Knit Two

by Kate Jacobs

  She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes, pretending to herself that she was falling asleep but really just listening to the soft “woo-hah, woo-hah” of Marty’s deep, steady pattern of inhales and exhales. He was a nice breather, she thought. After twenty minutes she couldn’t lie there any longer, eyes squeezed shut, counting breaths.

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” And then, just for good measure, Anita said it again. Louder this time.

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  There was no answer, not that she’d really expected any. Marty was a deep sleeper, and if she wanted his attention between lights-out and dawn, then she had to resort to a well-placed kick in the shins or a pinch of the ear. Denied immediately afterward, of course.

  “What!” Marty sat straight up in bed. “What time is it?”

  “Marty,” began Anita, conversationally, as though they were sitting over tea and muffins during the afternoon. “I’d like to talk.”

  A great measure of a man is how he reacts to a midnight awakening when there’s no flames or burglar in sight.

  Marty switched on the light and swung his legs over the bed to find his well-worn slippers, the suede toes tucked neatly under his nightstand. “I’ll put the coffee on,” he said, and ambled out of the room.

  If they were going to be married, thought Anita, now was finally the time to tell him about Sarah. To tell him everything.

  “I’m in love.” Dakota was whispering at her over the clothes as they searched for Anita’s perfect bridal outfit.

  Catherine continued to assess the cream suits in the middle of the boutique. In this shop, unlike the stores she frequented with Dakota, these clothes were spaced miles apart, only two or three outfits to a rack. Love was on everyone’s brain, it seemed, from Anita to Darwin to Dakota. Weddings, babies . . . everything came down to sex.

  Sex.

  Catherine’s head jerked up to look at Dakota, who was staring, waiting.

  “Love?” Catherine asked, as if she wasn’t quite sure what the word meant. And, perhaps, she wasn’t. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve met a guy,” Dakota said, before pressing her lips together and leaning her head toward Anita, who was just rustling out of the dressing room in a powder-blue taffeta skirt and a cashmere twinset. Dakota’s eyes flashed meaningfully: Be quiet!

  “Oh, girls, I don’t know about this one,” said Anita as she motioned for them to hurry it up into the dressing room. She stood in front of a three-way mirror.

  “Are you having a ball or a barbecue?” asked Dakota. “You seem to be all over the place. One minute you try on a cream suit that looks just like the ones you wear to the shop all the time—‘Oh, look, I could ring you up!’ Or, ‘Wait, maybe I’ll say, I do’—and the next you seem like you’re going to the senior prom. And by senior, I mean . . .”

  “Button it, young lady,” huffed Anita. “Finding your voice does not mean saying any darn thing that comes into your head.”

  Anita twisted in front of the mirror. “Catherine?”

  “I think we should go straight to Kleinfeld’s,” she asserted. “You’re a bride! Why not go to New York’s most famous bridal shop and try on every dress in the store. It will tell you, once and for all, what kind of bride you want to be. Maybe you really want to wear white instead of powder blue. And then we’ll take it from there.”

  Catherine waited until the door to Anita’s dressing room clicked shut, and then she grabbed Dakota’s wrist and pulled her close.

  “Does your father know?” James hadn’t said anything to her when they’d met up for the therapy group, and Catherine was certain he would if he’d been aware of it. His greatest fear was that Dakota would, like her mother, fall for a smooth-talking but immature young man. One who’d hightail it should problems, aka pregnancy, result. This, too, was his legacy to his daughter.

  It was no secret among the members of the club that James had found it difficult to accept that Dakota was maturing. She’d regaled them all with details of how much he’d argued against her moving into the dorm. And she’d continued to bring baked goods to meetings now and again, grumbling that her father didn’t get it. Of all the things her mother had left behind—a will, life insurance, deeds to the business, guardianship arrangements, the Georgia afghan knitted by the club—she had neglected to come up with some very practical things. Namely, a set of instructions telling James when it might be okay for Dakota to go on a date, for example, or a curfew hour that was in any way normal. He had gone from tiptoeing around in the months after Georgia died to trying to protect Dakota from every possible danger, including a lack of sleep. She had not appreciated having an earlier bedtime in the ninth grade than she’d had in the seventh. Staying out on prom night had been a protracted negotiation worthy of a G8 Summit.

  And always, subtly, quietly, Anita or Catherine had stepped in. Suggested other options. Brokered deals. Helped reason prevail.

  But sex? Yes, Dakota had heard all about it from her mother, from Anita, from Catherine, from her father. All those perfunctory discussions that had the sizzle of a bad infomercial. Of all people, thought Catherine, she should have been prepared for this one, should be ready to make sure her best friend’s daughter had a prescription and be done with it. And yet she felt woozy. Caught off guard. It was easier to forget that Dakota was an adult. And like most adults, she still had a lot of growing up to do.

  “Have you gone all the way?” Catherine hissed, becoming increasingly irritated by Dakota’s pained expression. Annoyed with herself for channeling a Puritan goodwife.

  “No, Catherine,” she said, exaggerating the syllables in her speech. “Love and sex aren’t always the same thing. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

  God, she was cheeky sometimes! Even more alarming—assuming the tone of voice had been a bit more arch and a little less snarky—was that Catherine could have imagined Georgia saying quite the same thing. “No, I clearly haven’t,” she replied in her mind, as though speaking to Georgia. “So what do I do with your daughter here?”

  “I’m sorry, Dakota,” said Catherine out loud, speaking calmly although her cheeks were flushed pink. “I really would like to hear about your friend. Name? Rank? Serial number? Where did you meet? It’s very exciting when you fall in love. At least I read that in Oprah.”

  In an instant, Dakota had relaxed. No doubt she’d been bursting to tell someone, Catherine realized. This was big news for her. For anyone. Love. It always did feel best the first time around, before all the missteps and mix-ups. When everything was fresh.

  A seemingly endless stream of chatter burst from Dakota’s lips: He was funny, they had a class together, his name was Andrew. And finally, the news she found most reassuring of all: They hadn’t gone out on a date yet. He may not even, apparently, know Dakota existed.

  Cancel the red alert, thought Catherine, but not for long, she knew. Dakota was a beautiful girl, just like her mother. There’d be more action soon enough.

  Anita returned to the main part of the boutique dressed in her street clothes: a beige linen pantsuit that held up well to their stroll about town. It was a pleasantly warm June day, not too humid, and the trio had more shops to visit.

  “Anita, when did you know you were in love with Marty?” asked Dakota as they exited to the street.

  “Oh, that was the easy part,” said Anita. “It took a while, however, to realize I wasn’t just ‘in love’ but that I simply loved him.”

  “Huh?” said Dakota.

  “What’s the difference?” asked Catherine.

  “Someday you will know,” said Anita. Then she caught Catherine’s eye. “And someday you will, too.”

  By the late afternoon, the trio was dwindling to a duo. Dakota had promised Peri she’d cover the evening shift as Peri had plans to meet KC for dinner. Supposedly, KC had finally organized her colleagues to finish up work—on time—for once and go have a social evening together. She was also goi
ng to bring along the much-discussed potential date for Peri.

  The idea of being alone in the store was enticing. Dakota rarely had that opportunity, to just be in the space of Walker and Daughter. The shop was her home more than any other place in the world. Even if she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

  She hugged both of the women good-bye, leaving Anita and Catherine to forge on ahead to a milliner in SoHo.

  “A hat? Are you sure?” The day was growing longer and longer. Anita was far from a relaxed bride.

  “A hat might be just the thing,” said Anita. “We’ll only know after we look.”

  Catherine flagged down a cab easily—it was only two o’clock in the afternoon and the rush on cabs by people avoiding the subway in hot summer hadn’t yet started—and clambered in, letting Anita get in gracefully. This, she thought, is what the law about only getting in curbside had done: reduced one passenger to an awkward sit-and-slide across the middle, the other still getting a chance to settle in daintily.

  “Dakota’s been a bit prickly lately,” ventured Catherine, after they’d sat in companionable silence for a while and watched the sights of Fifth Avenue—Tiffany, Versace, Rock Center, the library—stream outside the window. “She seems unhappy.”

  “Of course,” said Anita. “She’s eighteen, don’t forget. It’s a bumpy time.”

  “Yes, but she has all of us around her,” said Catherine.

  “Oh, indeed. A hovering group of her dead mother’s friends.” Anita laughed. “We might want to consider that we’re not that much of a picnic.”

  Yes, Catherine could see that, of course. But that didn’t apply to her, obviously. She wasn’t like the others. It was one reason why she never really fit in. They were all quite . . . typical. And she, well, she was different.

  “Even you,” said Anita, as though reading her thoughts. Catherine sat quietly as Anita discussed the pros and cons of heirloom roses, and was relieved when the cab pulled up to their destination.

  Anita was quicker with her bills than Catherine, and paid the cabbie generously.

  “Let’s get to the hats,” said Anita. “I’m pretty sure Marty plans to wear a ball cap.”

  “Not really!”

  “No,” said Anita. “Not really. I was just curious if you were listening.”

  Just off West Broadway, south of Houston, she walked up a set of spiral iron stairs.

  “My mother used to wear hats to synagogue,” said Anita. “She had quite a collection.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, I haven’t been to a service in quite a while,” said Anita. “Nathan’s wife is religious enough for the entire family.”

  “I feel like I’m in a prison of thoughts,” said Catherine.

  “Few people are content with just their own company,” said Anita. “You spend too much time obsessing.”

  “It’s not something I’d expect you to understand,” explained Catherine, choosing an oversized pink hat and trying it on her own head instead of passing it along to Anita. She looked quite ready for a garden party with her head covered in feathers and lacy ribbon, she decided. Prepared to have serious conversations about the weather and the state of the charity auction. “Oh, yes, the kids are all getting ready for college,” she’d say, “but their father and I aren’t quite ready to let them go.”

  It was a nice fantasy, one of her favorites.

  “Why wouldn’t I understand?” Anita peered at Catherine under the wide brim.

  “Because you have no regrets,” whispered Catherine. “You are the person who always does the right thing, who knows just what to say, who is kind and fair. You and I are very different.”

  “Catherine.” Anita’s voice was brisk. “Striving to be perfect will be your undoing. It is everyone’s undoing. Life isn’t one-size-fits-all.”

  “Name one mistake you’ve made.”

  “Letting Dakota talk me into eating a hamburger at lunch—it’s just sitting in my stomach.”

  Catherine opened her mouth, then hesitated, thinking again of Dakota and her reaction to Dakota’s big revelation. She didn’t want to be made to feel as foolish as she’d felt with Dakota.

  “Anita, I never know what I’m going to do for Thanksgiving dinner,” she said finally. It wasn’t exactly what she meant, but it was close. “I’m a person without a family.”

  “We’re your family,” said Anita. “Me. Dakota.”

  “No,” said Catherine. “That’s not what I mean. I want a family family. Each and every day, eating in my dining room with the orange walls.”

  “I see,” said Anita. “That’s a bit of a change, coming from you. Is there anyone new on the scene?”

  “No, not really,” admitted Catherine. “Well, I have a phone crush on my wine distributor. He’s Italian.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “That might ruin the magic of the whole thing,” said Catherine. “It’s quite a perfect relationship, in the sense that we only talk. You can get to know quite a lot about a person, you know, when you’re not actually looking at them.”

  “Looking at each other can be quite fun, too,” said Anita.

  “For once, I’m not the person bringing up sex! What is it with everyone?”

  “Life!” Anita laughed. “Relax a little, Catherine. If life isn’t over at seventy-eight—and believe me, it isn’t—then it’s certainly not over in your forties.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Catherine. “You have it all.”

  “The sons I rarely see. Yes, I have them, all right.”

  “You see them, Anita.”

  “Sometimes,” she said, choosing an ivory cloche that fit snugly over her silver waves. “But somehow they never quite see me.”

  twelve

  Dan’s apartment was overrun by mothers.

  Betty Chiu had arrived, having literally raced from her Pacific Northwest home to catch the red-eye to JFK at the Sea-Tac airport. “Drive faster, Dad,” she’d told her husband. “Our daughter has finally come to her senses and called for me.”

  Her suitcase had been packed, waiting at the top of the stairs, for weeks.

  Her original plan had been to come to New York surreptitiously and set herself up in a hotel, then arrive unannounced at the hospital. After all, they weren’t just Darwin’s babies. These were her grandchildren.

  Maya had talked her out of that plan. No matter what Darwin did or said, Maya defended her. Betty couldn’t recall Darwin ever being particularly kind to Maya and yet her younger child was devoted to her older sibling.

  “She’s asked us to wait, Mother,” she’d said. “And that’s what we’re all going to do.”

  Maya was always the more reasonable girl. Agreeable. Happy, even. A biologist like her father, she was studious and thoughtful.

  Darwin, by contrast, was sullen and sour-faced. Smart, yes. But what good did all those brains do her? Convinced her that she should live all the way across the country, should get married at town hall without inviting her own mother, should write a dissertation on knitting.

  And she never told her mother anything. Ten minutes on the phone with that girl and Betty never knew more than what she’d started with. Years of asking when they might have a family and then, finally, they tell her the news, and then spend the next nine months letting her know that her grandmotherly services were only to be required per Darwin’s schedule.

  Well, no doubt the two little ones changed everyone’s mind. They knew when they needed a grandmother around. She’d been right to pack the big suitcase, she told herself now. It was going to be a long summer.

  Lucie came to the hospital. Dan had reminded her of that fact umpteen times. But, frankly, that didn’t count for much.

  “I held Lucie’s hand during her labor,” said Darwin, casting half an eye on the sleeping bundles in her arms. They were clean, fed, and asleep. Just the way she liked them. If she didn’t jiggle or get too agitated, she might get a good thirty minutes of quiet. Maybe even three-quarters of an hour.
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  “You should try to take a nap,” suggested Dan, taking the babies one at a time and putting them in their coordinating cribs. The nursery—really an eating area in the living room converted into a bedroom with the addition of some false walls—was a celebration of sage. Light green all over the walls, the blankets, the cribs. Punctuated by the piles of onesies in blue and pink. Baby life, apparently, was very color coded.

  The living room, immediately on the other side of the green wall, was already—inexplicably—filled with toys. The children couldn’t even hold up their heads and yet they had more playthings than Dan thought he’d ever had in his lifetime. And the size of the apartment was only 850 square feet. Barely enough room for real people, let alone Elmo and friends.

  But Dan felt proud all the same. They’d moved from their inexpensive New Jersey apartment when Dan finished his residency in LA and moved back to the city. Eventually, they plunked down everything they had to buy their Junior 4 co-op on the East Side, near the Lenox Hill Hospital where Dan was on call. It was in the back of the building and on a low floor. All very good for getting out in the case of fire, Dan had pointed out, but not so stellar for either a view or a bit of sunlight. And it was quite a tiny Junior 4, which were really just one-bedroom apartments with L-shaped living/dining rooms that lent themselves to being partitioned in exactly the way the Chiu-Leungs had done.

  At least their kids weren’t going to sleep in the closet, Darwin had said when they closed on the place. Of course, that was long before all the fertility treatments had added to their debt load. What with the cost of in vitro, Dan’s bills from medical school and hers from grad school, the monthly maintenance fees and their crushing mortgage liable to reset within two years, Dan and Darwin were in a bit of a cash crunch. More than a bit. They were strapped.

  So there were no night nurses, no nannies. It was a very unglamorous business, this becoming parents without money, thought Darwin. Lucie hadn’t had any money, either, back when Ginger was born. Before she finished her film about the knitting shop, about the club, about Georgia.