Chapter Six: Seeking an oasis of calm in a tumultuous time, Gwen finds Urban Knits yarn shop. Surrounded by luxurious yarn, she begins to play with sweater design.
Chapter Seven
One July morning, Mother and I were sharing the patio table. A bamboo cotton blend was wrapped around my needles. Mother sipped coffee while she skim-read files.
My dad stopped trimming the rose bush to greet a group of Lyra-glad neighbourhood women walking down the street like a herd of deer.
“Morning, Mr. McNamara,” the woman called in reply.
My dad returned to his work. Maybe he thought correcting them would be rude. I waited for Mother to say something. All she did was smile. Did my dad's emasculation bring her pleasure? As calmly as I could, I asked, “Aren't you going to say something?”
“About what?”
She thought she could just sit there and play dumb.
“Dad.”
“If it upsets you this much, I will.” She watched me knit for half a row. “Don't you have something more productive to do? Always with those needles, always with that yarn...” She kept at me.
Nothing I could say would make her stop. So I left for the privacy of my bedroom.
A while later, I overheard my parents in the kitchen.
“I'm going to hire a gardener,” Mother said.
The rose bush was my dad's pride and joy. “Why? I don't mind working out there. In fact, I love it.”
“Seeing you working like that embarrasses our daughter."
I couldn’t believe that she was that clueless. I couldn’t believe she thought that was the reason I was upset.
“I thought you were going to volunteer at the SPCA?”
“I gave them my name and phone number."
“I have a meeting..."
“They said they'd phone, but it's been months.”
"At 2 p.m."
“When will you be home?”
“I don't know exactly. Sometime later.” The back door slammed shut.
When I went downstairs, a full glass and three empty bottles of wine sat before my deflated balloon father. What could I say to him? Maybe I tried something like, "How are you?" or "What's wrong?"
All he said was, "I'm fine, Elskan." He'd always been strong and independent. He didn't know how to be vulnerable—especially to me.
I couldn't watch him drown in alcohol. “I have to go to Urban Knits.” I left him home alone with all his demons.
I told myself that he could join Alcoholics Anonymous or see a therapist. But I knew he wouldn't. He just couldn't. He'd been raised to share his problems only with his family. He couldn't bring himself to share them with me. And Mother? She just didn't care. And so he drowned in a glass of alcohol. Neighbours rushed him to the hospital but he died in the ambulance. Officially, the cause of death was a damaged liver, but I blamed Mother—her neglect had killed him.
Peace. Joy. Love.
