“You said you had cancer.”
“Twice.” I wanted to be sure he understood. I waited for a reaction from him, but he gave me none.
“Go on,” he said again. “You were talking about your father.”
I sipped my beer. He’d chosen a dark ale and I liked it. “I was in the hospital, and it was the night before my second brain surgery. Mom and Dad came to spend the evening with me. Mom was reading, and Dad and I were talking.” I remember that night so well because in my own heart I was convinced I’d be dead before the year was over. Dad was the one who believed in me, who insisted I was going to cheat death a second time.
“He asked me to describe one perfect day,” I told Brad. I knew he was forcing me to acknowledge that I wanted to live. The question was his way of drawing me into a future. A future I firmly believed was unavailable to me.
“What did you tell him?” Brad had leaned forward and cupped both hands around his mug.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds. “That I wanted to wake up in my own bed instead of one in a hospital.”
“Can’t blame you there.”
I grinned. Brad made it surprisingly easy to talk about myself. “Next I wanted to be able to smell flowers and be close to the water and feel sunshine on my face.”
“In the Pacific Northwest?” He smiled as he asked the question and I couldn’t help responding with a laugh.
“My perfect day happens in late summer, when we get plenty of sunshine.” This past Wednesday was a good example. “Now don’t distract me.”
“Yes’m.” His eyes fairly twinkled and for a moment I was so mesmerized I had to make myself look away.
“I’d wake to sunshine and the sounds of birds,” I continued, “and my perfect day would begin with a cup of strong coffee and a warm croissant. I’d take a leisurely stroll along the waterfront.”
“And after that?”
“I’d knit.” I remember how astonished my father had seemed when I told him that. He shouldn’t have been. By that time I’d been knitting for years. I remembered how my wanting to knit—seeing it as a perfect part of my perfect day—bothered him. Knitting, in his eyes, was such a solitary activity that I’d soon become a recluse.
“Knitting in your own store?” Brad murmured.
“Sort of.” One of the things I love most about being a knitter is the community of other knitters. Anytime I run into another person (usually a woman but not always) who knits, it’s like finding a long-lost friend. The two of us instantly connect. It doesn’t matter that only seconds earlier we were strangers, because we immediately share a common bond. I’d talked to other knitters in doctors’ offices, in line-ups at the grocery store—anywhere at all. We’ve exchanged horror stories of misprinted instructions and uncompleted projects. And we all loved to brag about fabulous yarn buys and, of course, discuss our current efforts.
“I wanted to help people discover the same sense of satisfaction and pride that I feel when I finish a project for someone I love.” That was the best way to describe it, I thought.
“How would you end your perfect day?”
“With music and champagne and candlelight,” I said shyly, which was only partially true. I’d told my dad I wanted to end the day dancing.
My father had told me I’d have that perfect day. What neither of us knew was that he wouldn’t be there to enjoy it with me.
“What’s wrong?” Brad asked, watching me.
I shook my head. “I was just thinking about how much I miss my father.”
To my surprise, Brad reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you?”
I bristled. I didn’t want his sympathy or his pity. What I yearned for more than anything was to be normal. One of my biggest fears was that I could no longer recognize what normal was.
“Cancer is part of who I am, but it isn’t everything. I’m in remission today but I can’t speak for tomorrow or next week. I was in a holding pattern for most of my twenties but I’m beyond that now. It wasn’t just the doctors or the medicine or the surgery that saved me, especially since I’d died emotionally when I learned the cancer had returned.” I took a deep breath. “My father refused to let me give up, and when I discovered knitting, I felt like I’d found the Holy Grail because it was something I could do by myself. I could do it lying in bed if I had to. It was a way of proving I was more than a victim.”
Brad’s eyes grew somber and I think he really heard me.
“Anything else you want to ask me?” I sat up straighter, prepared to back off now.
A grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “How come it took you so long to say yes to a beer with me?”
“Relationships aren’t part of my perfect day,” I teased, although that was far from the truth.
“No, seriously, I want to know.”
Mostly I’d been afraid of rejection, I guess. But all I said was, “I’m not sure.”
“Are you willing to go out with me again?” His eyes held mine.
I nodded.
“Good, because I only have a few more minutes and I want us to get to know each other.”
We talked for a little while longer, and I finally had the opportunity to ask him some personal questions, mainly about his marriage and his son.
Forty minutes later, I parked in front of Margaret and Matt’s house. I realized I’ve never shown up at my sister’s home without an invitation. Come to think of it, I don’t think she’s ever actually invited me—and yet here I was, so excited I couldn’t hold still. I was dying to talk to someone, and since my sister had practically forced me into this, I figured she should be that someone.
I rang the doorbell and then stepped back, half afraid she wouldn’t ask me in. It was Hailey who answered. When she saw me, she shrieked with happiness—and left me standing on the porch while she ran to get her mother.
“Lydia.” Margaret burst into the room and stood on the other side of the closed screen door. “It is you.”
“I told you it was,” Hailey said from behind her mother.
My sister unlocked the screen door and held it open for me.
“I don’t usually drop by unannounced,” I said, “but I just had to tell you about my meeting with Brad.”
“Oh, my goodness, that was tonight.” My sister’s eyes lit up as she pulled me into the house. Before I could comprehend what was going on, she had me sitting at the kitchen table and was on a stepstool in front of the refrigerator, standing on tiptoe as she removed a liquor bottle from the cabinet above.
“What are you doing?” I asked, almost giddy.
“A night like this calls for homemade margaritas.” She had a bottle in each hand—one of tequila and one of cointreau.
I giggled like a schoolgirl. Hailey dug into the freezer portion of the refrigerator for ice cubes while Margaret found limes, then brought out the blender and special glasses.
In a matter of minutes, my sister had mixed the drinks and dipped the rims of both glasses in salt; she’d also made a virgin drink for Hailey, something involving ginger ale and fruit juice.
“Where are Matt and Julia?” I asked.
“Bonding at a baseball game,” Margaret explained, handing me my glass. “Now tell all.”
After two beers and now sipping a mixed drink, I wasn’t sure where to start.