, the seventeen-year-old granddaughter of Vera Pulanski, a regular.

“I’m thinking of holding a potluck once a month,” I said, wanting her opinion on this new idea—partly to allow her to feel involved and partly because I trusted her instincts. Over the years, she’d been a valuable sounding board to my father in his businesses.

“Do you have room at the store?”

“I think so, if I do a bit of shuffling.” When I first opened my doors, there was room to set up a large table for classes, but as I’d brought in additional lines of yarn, much of that space had disappeared. Now the table, which sat six people, was surrounded by several displays.

“Are you sure you want food around all that yarn?”

My mother echoed my own reservations. “I thought we’d sit at the table where I hold my classes and put the food on a card table in the office.”

My mother raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “It might work, but what would be the purpose of these monthly potlucks?”

Good question. “Well, I want my customers to get to know one another. Plus, when one person shows the others what she’s knitted, it inspires them.” It was for this very reason that I often knit up patterns for display in the shop. “You could join us, Mom,” I said enthusiastically. “Margaret and I would love that.” As often as possible, I try to include her. Both Margaret and I work at giving Mom little things to look forward to so she feels active and alive.

From the way Mom frowned, I doubt she heard me. “Hold a monthly show-and-tell session and keep the food out of it. If you want to eat, go to a restaurant afterward.”

I liked that idea. “Thanks, Mom.”

I could tell she was pleased I’d come to her for advice. I’m sure it’s something she missed, since she’d so often taken that role with my father. We sat and chatted for another thirty minutes and then I left to meet Brad and Cody.

They were in the parking lot at Green Lake waiting for me, Chase tugging at the leash.

“Hi,” I called as I climbed out of the car. Chase wasn’t the only one eager for this outing.

Cody raced over to the car and briefly hugged me. “Can we go now?”

His father patted his head. “Okay, sport, but don’t get too far ahead of us, all right? And hold on to Chase.”

Cody didn’t take time to answer. He was off like a rocket, boy and dog together, Cody’s young legs pumping with an energy I envied.

Brad and I started walking at a brisk pace. As always on a sunny weekend day, the place was crowded with people and dogs. We passed a man with a guitar who sat on the grass strumming folk songs and a toddler chasing after a butterfly. There were a couple of canoes close to the shore. Brad and I walked side by side, keeping an eye out for Cody and Chase.

“How’s your mother?” he asked, knowing I’d spent part of the afternoon with her.

Right then, I didn’t want to launch into a long discussion about my anxiety over Mom. That conversation wasbest reserved for Margaret, and I’d initiate it soon. “She’s about the same,” I said, which was true enough. “My sister and the girls are visiting later today. Mom needs that.”

“Speaking of Margaret, has she said anything to you?”

“About what?” I asked cautiously.

Brad reached for my hand and we entwined our fingers. I smiled up at him, forgetting Margaret. It’s times like these, when we’re feeling close and connected, that I get lost in a sensation of such bliss I can barely contain myself. Like any woman, I hunger for love, marriage, a family. Because of the cancer, I didn’t think I’d ever have that chance. Every single day, I was grateful all over again for Brad, grateful to have him in my life, grateful to be loved by him despite my imperfections and flaws. He says the fact that I’ve battled cancer not once but twice makes me a two-time winner. I am a winner and I feel so incredibly blessed.

“I think I know what Margaret’s problem might be,” Brad said, jolting me out of my reflection.

“You do?” I was a little reluctant to talk about Margaret at the moment; I preferred to revel in my own contentment.

“Yeah. I ran into Matt at the hardware store yesterday afternoon,” Brad told me.

My brother-in-law is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. I consider him a good balance for my sister, who usually has a pessimistic slant on things. Matt doesn’t take life as seriously as she does. I find that he doesn’t overreact the way she tends to and—even more appealing—he never holds grudges.

“What did Matt have to say?” The four of us had gone out on occasion, and Brad and Matt had hit if off. Margaret invited us over for dinner a few months ago, and we’d played cards until the wee hours of the morning. I’d hoped to see more of them socially, but so far we hadn’t.