Unravelled (4 page)

“Can someone show me how to make a slip knot?” I asked.

Martin laughed. “You can’t even make a slip knot? God, you are bad. Here . . .” He took my hopeful yarn and wrapped it around his fingers.

“I don’t know how either,” Sophie said. Luckily, Nicola was able to oblige.

It got worse from there. Mary held her hand up like it was a gun and we followed suit. Then, she wrapped the yarn around her thumb and index finger, moving her hand around the needle in some complex and indiscernible pattern. When she was done, a new stitch had appeared on her needle. A new stitch had not appeared on mine—or on Angie’s or Sophie’s. After a number of attempts, Angie threw her knitting needle to the floor in mock frustration and stormed out of the room to retrieve another bottle of red. Sophie and I tried, fruitlessly, to cast on the requisite stitches, but our uncontrollable giggling was impeding our progress. Nicola was faring a little better, while Martin was easily following our instructor’s movements, little deep-purple nooses lining themselves up on his knitting needle. Sooooooooo gay!

“I got one!” Sophie shrieked. “At least I think I did. Is this right?” She held her needle with its first pale-blue stitch up to Mary.

“Very good. See if you can get ten more stitches on.”

I suddenly felt incredibly frustrated. This was just like eighth-grade home ec when I got a D for being unable to thread a sewing machine. Maybe I was more than just domestically challenged: Maybe I was domestically hopeless? Just when I was beginning to like this group, I was going to have to drop out. I couldn’t very well continue on, could I? Each week we’d get together so they could work on their blankets and sweaters and cute little baby hats, while I would still be trying, in vain, to tie a slip knot on my own! I was a lost cause!

Suddenly, Mary was at my side. “Let me cast some stitches on for you so you can get to the fun part. You can practise casting on at home with your how-to book.” Gratefully, I handed over my supplies.

Two hours later, when our coach stuffed her accoutrements into a large calico bag and departed, we had each made varying degrees of progress. Thanks to the ten stitches Mary had provided me, I was able to knit several rows. Unfortunately, due to what I would learn was called “dropping stitches,” each row was shorter than the one before. The result was a lopsided triangle with the approximate circumference of an Oreo. Not exactly a luxurious throw for the end of my bed, but I couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of accomplishment. I held it up proudly.

“Nice,” Martin said. “What is it? An eye patch?”

I held it over my left eye. “What do you think? Could this be the next big thing?”

“Definitely!” Sophie said, with mock enthusiasm. “You should wear it around town. It’s bound to catch on.”

“We could have you on
The Buzz,
” Angie added. “Beth Carruthers, inventor of today’s hottest trend, the knitted eye patch!”

“Maybe you could knit a few for my bridesmaids’ gifts?” Nicola asked.

“I’d be happy to,” I beamed. “Let’s see... This one took me approximately two and a half hours, so it shouldn’t take me more than a couple of weeks to outfit the whole wedding party.”

When ridiculing my handiwork had been exhausted, the other members displayed their achievements. Angie, with much hands-on coaching from Mary (she was paying her after all), had created a fairly even inch-long strip with her soft, fuzzy pink yarn. Sophie had managed a slightly larger rectangle, while Nicola’s deep maroon swatch was almost perfectly symmetrical. Martin, on the other hand, seemed to have instantly mastered the art of knitting. His large purple square was virtually flawless, with varying stitches in the last few rows. “Mary thought I was ready to try purling,” he explained. “You go in from back to front and wrap the yarn counter-clockwise.”

Huh? I was probably several weeks from purling.

At the door, we said our goodbyes with affectionate hugs. There were no “nice to meet yous.” It seemed implausible that we had only come together that night. “So,” Angie said. “Same time next week?”

“Yes!” I replied exuberantly. I’d had quite a bit of wine by this point.

“Do you want me to host next week?” Nicola offered. “I live in Belltown.”

“That would be great,” Angie replied. “Let me get your address and I’ll email it to everyone.”

As I made my way down the darkened hillside, my knitted eye patch tucked safely away with my yarn and needles, I felt a serenity I hadn’t in ages. Yes, I was fairly drunk, but I was also filled with a new sense of optimism. The stitch ’n bitch club was infinitely more enjoyable than I had anticipated. Learning to knit was fun, but I hadn’t expected to feel so instantly connected to my new companions. It was so refreshing not to be judged or pitied for my failed relationship. To the knitting circle, I was just me, Beth Carruthers—not Colin’s ex, or the girl who broke up with the perfect guy. I had to admit that Angie might have been right: New friends and a new hobby seemed to be just what the doctor ordered.

Six

MY NEWFOUND SENSE of contentment continued through the weekend. My spirits were so bolstered by the stitch ’n bitch club that I even practised my casting on. With the instruction booklet on my lap, I painstakingly manoeuvred the needle around the yarn until I had achieved a single stitch. That one little noose gave me such an immense sense of achievement. I had done it! It had taken intense concentration and several false starts, but I had done it! My success was especially impressive since I had been focusing on my project while trying to tune out Kendra’s phone call to her mother, relaying, in explicit detail, the salad she had taken to work for lunch (dressing in a small container on the side, tomato slices kept in a separate aluminum foil pouch so they didn’t make the lettuce soggy, pre-cooked chicken breast wrapped in plastic . . .).

As the stitches on my needle increased, so did the feeling of accomplishment. But there was more behind my good mood than just my knitting prowess. I was experiencing a sudden wave of emotional stability. After only two and a half months, I seemed to be well on my way to a full recovery from my devastating breakup. It was some sort of miracle! The stitch ’n bitch club had been the defining moment, that crucial test that I had passed with flying colours! Much to my delight (and surprise), I had just spent a very enjoyable evening with a bride-to-be
and
a new mom. I was healed!

Really, I had only experienced the slightest twinge of envy. I certainly didn’t despise them, or wish them ill, or want to run out of the room crying. In fact, that evening had made me realize that maybe I wasn’t such a traditional, needy woman after all. In fact, I was very independent and self-reliant! I had been charming and pleasant toward Sophie and Nicola, and I really liked them both. Yes, the tide had turned and I was a changed woman. I was like Mel now... except even better. I didn’t need a man
or
a dog!

I was also feeling incredibly positive about my career. While the life of a freelancer is often feast or famine—too much work or not enough—lately, I seemed to have found that happy medium.
Seattle Scene,
a popular monthly magazine with an environmental leaning, had just commissioned me to write an article for them. When magazines contacted you, it was a good sign that you were making a name for yourself. I had also recently secured a regular column in a popular daily paper called
Juiced.
My contribution was “Caffeine Culture,” a look at the city’s new, unique, or trendy coffee shops. I could even expense my lattes and muffins! It was my dream job.

On Monday morning, I set off to Fremont on the 9:30 bus. I’d heard about a great café where the baristas were intentionally rude and abrupt, the service was incredibly slow, but the coffee and maple scones were well worth it. As the #8 roared across Lake Union to the former hippie community, I felt really upbeat...practically happy! The realization that I didn’t need a man in my life was freeing! I was a confident and self-reliant career woman, with friends, a developing hobby, and a burgeoning social life. The future seemed full of hope again . . . hope and a free latte.

I found the small coffee shop easily and entered the mid-morning hubbub. The decor was eclectic—pop art mixed with ancient taxidermy—but the vibe was decidedly trendy. I planned to order my breakfast, then retire to a back table to jot some notes on my experience. A good twelve minutes later, I had a chipped jade-green mug containing my latte and a maple scone on a plate with my grandmother’s china pattern. My bounty in hand, I made a beeline for one of the few vacant tables toward the back of the room. And then I heard it.

“Beth? Is that you?”

I turned and confronted my past. There they were, three of them, smiling those annoying, self-satisfied smiles. A sick feeling engulfed me, its power taking me by surprise. There was no need for such acute anxiety. They were old friends. Or more appropriately, they were the partners of Colin’s old friends. They meant me no harm—or did they? Their smiles looked genuine, warm even—but I sensed a subtle condescension lurking beneath. Their names were irrelevant: I’ll call them Pregnant, Newlywed, and Engaged.

I had to say something, something cheerful and friendly and upbeat. “Oh, hi!” I stretched my lips into a painful smile. “What are you doing in Fremont?” Oops.

“We came for the maple scones,” Pregnant said, patting her tiny bump. A quick calculation fixed her at about four months. “I had a
craving.
”

“What about you?” Newlywed asked.

“I’m doing an article on this place,” I replied, painful smile still affixed. “I have a regular column now in
Juiced.
It’s called Caffeine Culture. I do reviews of cool places to have coffee around the city.”

“Oh?” Pregnant said, expressing only mild interest.

“It’s a nice regular paycheque and I get to expense my coffee and muffins!” Their bland expressions made it clear how mundane and insignificant my
dream job
was.

“And how
are
you?” Engaged asked. There it was—that pitying intonation that I had been waiting for.

“I’m great!” I beamed. “I’ve been getting out . . . meeting new people . . . learning handicrafts . . .”

“Good,” they all murmured.

“How about you guys? How are you?”

“Well,” Pregnant said, “as you can see, I’m a whale!” We all laughed. Her stomach was about the size of mine after I ate a Quarter Pounder and fries. She continued, “But at least I got pregnant before it’s too late. Did you know that after thirty, your eggs start to shrivel up and die at an alarming rate? It’s true! I mean, by your age, Beth, you probably only have a handful of good eggs left!”

“. . . Right.”

Engaged jumped in. “I’m really excited about my upcoming wedding! Thank god I’ll be getting married before I’m too old. I recently read that after thirty-five, a woman is more likely to be eaten by a shark than to get married!”

“I read that, too!” Newlywed agreed. “I am so thankful to have my husband—
and
his sperm to fertilize my remaining eggs.”

Okay... maybe they didn’t say all that, but I had gone to such a dark place of self-hatred and insecurity that I could practically hear the words through innuendo.

“Well, I’d better get to work on my article,” I said lamely.

“Oh, of course,” Pregnant said. “Don’t let us keep you.”

“Nice seeing you,” Newlywed added.

“You, too,” I managed. “Take care.” Then, like the dejected loser I was, I shuffled off to find a table.

I drank the coffee and ate the scone. It was probably very good, but the bitter taste left over from my encounter turned it to ash in my mouth. My eyes stared blindly at the blank page before me. How could I possibly write a fair and unbiased review of this coffee shop when all I wanted to do was fill my pockets with rocks and go drown myself in Lake Union? It seemed unfathomable that only minutes before, I had been feeling so strong, so sane! This chance meeting with the three ghosts-of-what-might-have-been had rewound the clock on my grieving period.

Suddenly, I sensed a presence beside me. It was Engaged. “Sorry to interrupt...” I flipped my notebook closed lest she notice my lack of progress. “We’re leaving now, but I just wanted to say... well, I saw Colin last night.”

“Oh?” I said flippantly, like she’d spotted someone like Ryan Seacrest at Starbucks.

“He’s having a hard time, Beth. He really misses you.”

“I miss him, too!” I wanted to cry. “Tell him I still love him! Tell him we can work it out! Tell him to call me!” But I didn’t. Instead, I said breezily, “It’s never easy, is it? But . . . we’ve got to move on.” I gave an indifferent shrug, although I knew my eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“Okay . . . well . . . Don’t be such a stranger. Give me a call some time.”

“Definitely,” I croaked. “Bye.”

And just like that, I’d gone from on the mend to completely devastated.

Seven

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, as I sat in my makeshift home office, I was pleased to find that I wasn’t actually completely devastated. No, I was only utterly morose, decidedly depressed, and entirely lonely—but at least I no longer wanted to drown myself. The whole situation was just so stupid! Ridiculous even! Colin and I were perfect together. I missed him and he missed me, and yet . . . we were determined to torture ourselves by staying apart. I thought about how comfortable I’d felt in our small Capitol Hill apartment, how secure and loved I’d been. And I wanted that again, I really did. But did I want it enough to compromise?

For the first time since the breakup, I pondered a different kind of future with Colin. If I went back to him, I would have to forsake the life I had always wanted. But, I could throw myself into my career. Maybe even start my own magazine? We could get a dog... and name it Shayla or Roman! It could sleep with us and I’d take it on walks and to the park and I’d love it so much that I’d kiss it on the lips! With no plans for a family, we’d have more disposable income. We could take luxurious vacations at dog-friendly resorts! Shayla and I could lie by the pool and get massages! I reached for the phone.

Wait a minute! Why was I the one making all the sacrifices? Giving up all my dreams? I didn’t even like dogs all that much, and here I was planning to go on vacation with one! If Colin missed me so much, why wasn’t he coming to me with his compromises? “Okay, Beth,” he should be saying, “I’ll let you have one baby and a commitment ceremony. That’s my final offer.”

I dropped the receiver back in its cradle. No... dogs, vacations, and magazines were not going to compensate for the life I knew I wanted. I couldn’t call Colin. I couldn’t
settle.
Breaking up with him had been the right decision. In my heart, I knew it.

Just because I knew it was right didn’t make it any easier. Over the next few days I drifted back into my moping phase, trying, in vain, to concoct some sort of review for the Fremont coffee shop I’d visited on that fateful day. My bag of knitting sat untouched, all inspiration to improve my craft gone the way of my optimism. On Thursday afternoon, as I stared at my still unfinished article for “Caffeine Culture,” the phone rang.

“Hi! It’s me,” Angie said brightly. “Are you excited about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Stitch ’n bitch club at Nicola’s place! Didn’t you get my email?”

“Oh, right. Yeah . . . uh, I’m a little under the weather. I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”

“You have to!” Angie whined. “If you miss a session now, you’ll be way behind.”

“My throat is a little scratchy. I think I should get to bed early.”

“What’s really going on, Beth? Did you talk to Colin?”

“No...” I told her about my encounter with Newlywed, Engaged, and Pregnant.

“Oh hon,” she said sympathetically, “don’t let those smug bitches get to you. In a couple of years they’ll be fat and their boobs will be at their knees.”

“Hopefully . . .”

“And you
are
coming tonight. Remember how much fun it was last week? I’ll grab a cab and pick you up at quarter to seven.”

At 6:45 I was standing in front of my building clutching a plastic shopping bag containing my knitting paraphernalia. I was also clutching a bottle of wine, which explained my presence on the sidewalk in the chill winter evening. Facing the cold was far preferable to facing Kendra’s judgmental stare and potential lecture on my downward spiral into alcoholism. At 6:50, a cab pulled up, sending a spray of filthy puddle water onto the sidewalk. When the deluge had abated, I jumped into the backseat next to Angie.

“I’m so glad you decided to come,” she said, as we headed toward Belltown.

“Me too,” I acceded. “I really enjoyed it last week.”

“I know!” Angie agreed. “I didn’t expect it to be so much fun. Well, I mean the knitting part isn’t really
fun
fun . . . But it’s such a great group of people.”

“It is.”

“I mean, when I got the idea for the stitch ’n bitch club, I just thought it would be a good way to keep me out of the bars!”

I looked at Angie, eyebrows raised in question. Hadn’t she told us that she’d devised this group because knitting was
all the rage
? Was there actually more to it? But my friend dismissed my look away with a laugh.

Nicola’s condo was in a newer and decidedly upscale building with spectacular views of Elliott Bay. Taking in the tasteful decor and expensive furnishings, I concluded that the PR business must be more lucrative than I’d realized. Nicola really seemed to have it all: fabulous apartment; handsome fiancé (a large, black-and-white photo displayed prominently on the mantel depicted the two of them snuggling on some rocky outpost); successful career . . . And yet, I didn’t begrudge her any of it. She was a sweet and friendly girl. Despite my upsetting run-in yesterday, I was definitely getting stronger.

When all the members had arrived and we had settled into the luxurious furnishings, Angie spoke. “I’m so glad everyone could come. And thank you, Nicola, for hosting tonight.”

“My pleasure,” Nicola replied. “Please, help yourself to anything you need. There are lots of snacks and wine.”

“I didn’t invite Mary, our coach, tonight,” Angie continued. “I thought we could practise what we learned last week. We can always call her back if we need her.”

“Sounds perfect,” Martin said, extracting his materials. We all gasped to see that he had knitted a swatch about the size of a baby’s blanket. “I haven’t smoked all week,” he explained.

“You are so impressive,” Angie cooed. Obviously, she still didn’t get it.

There was a lull in the conversation as the rest of us removed our yarn and needles and set to work. I opened my instruction book and painstakingly began casting more blue-green stitches on to my needle. Sophie and Nicola continued on their projects from last week, while Angie filled wineglasses and nibbled on the pâté and crackers our host had provided.

Sophie broke the silence. “I hope it’s not too soon to dive into the ‘bitch’ part of this stitch ’n bitch club, but I really need to vent.”

“Of course not!” we all chorused. I, for one, was secretly pleased that someone had broken the ice. I could certainly do with some venting.

“It’s my husband,” Sophie continued.

“What about Rob?” Angie asked.

“Well...” She hesitated, concentrating on her pale blue stitches. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding... like, I don’t want you all to think I’m a nagging bitch but...It’s just that . . . well . . .”

“Spill it!” Martin barked, his voice shrill with feigned frustration.

“Okay, okay,” Sophie said with a laugh. “He’s just so selfish . . . incredibly fucking selfish.”

Angie asked gently, “What happened, hon?”

“I told him on Monday that I was coming here tonight. He promised he’d be home to look after the baby, but at five o’clock, he phoned me and said he was going out for drinks after work.”

“That’s really inconsiderate,” Nicola agreed.

“This is the only social life I have,” Sophie continued. “And yet, he couldn’t manage to come home early one night a week! I’d like to see how he managed if he had to stay home with the baby full time. He’d probably kill himself.”

“Men,” I muttered, attempting a knit stitch. “Oh . . . No offence, Martin.”

“None taken.”

“You have man trouble, too?” Sophie asked me.

“Not anymore, she doesn’t,” Angie offered helpfully, taking a large drink of Shiraz.

“I broke up with someone recently,” I said, putting down my knitting to take a sip of wine. My fellow stitch ’n bitchers were all looking at me supportively, encouraging me to elaborate. But could I talk about what happened with these virtual strangers? Could I tell them about my breakup without bursting into incoherent sobs?

Angie prompted for me. “She was living with the ultimate commitment-phobe.”

“Oh no!” Nicola cried, like she’d just heard that Colin had been beating me. Gee, if I was going to get that kind of support, maybe I could open up?

“Well . . . we were together for four years . . .” I began hesitantly. But once I started to speak, the words gushed from me in a torrent. My knitting sat in my lap, forgotten, as I spilled every last detail of my failed relationship. I told them how we’d met at a party because we were the only two drunk enough to dance to MC Hammer. I told them that we liked the same music and TV shows and would chop our own thumbs off for Butter Chicken from Chutney’s. I told them how I was a Scorpio and he was a Virgo, so he calmed and grounded me while I brought out his passionate side. And I told them how I’d named my children in ninth grade and shared that tale with Colin, who had said something like, “cute” or “sweet”: definitely not “I hate kids and never want any.” I told them about those horrible birthday earrings that I still kept on my dresser because Colin had refused to take them back and they were too expensive to throw away. And finally, I told them about my run-in with Pregnant, Newlywed, and Engaged, and the ensuing blow to my self-esteem.

“Oh god,” Sophie said, when I finally finished. “You poor thing.”

Nicola asked, “How long ago did you break up?”

“Two, well, almost three months ago now.”

“I had no idea you’d gone through such an ordeal.” This came from Martin.

“Well,” Angie said, leaning over to top up my glass, “if Colin can’t see what a catch you are, then it’s his loss.”

“Definitely,” Martin said, with a wink. It was such a shame he wasn’t straight.

“Men!” Sophie cried. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.” She held her glass up in a toast.

“Hear! Hear!” Angie said, raising her wine.

Nicola joined in, a little grudgingly, and even Martin shrugged and held his drink up.

“What about you, Nic?” Sophie asked. “How are things going with
Dr. Perfect
?”

“Oh, well...” Nicola replied demurely. “Neil and I are really happy. I’m just so busy planning the wedding and his job is very demanding . . .”

Sophie explained. “Neil is an
anaesthesiologist.
”

“It’s been hard to find time to be together, but once we’re married it will be wonderful.”

“Right,” Sophie said with a roll of her eyes. “That’s when the fighting starts.”

“Oh, Neil and I never fight,” Nicola said, taking a tiny ladylike sip of her white wine.

“You haven’t lived together yet,” Sophie said, sounding just a little jaded.

Angie gasped. “You don’t live together?”

Martin joined in. “And you’re going to marry him?”

While I was a firm believer in “try before you buy,” I thought Angie’s and Martin’s obvious shock and disapproval were a little rude. But Nicola was unfazed. She concentrated on her meticulous knit stitches as she explained, “Neil and I both decided to wait. Our parents didn’t live together before they got married and they’re still happy some thirty years later. It’s something we really believe in.”

“Uh . . . but you have had sex, right?” Angie asked.

“Well...” Nicola looked shyly down at the burgundy rectangle on her lap. “Technically no, but we still feel that we’ve
made love.
We both want our wedding night to be special . . . to really mean something...”

Angie looked like her eyeballs might pop out of her head but she remained mute, as did we all. Okay, maybe Nicola was a bit of a prude—but a cute and sweet prude...like that Elisabeth Hasselbeck on
The View.

“What about you, Martin?” Sophie asked. “Any relationship dramas?”

Martin, whose purple baby blanket was fast resembling a full-on bedspread, replied, “I’ve given up.”

“No!” Nicola cried.

“I haven’t had very good luck in the past. I guess I just haven’t met the right person.”

“You will,” Nicola said kindly.

“I don’t know,” said Sophie, whom I was quickly realizing was a tad cynical. “I think Angie’s got the right idea. Keep your relationships purely recreational and you can’t get hurt.”

For the first time since we arrived, Angie picked up the pink yarn and needles nestled beside her on the sofa. “So . . . I guess I should get to work here,” she said, nervously.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked, instantly alerted to her change in demeanour.

“Nothing!” she cried, but when she looked up, her cheeks were pink and her eyes glowing.

“Oh my god!” I shrieked. “You’re in love!”

“I’m not in love,” Angie corrected me. “I’m in
like.
”

Sophie addressed Nicola and Martin. “You don’t know what a big deal this is. Angie never likes anyone!”

“Not for more than a night or two,” I added.

“Shut up, Beth!” Angie slapped at me playfully. “You make me sound like such a slut!”

“Well . . .”

She threw a cracker at me.

“Now, now...” Nicola scurried to retrieve the offending snack off her cream-coloured throw rug.

But it was true—not that Angie was such a slut, but she was definitely a bit of a Samantha. Ever since her high school sweetheart knocked her up, talked her into having an abortion, then dumped her and invited her stepsister to the prom, Angie had vowed to steer clear of emotional entanglements. While she had an active social life, she rarely let things get beyond a third date.