WARNING: This story contains adult content
WARNING: This chapter contains themes of suicide that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Thirteen: When she came in that day, I remember being glad we weren’t busy. She wasn’t the class of diner we wanted to attract.
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Fourteen
On a Wednesday night in early October, I arrived at my favourite yarn shop, full of inspiration. “I want to make Jay a sweater for Christmas,” I told Mrs. Padisak.
“What yarn will you use?”
“Well, he lives in a Peruvian sweater.”
“Peruvian. Peru. Alpaca. Ah.” I followed her to a shelf stuffed full of yarn.
“Alpaca is a luxurious yarn.” She handed me a skein.
It felt light and soft in my hands.
“This is Suri Alpaca. But no. Not.” She took that skein out of my hand and replaced it with another. “Huacaya Alpaca is a wool/alpaca blend—50% wool/50% alpaca.” She handed me another ball.
“Now, colour.” She swept her hand over the range of colours offered in that yarn. “Look and I’m sure you’ll find the perfect colour for your husband.” She smiled at me.
“Oh, no, I’m not married. Jay is my boyfriend.”
I watched as her smile faded to a look of alarm. “You’re planning to knit a sweater for boyfriend?”
“Yes. I’m going to design and knit him a sweater. It’s our first Christmas as a couple. I want to do something very special.”
“Please. Don’t knit him a sweater—not for your boyfriend.”
“What? Why?”
“The sweater curse.” She held me in place with her eyes. “If you knit your boyfriend a sweater something very bad will happen.”
We noticed a customer waiting at the cash register.
She grabbed my wrist before she left me. “Please, hear my words. Knit him a nice hat or a cozy scarf or a useful pair of socks. Anything. Just not a sweater.”
“I promise,” I tossed off, only to console a funny old woman.
There were hues of every colour imaginable. I couldn’t decide between a deep purple or a subtle grey. Then... On a lower shelf, I saw skeins in Jay’s favourite colour—periwinkle. I studied the yarn band, did some mental calculations, and decided I’d need nine skeins, but I filled my arms with ten. Better to have too much than too little.
I paid for the yarn and told a concerned Mrs. Padisak. “I’ve decided to knit a hat for Jay and a cardigan for me." -Just a harmless little white lie.
“I have beautiful buttons. Come, I’ll show you.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I have a collection of vintage buttons in a mason jar at home.” There were no buttons. No mason jar.
Completing the sweater in time for Christmas wasn’t a problem. My only challenge was keeping my knitting a secret from Jay.
“What are you knitting?” Dora asked. “All these months, and I don’t think I ever saw you knit before. Your needles move so fast. I can barely see them.”
I laughed. “I’m knitting a sweater for Jay.”
“Oh, he’ll love it,” Ginger commented.
“It’ll be his Christmas present. Please, help me keep the secret.”
“He won’t hear about it from us,” Joanna assured me.
They were true to their word. One day, I forgot a sleeve at the cafĂ©. The next day, I found it waiting for me on a shelf in the woman’s washroom.
My knitting went quickly, and days before Christmas, I was done. I was so pleased. The sweater was beautiful. I couldn’t wait to see his face when I gave it to him. I placed the sweater in the bottom of a gift bag and stuffed the bag with tissue paper. On Christmas Day, I laughed as tissue paper flew everywhere.
“Oh, Gwen, this is beautiful.” He hugged and kissed me.
`“Put it on. Let’s see if it fits.”
He wore the sweater the entire day and to every special occasion—book readings, gallery openings, parties. He proudly told everyone, “Gwen knit this sweater for me. Isn’t she talented? Look at how it fits. It’s the perfect length. It’s so warm. It’s like wearing a hug. It’s my favourite sweater. Did I tell you Gwen designed it? Yes, she knitted and designed this sweater. I know. She’s very talented. Here, have a closer look.” He stuck out an arm so everyone could admire my stitches. He collected compliments like wildflowers and presented them to me. “You know, Gwen, every knitter wants to knit your— My sweater. Every guy wants to wear it.” He told me as I knit in my favourite knitting spot—a comfy chair in a cozy nook in our living room. Knitting magazines were stacked on an end table beside my chair. “Have you sent the pattern to a publisher yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, you need to. I know they’d love it.” He picked up a magazine—Needles and Yarn. “Here. Send it to them.”
What could I do? He was so excited. I included a photo of Jay wearing his sweater in my submission package. I slipped the package into a mailbox, and that’s when I began to dream. Needles and Yarn would discover me, but all the other magazines would vie for me. They’d all come begging at my door. I’d receive emails requesting a design from this magazine and from that e-zine. Boutiques would beg to sell my sweater collection. Yarn manufacturers would supply me with yarn—for free! They’d create a line of Gwen Bjarnson-inspired yarn. I’d have to fight off the reporters and photographers. Knitters would want to shake my hand, hear me speak. I’d go on all-expense-paid holidays to knitting retreats all over the world. I’d be famous, respected, loved.
Waiting for my dreams to become reality was painful. I took some solace in a knitwear designer chat group. Many aspiring designers shared problems of their own. They complained about knitters being unwilling to pay for patterns, about magazines’ lack of payment for designs, about lack of recognition for work completed, and lack of artistic validation. More experienced designers attempted to encourage us by writing carefully crafted pep talks: “Believe in your work, and others will too.” and “All the struggling will pay off. You will obtain success.” and “A couple of years ago, I was where you are. Now look at me. I’ve built a successful career. Believe me, if I can do it, so can you.” I held firm to their words, and they buoyed me up.
On a seemingly ordinary day, I came home from work to find a note from Jay. “Pathan asked me to attend her rehearsal. Jay.” No love, Jay just Jay. I decided to ignore his omission. I figured he was probably in a hurry. He’d collected the mail before he left and it was beside his note. Digging through, I found… I found an envelope from Needles and Yarn. Waiting for me inside... Inside... The validation that would magically transform my dreams into reality. I tore it open.
“Thank you for submitting to Needles and Yarn, but unfortunately, we cannot accept your design for publication" is what I read, but what I heard them say was, “Your designs suck. You suck. You’re not an artist. You’re not a designer. You’re a loser!”
I wanted to cry, scream, kick, punch. I tore the letter in half and in half again. The rejection weighed far too much to carry alone. Jay wasn’t home to support me. My only other thought was the knitting chat group. I felt they would know what to say. After all, I reasoned, they probably had faced all kinds of rejection. I hoped they would give me the support I needed.
The chat group was rather quiet. All I found was a post by a well-respected member of the chat group. Heather Newsfeld had won her stripes as a knitwear designer. Recently, Needles and Yarn had hired her as their technical editor.
She wrote, “I’m so appalled at the lack of professionalism that abounds amongst inexperienced knitwear designers. Recently, a so-called designer submitted an extremely poorly written pattern. I spent eighteen hours attempting to untangle the mess. I was so frustrated that I was forced to abandon the mess, and the design was rejected.”
“Who is she?” Everyone wanted to know. And the hunt was on. Name after name was offered, until Heather wrote… “I’ll end this speculation. The knitwear designer was Gwen Bjarnson."
Gwen Bjarnson… My name clearly spelled out for all to see. I felt so humiliated, so totally crushed. I opened the fridge and found a bottle of wine. I poured myself a glass and another and another. Before I knew it the bottle was empty. I knew where we kept more, so I helped myself. And I was no longer alone. My demons were with me. They screamed at me. “You’re such a waste. Your sweaters are garbage. You’ll never amount to anything. Jay’ll leave you. You’ll die alone. You see how Pathan looks at him. You see how he looks at her. He knows she has real talent. She’s not fake like you. Her voice—it’s beautiful. She’s seduced him with her songs. She’s so young, so happy, so attractive, not like you. You’re a tired, old drunk. He’s sick of you.
“Rehearsal, ha! What rehearsal? He’s not going to any rehearsal. They've found something far more enjoyable to do together. That's where he is right now—with her. They’re hot, sweaty. They’re clinging to each other. She wants him. He wants her. There’s nothing you can do about it. Just get out of his life. Leave. He deserves happiness. All you’ll bring him is misery. They deserve each other. If you’re not here, they can be together. They can be happy. He can be happy.” I collected all my clothes, patterns, yarn, and the sweater I knit for Jay into a big pile.
My demons weren’t done, not yet. “Where are you going? No one wants you. No one. You can’t go to Blondous. Your mother and your grandpapa are embarrassed by you. They know you’re just a sick joke. Your old friends hate you. Your new friends—what new friends? They’re Jay’s friends. They just tolerate you. You have no one. NO ONE!”
They screamed, “Burn the junk! Burn the junk!”
I poured alcohol all over the pile. I lit a match, and another, and another. Large tongues of fire licked the pile. The flames leapt. The monster roared and grew even bigger.
In the middle of the pile, I saw my dad. Tears streamed down his face. He was alone. He was in pain. He needed my help. He called to me, “Gwen. Gwen, please. Gwen, help me.”
I pawed through the flames, searching for him. He appeared and disappeared just as quickly, evading me time and time again.
“Daddy, Daddy,” I bawled. The stench of burning flesh and hair nauseated me. Unconscious, I fell on the pile. I heard fire engine sirens, and I woke up. I woke up here. Looking down, I saw a heap of ash and bone. I wondered what I was looking at, and then I knew. I’d lost everything. I never intended to kill myself.
I knew Jay lusted for Pathan. I was jealous. …but I didn’t want to die.
Now, I can see, but no longer am I seen. Pain, sorrow, suffering—I see what few others do.
I can’t stand back and watch. I have to act. Is this my crime?
The Sweater Curse
“Please.” I pray. “Remember me like this smiling, happy, alive.”
Mayne Island's Old Dock
You know, I've stood for close to 60 years welcoming islanders, weekenders, and tourists alike to Mayne Island. I've been proud to do my part to ensure that everyone arrived safely. I've had a full happy life. But now I know it's time to step aside and let someone younger take over. And I will step aside--piece by piece.
