WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Four: She didn't mourn. She moved on.
(the rock art was still standing after this photo was taken.)
Chapter Five
In 2002, after I completed the eighth grade, Mother moved us from Manitoba to BC.
Our new home was a gated community. We, the advantaged, were protected behind tall walls. Except for ours, they were all male-led households. The men were doctors, lawyers, corporate executives, and engineers. They were all successful professionals whose occupations allowed them the privilege of minimal family involvement. Domestics minded the mundane so those left at home could indulge. The abandoned wives amused themselves by painting their nails, sunbathing, and engaging in extramarital affairs. The neglected children experimented with fast cars, narcotics, and sex.
I divorced my family and squeezed myself into other households. Sometimes I stayed in a guest bedroom with its colour TV and walk-in closet. Others offered their pool house. I never stayed longer than three weeks. There was no need; I was constantly offered invitations.
“You can do what you want to do. Say what you want to say. Go wherever you want to go. You’re so cool.” My peers admired my independence.
Their mothers took me under their wings. They taught me how to walk in high heels, apply makeup, mix a martini, and seduce a man. “Remember, dear, don’t give in too quickly. Make him fight for it, and he’ll be putty in your hands. Keep him interested by giving him a little taste of what he’ll want more of. Make him drool long and dream of you.”
As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles—like a two-year-old drags a blankie or a Catholic carries rosary beads. This was a tumultuous time, and the local yarn shop became my oasis. I stepped over the threshold and entered a world of directed meditation. I was drawn to shades and hues of every description—lipstick lava, Chinatown apple, gothic rose, potting soil, grape jelly, porcelain green, sea foam, tea rose, pumpkin, lullaby purple, maple sugar, lemon peel, cinder, birch, baton rouge. I cradled the skeins in my hands, and their textures—from coarse to fuzzy to silky—seduced me.
Yes, I built my stash, but I didn’t purchase a single pattern. Why would I follow someone else’s rules? I was a rebel.
I knit wool sweaters in the winter, cotton tops in the summer. I used novelty yarn to accent the collar and cuffs of one design and created a Chanel-inspired cardigan. It received compliments each time I wore it. I gained notoriety as a fashionista.
“Your sweaters are so beautiful, dear. I would like you to knit me one,” a middle-aged woman, one of the mothers, requested. She grinned as if she were doing me a favour.
“Ah, no. I only knit for myself,” I informed her and everyone who inquired.
“Could you teach me to knit?” one of my classmates asked.
“You? If you think you can learn, I’ll teach you.” Using bulky yarn and size ten needles, I cast on twelve stitches. “This is one of the two basic stitch patterns,” I explained.
“Two stitch patterns? Just two?”
“Knit and purl. This is the knit, or garter, stitch. Watch closely.” I worked one row very slowly.
“Ah, that's easy.”
“It is easy. If you learn it and the purl stitch, you’ll be able to make anything you want,” I promised.
I began to knit faster and faster; the yarn flew.
“When can I try?”
“How about now?” I finished the row and handed her the needles.
“What do I do?”
“Weren’t you watching?” I asked sternly. “Put the needle in your right hand into the loop, wrap the yarn around, and then pull the old stitch off. Not like that. What’s wrong? I thought you said it looked easy.”
“It did look easy when you were doing it, but it’s not easy for me. I can’t seem to… I’m having trouble… This is impossible.”
“Fine, then don’t learn. It doesn’t matter to me.”
"No, I'll try harder,” she promised, but the yarn was soon a tangled mess.
I had very little patience with ineptitude and soon abandoned her. Still the requests kept coming. Teach me to knit… Teach me to knit… It was nauseating.
Anyway...
After my dad died, my official address remained unchanged. My school and other governing bodies believed I still cohabited with Mother. They didn’t know about our severed relationship. Periodically, I would visit my old residence when I knew she wasn’t there. I didn’t break in. I had a key. An envelope waited for me there on the kitchen table. It held a lump of bills and a note. I rolled the unread note into a joint. It relaxed me to see “Love, Mother” go up in flames as I puffed. I would suck in Mary Jane’s sweet breath and poke it out on Mother’s curtains, walls, and rugs. Just one of the many ways I would let her know I still cared.
During a clandestine visit, Mother and Grandpapa trapped me. It still hurts to think those two were able to outsmart me.
They had a message, which Mother delivered as Grandpapa glared. “We’ve allowed you to muddle through to the eleventh grade, but this is where the muddling ends.”
I don’t know what they were worried about. I was going to school—at least twice a week. I was late—but there.
“We’re going to talk some sense into you.”
Sense? Those two wouldn’t know sense, even if it bit them on the ass.
“We’re not going to allow you to waste your life. McNamaras are university graduates. Pillars of society.”
I’m a Bjarnson, not a McNamara! I wanted to scream, but didn’t. Why light a fire? They were already boiling.
“Improve your grades and enroll in university.”
What could I do? I needed Mother’s cash donations. I matriculated, but not into med school. I wasted a few years wandering from program to program seeking fun. I found cute guys and wild parties. Inevitably, I dropped out.
Mother and Grandpapa were ecstatic. She celebrated by moving and not giving me her new address. He stopped leaving curt voicemail messages. In fact, I never heard from him again. I periodically heard about him when I watched the news. Former doctor, now affluent businessman, supported this charity or was honoured and given this award. I was tempted to phone or send a note of congratulations. Yeah, right, just as soon as I stopped buying yarn.
Sunday, November 23, at approximately 4:40 PM PT
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Six
I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could finally claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...
November 17
The Giller prize winner announced
This year's shortlist...
We Love You, Bunny by Mona Awad, published by Scribner Canada
The Tiger and the Cosmonaut by Eddy Boudel Tan, published by Viking Canada
The Paris Express by Emma Donoghue, published by Harper Avenue
The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight, published by Viking Canada
Pick a Colour by Souvankham Thammavongsa, published by Knopf Canada
November 19
CBC Poetry Prize winner announced
Last Sunday (November 9th), my husband took me on Mayne Island's studio tour. A highlight was our visit to Ravendale Farm, where I found this beautiful display of knitting...
Who won?...
