“I figured,” Dylan had said, clutching the plane tickets in his hands like his life depended on them, “if we’re going to sit and cry all the time, we might as well sit and cry in Italy. Plus, you said something about learning Italian?”
His eyes were red-rimmed and he had lost weight, enough to show more lines in his face. He had one of those faces that wore lines well, and ever since she’d met him Mary had loved those creases. But now they made him look weary. His own eyes were changeable—brown with flecks of gold and green that could take on more color in certain weather or when he wore particular colors. But lately they had stayed flat brown, the bright green and gold almost gone completely.
She couldn’t disappoint him by telling him that even English was hard to manage, that memorizing verb conjugations and vocabulary words would be impossible. The only language she could speak was grief. How could he not know that?
Instead, she said, “I love you.” She did. She loved him. But even that didn’t feel like anything anymore.
They spent a very peaceful two weeks in a large rented farmhouse, with a cook who came each morning with fresh rolls, who made them fresh espresso and greeted them with a sumptuous dinner when they returned at dusk. The time passed peacefully, though mournfully. The change of scene and change of routine was healing, however, and Mary hoped that they might return with a somewhat changed attitude. But, of course, home only brought back the reality of their loss, their sadness returning powerfully.
That first night, as Mary stood unpacking olive oil and long strands of sun-dried tomatoes, the answering machine messages played into the kitchen.
“My name is Alice. I own Big Alice’s Sit and Knit—”
“The what?” Dylan said.
“Ssshhh,” Mary said.
“—if you come in early Tuesday morning I can teach you to knit myself. Any Tuesday really. Before eleven. See you then.”
“Knitting?” Dylan said. “You can’t even sew on a button.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “My mother.”
The second time Mary showed up at the Sit and Knit, she had her week’s work in a shopping bag. After Alice had sent her on her way the week before, Mary had taken to carrying her knitting everywhere. She was reluctant to admit her mother had been right; knitting quieted her brain. As soon as Stella’s face appeared in front of her, Mary dropped a stitch or tied a knot. Once she even dropped an entire needle and watched in horror as the chain of stitches fell from it to the floor.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to think of Stella. She just didn’t want to lose her mind from that thinking. The hospital scenes played over and over, making her want to scream; sometimes she did scream. That was the kind of calming the knitting brought. Yesterday she walked into the supermarket and saw the season’s first Seckel pears, tiny and amber. Stella’s favorites. Mary used to pack two in her lunch every day in the fall. Seeing them, Mary felt the panic rising in her and she turned and walked out quickly, leaving her basket with the bananas and grated Parmesan behind. In the car, after she had cried good and hard, she picked up her knitting and did one full row right there in the parking lot before she drove home.
Standing on the steps of the knitting shop that second morning, waiting for Alice to open for the day, Mary examined her work. She could tell that what she had worked on all week was a mess. In the middle a huge hole gaped at her, and the neat twenty-two stitches Alice had cast on for her had grown into at least twice that. One needle was clogged with yarn, wound so tight she could hardly fit the other needle into one of the loops.
“That’s a mess,” Alice said from behind her. Mary noticed she had on the same outfit, but with a different sweater, this one a sage green. It made Mary aware of how she must look to Alice. She had gained weight since Stella died, a good ten pounds, and wore the same black pants every day because they had an elastic waist. And she was still wearing flip-flops despite the fall chill. But the idea of searching for other shoes exhausted her.
She wiggled her naked toes and held out her knitting.
Alice didn’t even unlock the door. She just took Mary’s knitting and in one firm yank pulled the entire thing apart.
Mary gasped.“In my line of work, you fix things, make them better. You never press the delete button like that.”
Alice unlocked the door and held it open for Mary. “It’s liberating. You’ll see.”
“I worked on that all week,” Mary said.
Alice dropped the yarn into her hands and smiled. “It’s not about finishing, it’s about the knitting. The texture. The needles clacking. The way the rows unfold.”
Already the bell announcing the arrival of customers was ringing, and women began to fill the store. They all seemed to carry half-finished sweaters and socks and scarves. Mary watched them fondle yarn, feeling its weight, holding it up to the light to better appreciate the gradations of color.
Alice took Mary’s arm and gently led her to the same seat where she’d spent most of last Tuesday morning.
“That yarn’s a little too tricky, I think,” Alice said. She handed Mary a needle with twenty-two new stitches already cast on. “This yarn is fun. It self-stripes so you won’t get bored.”
Mary hesitated.
“Go ahead,” Alice said.
Mary knit two perfect rows.
“Keep doing it, just like that,” Alice said. Then she went to help another customer.
Mary sat, knitting, the sounds of the other customers’ voices softly buzzing around her. The bell kept tinkling, marking the comings and goings of people. A purple stripe appeared, and then a violet one, and then a deep blue.
She was surprised when she felt someone standing over her.
“You’ve got it,” Alice said. “Now go home and knit.”
Mary frowned. “But what if I mess it up that way again?”
“You won’t,” Alice said.
Mary stood, feeling both elated and terrified.
“Alice?” a woman called from across the room. “How many do I cast on for the eyelash scarf?”
“Fifteen,” Alice said. “Remember, fifteen stitches on number fifteen needles.”
It’s like another language, Mary thought, remembering her idea to learn Italian. The yarn in her hand was soft and lovely. Better than complicated rules of grammar.
“Thank you,” Mary said. “I’ll come next week, if that’s all right.”
A customer handed Alice a scarf made of big loopy yarn.
“I dropped a stitch somewhere,” the woman said, her fingers burrowing through the thick yarn.
“I’ll fix that for you,” Alice said.
Mary turned to go. But Alice’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“Wednesday nights,” Alice said, “I have a knitting circle here. I think you’d like it.”
“A knitting circle?” Mary laughed. “But I can’t knit yet.”
Alice pointed at her morning’s work. “What do you call that?”
“I know, but—”
“These are women you should meet. All levels, they are. Each with something to offer. You’ll see.”