The Shop on Blossom Street (19 page)

“If you can count the number of projects you have going, you need to begin another, so you have a varied range of complexity, from the very simple ‘mindless’ ones to those that demand undivided attention.”

—Laura Early, lifetime knitter

LYDIA HOFFMAN

I’
ve spent so much time in doctors’ offices that over the years I’ve come to dread even the most routine appointments. It’s almost always the same. I sit in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room full of strangers and we all avoid looking at one another. Generally, I bring my knitting or I flip through magazines that are months if not years old.

The one advantage of being in Dr. Wilson’s office is that after all this time the staff have become practically as familiar as family, especially Peggy, Dr. Wilson’s nurse.

Peggy was working for Dr. Wilson when I came in for my first appointment, nearly fifteen years ago. I remember when she was pregnant, not once but twice. I vividly recall wondering if I’d be alive to see her second baby. The thing with cancer is that you learn to take nothing for granted. Not one day, not one season, not even a minute. At sixteen I wanted to make it to seventeen so I could attend the Junior-Senior Prom. I survived, but no one asked me to the prom.

“Lydia.” Peggy stood in the doorway holding my chart, which must weigh twenty pounds. My medical history was filled with details, of symptoms and procedures, as well as documentation of the different medications I’d taken.

When I got up, it seemed that every eye in the waiting room was on me. If I’d been the type of person to grandstand, I would’ve leaped to my feet and announced I was a two-time winner in the lottery of life. Having a more subdued nature, however, I calmly stuffed my knitting into my quilted bag and followed Peggy.

“How are you doing?” Peggy asked after she’d weighed me and made a notation on the chart.

“Great.” I stepped off the scale and sighed with relief to note that my weight was within a couple of pounds of my last visit. Peggy led me to the cubicle at the far end of the hallway, where she thrust a disposable thermometer under my tongue and reached for my wrist. She stared at her watch and quickly made a second notation on my chart. “Good strong heartbeat,” she said, sounding pleased.

I should hope so; my insurance company had paid plenty for the privilege of having that heartbeat. I would’ve told her as much but talking wasn’t an option at the moment.

Peggy was pumping the blood-pressure cuff, which she’d wrapped around my upper arm. It grew uncomfortably tight before she released it. When she’d finished listening, she nodded. “Very good.”

At last she removed the thermometer. “You’re feeling well?”

“I feel fabulous.”

Peggy smiled. “There’s a sparkle in your eyes. You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

“Oh, hardly.” I brushed aside her insight, but found I really did want to tell her about Brad. I didn’t, because there wasn’t that much to tell. Not yet, anyway. We’d met for drinks twice, talked on the phone two or three times a week, sometimes for an hour or more. He came by the shop at least once during the course of a week and occasionally—no, more than occasionally—we kissed.

Brad and I were only beginning to know each other. We weren’t serious, weren’t even close to being serious. Brad was deeply involved in his son’s life and I was deeply involved in my business. We were friends in the same way I was friends with Carol Girard. Okay, maybe not
exactly
the same way, but nevertheless friends. For now, that was comfortable for me and apparently for him, too.

“
Have
you met someone?” Peggy asked again.

I nodded hesitantly.

I thought she was ready to burst into applause. “I always knew you would,” she said with a smile of delight.

“Oh, honestly, Peggy, I’m thirty years old.”

“And your point is?”

It was embarrassing to be this transparent, especially at my age, but that’s another aspect of having had cancer as a teenager. My social maturity seemed stuck where it was the day I got my driver’s license. Social development is delayed for those of us who are detoured by the fight for life. I don’t want to sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself because I’m not; this is a simple fact that needs to be taken into account in relationships.

I knew the routine visits well enough to know that the next part was to stretch out my arm for Peggy to extract vial after vial of my blood. I once teased her that I should be paid for the amount she collected. Not one vial but four, two large and two small.

I barely blinked as the needle pricked my skin. In the beginning, though, I used to get dizzy with fear at the sight of a needle. Once I nearly fainted, but that was years ago. Compared to some of the procedures I’ve endured, having my blood drawn is kid’s play.

Peggy paused to exchange a full tube for an empty one and glanced up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look happier.”

“I am happy,” I assured her. My new happiness had come about for several reasons. Opening my shop played a big role in how I felt and so, of course, did meeting Brad. A Good Yarn was my affirmation of life and allowing myself to get involved with Brad was an additional act of faith.

“I’m so pleased for you.” Peggy repeated the process with the tubes and then wrote my name on each one. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”

I nodded.

She walked out to the front with me and got someone else’s file.

My spirits were high as I strolled out of the doctor’s office. It was a glorious August afternoon and while the store was closed on Mondays, I could think of nowhere else I’d rather be. I truly loved my shop. It gave me pleasure just to be there with all the yarn around me. There’s something completely satisfying about standing in the middle of a store that only a few months earlier was little more than a dream.

I had on a sleeveless summer dress made of seersucker with a pretty white eyelet collar. The dress was a favorite of mine, and yes, I’ll admit it, I hoped that if I ventured into my shop I might accidentally-on-purpose run into Brad. He made deliveries in the neighborhood on Mondays and he always knocked on my door if he saw I was there.

Listening to the radio, I kept an eye on the windows in case he happened to drive past. Blossom Street was open to traffic now and this had dramatically increased business. Lots of people came to the neighborhood just to see the changes. The stores along both sides of the street had put out their welcome mats.

The construction directly across from me appeared to be nearly finished, although there seemed to be plenty of men in hard hats still parading around. I wasn’t sure when everything was officially scheduled to be completed, but I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

Just as I’d hoped, Brad’s dark-brown delivery truck came into view. It was all I could do not to stand like a mannequin in the window. It was even harder to resist the urge to jump up and down and wave my arms. I did neither, but I was definitely tempted. I was in just that silly, quirky frame of mind.

I saw my man-in-brown leap out of his truck with a couple of packages for the floral shop next door. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or not until he came out with a single long-stemmed red rose. I waved despite my resolve not to and he winked at me.

Unlocking the front door, I let him into the shop. “For me?” I asked.

“It’ll cost ya,” Brad teased.

“Name your price?”

“A kiss,” he said, grinning boyishly. “Maybe two.”

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I blushed. He took me by the hand and led me behind a tall shelf filled with worsted yarn. At least there we had a bit of privacy.

“How’d the doctor’s visit go?”

“I didn’t even see him. It was for routine blood tests.”

“Are you nervous?”

I shook my head. Maybe I should’ve been, but the cancer had left me alone for a long time now and after a certain period you can’t help growing a little confident. More than that, I felt too good to be sick again and showed none of the symptoms I had in the past other than an occasional migraine. Besides, for the first time in years, I was truly hopeful for the future.

“I’m free on Saturday night.” Brad was looking down at me, his eyes so intense and provocative it was nearly impossible to breathe.

“That’s nice.”

“How about if I take you to dinner and a movie?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Anyplace you want to eat, as long as it isn’t McDonald’s.”

I smiled again. Cody was a big fan of their cheeseburgers, and Brad was thoroughly tired of fast food.

“You got it. Anyplace but McDonald’s.”

Then, with such ease I was barely aware of what he was doing, Brad brought me into his arms and kissed me. The earth didn’t move, the sky didn’t fall, but I swear I felt that kiss from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. If a man could make me feel all that with a simple kiss, I could only imagine what it would be like if—when—we made love. I closed my eyes, wanting to hold on to this wonderful feeling as long as I could.

“You smell so good,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck.

“It’s my perfume.” I let my head fall back and he spread small kisses along my throat. I was practically purring like Whiskers, my cat, when he lies on the windowsill, basking in the afternoon sun.

“I don’t care what it is, just promise to wear the same one on Saturday night, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered, and he kissed me again. Neither of us wanted to stop, but he was still on the clock and we knew it had to end. When he released me I felt his reluctance as keenly as my own. A girl could get mighty accustomed to Brad’s kind of kisses.

“I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday evening, all right?”

“Perfect,” I told him.

In that moment, “perfect” was how I’d describe my life.

CAROL GIRARD

T
he critical first three weeks following embryo transfer had passed and so far so good. Carol was a full five weeks pregnant now and felt every aspect of this pregnancy in a way few women ever would.

After talking to her mother in Oregon for twenty minutes, she hung up the receiver and fixed herself a healthy lunch of cottage cheese and fresh fruit. Carol had never been fond of cottage cheese, and this was her way of announcing to the universe that she was willing to suffer for the sake of her baby. No sacrifice was too great. When her child was born, she wanted to know she’d done everything possible to give him or her a good start in life.

Smiling, Carol scooped cottage cheese onto a plate, then added sliced pineapple. She’d heard from one of the women in her online support group that a substance in pineapple was believed to improve the chances of an embryo attaching to the uterus.

The phone rang as the fork was halfway to her mouth. She lowered it and reached for the receiver.

It was Doug. Normally he was too busy to phone from work, but he’d made a habit of calling her at least once a day since the last IVF.

“I just spoke with Mom,” she told him.

“What’s new with her?”

“She and Dad want to buy us a crib.”

“Did you tell her we already have one?”

“I didn’t have the heart.” Three weeks after the procedure, Carol had gotten a Bon-Macy’s flyer advertising baby furniture. That night she’d dragged Doug to the department store and, giddy with excitement, they’d purchased everything they could possibly need for a nursery.

“So we’re going to have two cribs?”

“I could be having twins.”

Doug chuckled and it was the unrestrained laugh she’d fallen in love with all those years ago. He so rarely laughed like that anymore, and she knew beyond a doubt that her pregnancy explained his joy.

“Besides, I was thinking that if we can’t use the crib, maybe she could give it to Rick.” She hated to put an end to her husband’s fun-loving mood, but her brother would be presenting their parents with another grandchild a few weeks before Carol was due to deliver.

“Have you heard from him lately?” Doug asked.

“Not a word.”

“I take it he hasn’t mentioned anything to your parents?”

“Not that I can tell, but I don’t dare ask about it, either.”

“You’re right—it’s not your place.”

She sank back into her chair. “I hope Rick does the proper thing and marries this woman.”

Doug hesitated. “From what you told me, he’s already decided against that.”

“But there’s a
baby
involved.”

“I know that, but I also know Rick.”

Carol sighed. She wondered what her parents would say when they heard about the situation. Her mother was waiting impatiently for grandchildren. She’d be thrilled whether Rick was married to the woman or not, but she’d prefer it if Rick gave the child his name.

“I’m having cottage cheese for lunch,” she told Doug. He’d appreciate her sacrifice.

“I hope the baby likes it,” Doug teased.

“I hope so, too.”

They chatted for a few more minutes and then Carol went back to her sacrificial lunch.

She lost the baby later that afternoon.

Just when the dream had started to become a reality…Just when she’d given herself permission to believe…Just when she was so sure everything had gone according to plan.

At four in the afternoon the spotting started. The instant she saw the blood, she thought she’d faint. Severe cramping followed and there was no longer any doubt. She’d miscarried.

“No,” she whispered, clenching her fists at her sides. “Please no…please, oh please.” Her throat was thick with tears. She sat on the end of her bed and covered her eyes.

The routine should be standard by now. After phoning the doctor’s office, she collected her purse. She didn’t call Doug, couldn’t ruin the rest of his day. She’d give him the afternoon before she shattered his life with the news that there would be no baby for them.

When Dr. Ford examined her, he confirmed what she already knew. Her body had rejected the fetus. The baby was dead, expelled from her womb. Dr. Ford was sympathetic and concerned. After she’d dressed, he gently squeezed her arm.

“I’m sorry.”

Emotionless, Carol stared straight ahead.

“Would you like one of my staff to phone Doug for you?”

She shook her head.

“Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”

His words sounded slurred to Carol as her mind struggled to comprehend each one. She was drowning in a sea of pain. Functioning normally was impossible just then.

“I want my mother,” she whispered. Her body had rejected three pregnancies now, and there wouldn’t be another chance. This was the end for her and Doug. It was over.

“Can I have someone phone her?”

She looked up at him, wondering who he meant, and realized he was asking about her mother. Carol shook her head. “She lives in Oregon.”

Dr. Ford said a bit more, offered his condolences and after a few minutes left her. Carol slipped off the examination table, dressed and went out the door. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. She started walking—a slow, shambling walk, without purpose—and before long found herself on the waterfront near the Seattle Aquarium. Tourists crowded the sidewalk and she felt like a boulder in a stream, disrupting the flow of traffic as men, women and children darted around her.

When she was finally too tired to move, she sat down on a bench. The tears came then. Hoarse, painful sobs from the depths of her soul. She’d failed again. Disappointed her husband, disappointed her parents and everyone who’d believed in her.

Her cell phone rang and why she should be so angry with it, Carol didn’t know. Without checking to see who might be calling her, she grabbed it from her purse and threw it into the street. She felt a sense of grim satisfaction as a city bus passed by and drove directly over it. All that was left was a flattened piece of plastic with wires protruding.

“Is everything all right, miss?” a young police officer stepped up to ask her.

“No,” she said, her face streaked with tears and her eyes dull with pain. “Nothing is right.” She understood then that someone must have seen her and thought she needed help. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything the policeman or anyone else could do for her.

“Should I call someone?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

She stood, needing to escape. “I appreciate your concern, but you can’t help me. No one can.” If she didn’t leave now, she might end up in Emergency or even the Psych ward. Escape became key, so she started walking again. Walking and walking and walking.

It was dark when she discovered she was miles from home. Doug must be frantic by now but she couldn’t face him yet, couldn’t watch the look in his eyes when he learned there wasn’t a baby anymore.

An hour later, Carol took a taxi home.

When she walked in the door, Doug nearly flew across the room. “Where the hell were you?”

“I lost the baby.”

He didn’t seem to be listening. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” she sobbed, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “I lost the baby.”

“I know,” Doug whispered and wrapped her in his arms.

Carol was weeping again, unable to stop. The tears came from deep inside her, sobs that wrenched her soul. This was an agony that could be understood only by those who’d experienced such a loss. It felt as if her beating heart had been ripped from her chest, as if she would never again know joy or happiness or anything good. Her future stretched before her, bleak and without hope.

“I so badly wanted to have our child,” she sobbed into her husband’s arms.

Doug held her tightly in his embrace, his head against her shoulder. Then she realized he was weeping, too. They clung to each other, neither able to offer anything to the other. Empty, bereaved, in agony.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “So sorry.”

“I know…I know.”

“I love you.”

He nodded.

“I tried so hard…” She couldn’t think of anything she might have done differently, any effort she hadn’t made.

“I’ll always love you,” Doug assured her.

Exhausted, Carol showered and went to bed and with Doug’s arms around her, she fell into a deep sleep.

At three, she woke with pain heavy upon her chest and remembered there was no longer a child growing in her womb. The tears came fresh, stinging her eyes.

Slipping out of bed, she walked into the nursery and stood in the middle of the darkened room. She curled her fingers around the end of the crib and bit her lower lip hard to hold back the sobs.

It was then that she noticed the wall. She squinted, certain she was seeing things. Flicking on the light switch, she looked again. Her knees went weak and she sagged to the floor as she stared at the place where her husband’s fist had gone through the wall.