Unravelled (2 page)

I moved out that night. Of course, Colin wanted to explain but I wasn’t in the mood to hear about his parents’ acrimonious split, the ensuing custody battle, and all the damage to his adolescent psyche. I was heartbroken, disappointed, and betrayed. Colin had known, for at least three years, that children were an important part of my future. I had told him, on a number of occasions, how I had always wanted two kids: a girl first and then a boy (but if I had two girls, I’d have one more, trying for a boy, and vice versa). I told him how I’d picked out their names in ninth grade: Shayla and Roman (I assured him that these were no longer set in stone). He knew! He knew how important Shayla and Roman (or, possibly something more classic, like Emma and Jack) were to me! And yet, he said nothing.

Angie was kind enough to take me in for a few days until I was ready to find a new apartment. Fortunately, one of her coworkers had a cousin whose friend was looking for a roommate. And that’s how I ended up here, living with a woman I barely know, in her cluttered, girly, knickknacked apartment. That’s how I ended up here, drinking beer, alone, with my hairy legs.

Two

THE REMINISCENCE HAD revived the dull ache of loss that still resided in my chest. I took a long pull on the beer, hoping it would numb the pain. God, I still missed him . . . but I had done the right thing. Sure, I could have stayed, but I would have had to sacrifice everything I’d wanted since I was a little girl. No, Colin was an immature commitment-phobe and I deserved better. One day, in the future, I’d be walking hand in hand with my stable and distinguished husband, pushing Emma in her stroller while Jack waved from his father’s backpack. Colin would pass by, probably on a skateboard or riding a bicycle with no helmet, and my decision to move on would be reaffirmed. But for now, it still really hurt.

I supposed, in theory, meeting some new people and taking up a new hobby was a good idea, but in reality, I just wasn’t ready. Perhaps a few more weeks of wallowing in self-pity would see me ready to rejoin the rest of the world? Rolling off the couch, I crawled across the floor to Kendra’s stereo. Propped next to her towering rack of CDs (largely composed of the divas: Céline, Mariah, Whitney...) was a small case containing my own measly stash. I slid
The Cure
into the CD player, and lay back on the floor.

Rolling over to take a sip of beer, I let the plaintive, melancholy notes wash over me. It felt good to give in to the pain, to stop pretending that I was okay. Tears were building behind my closed lids, and I let them spill, untouched, down my cheeks. Oh god. Why couldn’t he have loved me enough to change? Whyyyyy? Just as I was really getting into it, I heard Kendra’s key in the lock. Shit! I jumped up, nearly spilling the remnants of my beer in my haste to turn off the stereo. I didn’t like to look too “at home” when Kendra was around. This was her apartment, after all . . .
and
her stereo. Frantically, I swiped at my tears.

“Hi,” I said, with forced cheerfulness as she strode into the room. Was it my imagination, or did her eyes dart quickly around the apartment to ensure I hadn’t touched, used, or rearranged any of her belongings?

“Hi.” She dropped her purse and a Nordstrom Rack shopping bag on the floor, and proceeded to curl up on the couch in an unmistakably feline pose. Despite being what you’d call a
husky
girl, Kendra was remarkably agile.

“So . . . how was your aunt?” Not that I was particularly interested in the well-being of Kendra’s elderly aunt whom she had just met for coffee, but I still felt the need to make polite conversation with my roommate.

Kendra chuckled, as if at some private joke. “Oh, Aunt Helen . . . she’s such a character.”

“Really?” I prompted, hoping for some sort of elaboration, but Kendra was no more forthcoming. She picked up the remote control and, turning on the TV, began flicking, uninterestedly, through the channels. “So . . .” I made another attempt at conversation, indicating the Nordstrom Rack bag. “Did you find anything good?” Shopping at the Rack was like an extremely competitive treasure hunt. If you were aggressive enough, you could find some incredible bargains amidst the heaps of discounted merchandise. I’d once found a gorgeous Dolce & Gabbana jacket for eighty dollars.

“I did!” She leaned over the arm of the couch and dug in the bag to display her purchase. “I found this.” She extracted a plastic-wrapped square of fabric.

“What is it?”

“It’s a new cover for the ironing board,” she said gleefully. “It’s so darling. It has little acorns on it. I can’t wait to do some ironing!”

“Uh . . . me either!”

Kendra rolled back into her catlike position. “I’m so exhausted. After coffee at Pike Place Market I walked all the way to—” Suddenly, she sat bolt upright. She had spied the near-empty beer bottle at my side. “Have you been drinking?”

“Uh...” Kendra sounded so shocked! Appalled! As if she’d just noticed I had a syringe hanging out from between my toes. I felt so . . .
ashamed.
“I’ve suffered a great loss,” I wanted to explain. “Colin was my soul mate, my future . . . I’m just giving myself a few more weeks to wallow in my grief and then I’ll move on.” But something told me Kendra wouldn’t understand. Though she was thirty-six, she didn’t seem to have suffered many emotionally painful breakups.

“I w-was just watching some football,” I lied. “I always enjoy a beer while I watch football . . . They just seem to go together, you know,” I chuckled, “beer and football . . . ham and eggs... Donny and Marie . . .”

Kendra said nothing, but her expression clearly indicated that she did not consider this a valid excuse for solo afternoon drinking. She sighed heavily and eased herself off the sofa. “There’s nothing on TV. I’m going to watch a DVD.” The bottom third of Kendra’s towering CD rack held her collection of movies. She sat cross-legged in front of it, painstakingly making her selection. “What am I in the mood for?” she mumbled to herself. “Hmm . . .
How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days
? ...
The Notebook
? . . . Ah! Here we go . . . An oldie but a goodie:
Titanic.
”

Oh god, not
Titanic.
I sat awkwardly on the floor as Kendra placed the DVD in the player. Of course, it was the perfect wallowing movie. I could weep, unabashedly, as the poor people locked in the ship’s belly accepted their watery deaths. I could bawl and pound my pillow as Leo slipped, hypothermic, into the Atlantic. But in my current state of mind, I wasn’t sure I’d even make it through Céline’s chest-thumping theme song.

My roommate pressed the
play
button and settled back into her prone position on the couch. With her eyes affixed to the opening credits, I took a moment to study her, undetected. Kendra was one of those rare women who had absolutely no need for male companionship. She wasn’t a man-hater per se, but she seemed to regard the opposite sex with something approaching... disdain. To Kendra, men were on a par with the pigeons that continually pooped on our balcony, or those tiny green worms you find in organic broccoli. They were annoying, but nothing to obsess over. She certainly didn’t crave love and commitment and babies like I did. Kendra was independent . . . self-sufficient . . . completely satisfied to live the rest of her life on her own. God, why couldn’t I be more like her?

Without removing her eyes from the screen, my companion reached over and dug in the shopping bag. After much fishing, she removed a grease-stained paper sack. The unmistakable scent of mini-doughnuts from the market assaulted me. Kendra extracted several and stuffed them in her mouth. The usually pleasing aroma stirred something in me, something akin to . . . panic! What the hell was happening to me? Was I really envying a woman who considered coffee with an elderly aunt a major social event? Ironing a
hobby
? And
Titanic
an “oldie but a goodie”? I stood up; I knew what I had to do.

“Where are you off to?” Kendra asked, her eyes shifting accusingly in my direction. “Don’t you want to watch the movie?”

“I’ve got some errands to run.”

“Oh.” She sounded annoyed, as if James Cameron were her first cousin, and my leaving was a personal affront. “Suit yourself, but it’s a great movie—a classic.”

Struggling into my waterproof coat, I hurried out of the apartment. Kendra’s complacency with her chick flick and mini-doughnuts had spurred me to action. I was going to get out and start living again. The stitch ’n bitch was a small, but vital, step in the right direction. I would be learning something new... growing as a person—not to mention meeting a diverse group of interesting people. No more sitting in Kendra’s apartment listening to sad music and watching sad movies! I was finally moving on!

I headed down First Avenue to the shops in Belltown. I had no idea where to buy yarn and knitting needles, but I figured there must be a hobby store somewhere in the vicinity. As I neared the busy shopping area, the streets became more crowded. A rare glimpse of winter sunshine had brought the locals out of their homes, coffee cups in hand, to soak in some much-needed vitamin D. It seemed symbolic of my emergence back into life. I felt more hopeful than I had since before the split with Colin.

It appeared on my left, out of nowhere. Somehow—not surprisingly, I guess—I had never noticed it before. Given that I had previously associated knitting with second-degree burns on the elderly, it was normal to block it out. But there it was.
Knit Wits
the sign read: an entire store dedicated to yarn and needles and knitting patterns. Angie was right: This knitting thing really was all the rage! Leaning on the heavy glass door, I entered the shop.

My eyes widened with surprise. What I was expecting, I’m not exactly sure, but definitely not this chic, upscale boutique. Sun streamed in through the front windows and fell on the gleaming, bleached hardwood floor. The walls, painted a light sage green, were virtually obscured by row upon row of shelving, each overflowing with balls of yarn. I walked slowly down the length of the room, taking in the array of colours—from vibrant pinks and bright oranges to dusky, muted blues and rich, deep purples. The variety of textures was also astounding. Some yarns were as thin as spun silk, others, as thick and shaggy as a sheep’s hock. Down the centre of the store ran a row of tables, each displaying a number of completed projects: warm, cozy blankets; delicate shawls with intricate beadwork; rugged cable-knit sweaters; and adorable baby hats. Everything in the shop was beautiful, tactile, and completely intimidating.

“Hi!” a friendly voice called, before I could chicken out and hurry home to catch Victor Newman’s
Titanic
cameo. “Can I help you find something?”

The woman walking toward me was not what I would have expected either (i.e., a plump, elderly woman who looked like Mrs. Beasley). She was about forty, trim and stylishly dressed in a pair of tweed pants and a cream-coloured angora sweater. She had long mahogany hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and wore a pair of square, dark-rimmed glasses. She was smiling warmly as she continued to move in my direction. “You look a little overwhelmed. Is it your first time here?”

“Yeah,” I said, returning her smile. This helpful, friendly salesclerk was like some kind of omen. It was time for me to stop pining for what might have been, and get back in the real world. If I bought my knitting supplies, it would
make
me go to Angie’s on Thursday; it would ensure I got out of the house and met some new, hopefully single, people...“I’m joining a stitch ’n bitch club,” I said. “Can you help me get started?”

Three

I BOUGHT A pair of needles, a how-to-knit guide, and a gorgeous ball of deep blue-green wool—or, rather, a gorgeous
skein
of worsted-weight
yarn.
Blue-green: the colour of rebirth! Of hope! At least I think I heard that somewhere. Either way, I felt quite positive, even a little . . .
excited.
I was learning a new skill and meeting new people. I was going to make myself one of those romantic, chunky cable-knit sweaters, and a luxurious throw for the end of my bed. I’d knit adorable hats and scarves for all my family and friends. My Christmas shopping bill would be cut in half! Joining the stitch ’n bitch club was definitely a step in the right direction. Now, I just had to find a friend to join me.

My first thought—well, my only thought—was to invite my divorced friend, Mel. Her social life was even sadder than mine, if that was possible. It was almost a little . . . disturbing. Mel would often say things like “
We’re
going to stay in and have a movie night, just the two of us” or “
We
spent the weekend at the beach.” The “we” in these statements referred to Mel and her three-year-old golden retriever, Toby. If anyone could benefit from meeting new people and finding a new hobby, she could.

And it wasn’t like I was going to ask any of my coupled-up girlfriends. They would undoubtedly think my quest for a new hobby was
cute.
“Good for you,” they’d say. “It’s important to get out and meet new people and explore new interests.” But when I suggested they join me, they’d reply, “Oh, sorry hon, but Thursday night is the night Tom and I give each other pedicures,” or “Dwayne and I can’t miss
Survivor
! We have a running bet. The loser has to give the winner oral sex twice a week for a month!” I couldn’t bear it.

Luckily, I had a coffee date with Mel and Toby on Monday. As was our habit, we picked up our lattes at a nearby coffee shop, and then walked along the waterfront to a small off-leash park on the edge of the harbour. Mel’s and mine was an unlikely friendship. She was ten years my senior with two marriages under her belt, but we had bonded years ago when I interned at the community newspaper where she was the art director. Mel had taken me under her wing, and despite the differences in our age and life experience, we had remained close. I’ll admit that a small part of our friendship might be attributed to convenience. Mel had left the paper several years back. After investing her two divorce settlements in rental property, she now made a comfortable living as a landlady. As a freelance writer, I worked mostly from home, and often, late at night. Because Mel and I had similar schedules—well, no schedules, really—we were both free to socialize during the week. We needed our friendship: Everyone else was at the office.

“So . . . how are you holding up?” Mel asked as she unclipped Toby’s leash and watched, lovingly, as he scampered free. It was kind of her to ask, but I knew she was just being polite. Two failed marriages and a number of nightmarish boyfriends had destroyed any romantic notions Mel had of love. It was her belief that women should enter into relationships with the expectation of a heart-wrenching end. That way, they would be pleasantly surprised each day when it didn’t happen, and prepared when it ultimately did. She didn’t have a lot of patience for wallowing and healing. Mel was a stoic Taurus.

“Oh...you know,” I said breezily. “I’m doing okay. It was tough at first . . . moving out and everything...”

“Never get too comfortable . . .” Mel said, picking up Toby’s ball with a long stick-thing and winging it across the grassy field. “How’s the new roomie?”

“Ugh.” It came out before I could censor myself.

Mel looked at me, amused. “Is she that bad?”

“Oh . . . I’m just being a bitch,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “She’s fine, really. I’m just not all that comfortable living with her. It feels like
her
place, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s tough moving into someone else’s space. You should get your own apartment.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t afford it.”

“Well...” Mel began to say something but Toby returned and dropped the ball at her feet. “Oh, you are such a good boy!” she said, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him playfully. “Who’s the best boy in the whole wide world? Who’s the best boy?”

“Umm . . .” I cleared my throat awkwardly. “
He
is?” It was likely a rhetorical question, but it couldn’t hurt to answer.

Mel continued to gleefully roughhouse with her beloved pet, who had now jumped up and was licking her face. While Mel was laughing delightedly, I couldn’t help but cringe. I mean, only a few minutes earlier I’d watched Toby licking his wiener with that tongue! Luckily, she didn’t notice my distaste. For the moment, she seemed to have forgotten I was there.

“Okay, you precious thing,” she finally said, in that drippy voice reserved for dogs and very small children. “Go get your ball now. Go get your ball for Mommy.” Employing the long stick-thing, she threw the tennis ball for Toby, who happily rollicked after it.

“So . . . I’d love to get my own place,” I said, in an attempt to pick up the stream of our previous conversation, “but rent’s just too much on my own.”

Mel, who had been staring lovingly after Toby, turned to me. “Have you ever thought of getting a dog?”

“Me? A dog?”

“Yeah.”

“Well...no,” I said, somewhat taken aback that she would even make such a suggestion. I was definitely not one of those women who could replace my human offspring with a little fur-ball named Mitzy. Of course, I didn’t want to offend her, so I said, “There wouldn’t be room in Kendra’s apartment.”

Mel shrugged. “You could get a little dog. The companionship and unconditional love you get from a dog is just so . . . powerful. Once you have that”—she took a sip of her coffee—“you realize you can do without a lot of things in life . . . like men.”

“But I don’t want to do without men,” I blurted. “I want to fall in love! Get married! Have kids and a house! I’ve always wanted that, since I was a little girl.” As soon as it was out, I realized how pathetic I sounded. My desire to have a husband and 2.4 kids made me sound like some throwback from the fifties. I mean, it was hardly my dream to become the next Mrs. Cleaver, staying home baking cookies in my housedress all day. I fully intended to maintain my freelance writing career and my hip wardrobe, but having a family was like some biological need beyond my control. It was old-fashioned and a little embarrassing, but I couldn’t help it if I had the mommy gene.

But before I could explain, Mel threw the ball for Toby, then said, “That attitude isn’t going to help you any.”

“Attitude? What attitude?”

“Beth...” Mel sighed heavily, as if she were trying to communicate with someone several IQ points below her dog. “Men are like cats. The more you want their affection, the more they’ll ignore you.”

I started to object, but stopped. That analogy was actually quite appropriate.

Mel continued. “Look at me for example . . .”

I did. My friend was dressed, as usual, in her purple waterproof Gore-Tex jacket, a pair of pilled, fleece tights, and brown hiking boots. Her sandy blonde hair was cut into a short bob with a thick, blunt fringe running across her forehead. Mel’s face was what you might call pleasant—not quite attractive enough to be pretty, but nice to look at, just the same. She wore no makeup, and her complexion had a ruddy glow.

“Not exactly Halle Berry,” she said, as if reading my mind.

“Oh . . . well . . . you’re very attractive in your own—”

She held up her hand to silence me. “I have men after me all the time. In fact, I have to struggle to stay
out
of a relationship.” This seemed plausible. When I met Mel, she was still with her second husband. Since their split six years ago, there had been at least a dozen boyfriends. “And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need them,” she said, taking a long sip of her latte. “Men can sense it. It makes them want to conquer you or something.” Toby returned and dropped the ball at her feet. Her voice instantly turned syrupy. “I don’t need those silly old men because I have my Toby.” She leaned in for a dog kiss. “My special, special Toby-Woby-Woo!”

Again, I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Yeah . . . I was going to ask you . . . I’m joining a stitch ’n bitch club. Do you want to come along?”

“Knitting?” she asked, throwing the slobbery dog ball.

“Yeah . . . We’re all going to learn together.”

“I know how to knit,” Mel said. “I haven’t done it for a while, but I’m quite good.”

“That’s great. It would be wonderful to have an expert in the group to help us.”

She took a long sip of coffee. “I don’t think so . . . Knitting, to me, is a very solitary act. Once you get into it, it’s really quite Zen.”

“Oh.”

“What I’m really interested in learning is spinning.”

“I took a spinning class once,” I said. “It was exhausting, and my ass was sore for, like, a week after.”

“Not that kind of spinning,” she laughed. “Spinning fur into yarn.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Fur?”

“It’s called
chiengora.
” She pronounced the word slowly: she-an-gora. “Turning dog hair into yarn.”

“Eww!” The word just escaped, but I covered. “I mean . . . gee, I never thought of that before.”

“Dog hair is very soft and extremely warm,” Mel continued, “Up to eighty percent warmer than wool, in fact. And it would be such a wonderful keepsake to have a scarf or a hat made from my Toby.”

I loved Mel, but she was really grossing me out. I looked at my watch. “I’d better get going.”

“Already?”

“I’ve got an article due for
Northwest Life.
”

“Okay... Give me a call next week. We still haven’t come by to see your new place.”

I highly doubted Kendra would be keen on Toby bounding around the apartment, drooling and sniffing everything. “Right. Okay. I’ll give you a call. Bye Toby.” In response, Toby stuck his nose in my crotch. It was the most action I’d had in months.