Wynn took the paper, sliding it into her butter leather purse. When Beth had gone, hurrying to make it back to her post, Wynn remained on her seat, deep in thought. What did you do when you didn’t know what to do next? She pulled out her phone, scrolled through the messages – two from Evan, one from her mother, one from Annette – and then pressed the buttons that would connect her to Evan, three thousand miles away. Unsurprisingly, his phone rang her through to voicemail, and she stammered an “I love you,” not wanting to leave such news in such an...anonymous...way. Despite all her promises to the contrary, she realized, she had never once even pictured herself in the strait she was in right this moment.
Still conflicted, she rose to her feet, clutching the wooden spikes and their amateur effort in one slender hand, and her purse in the other. A week. She’d give it a week. In the morning, she’d call that gynecologist’s office back, apologize if she had to, and set that appointment. She’d also call another clinic, and set the...other...appointment. Three days to do research on parenting, three days to consider her future, and one night to decide how to move ahead. One week. Her lips curved in a privately amused smile as she wondered if she’d insist on a report from herself, too, but as she moved toward the checkout, her basket filling with automatic selections from around the Safeway, she felt...at peace. She could just not think about it for tonight, she decided.
And she was going to take Beth’s advice. Well, she amended, about the knitting, anyway.
She was lucky: the yarn shop around the corner from her Olive Street apartment was still open, casting a yellow square of light into the grey street surrounding her. The bell over the door earned her a wave from the clerk, who, Wynn was vaguely sure, might just be the owner as well. Glancing around herself at the samples of finished projects, she wandered from socks to scarves to shawls. Perhaps prudently, or perhaps because she was busy, the clerk let her be as she ambled, touching skeins and finished swatches alike. The corner closest to the shop window was dominated by pastels, and Wynn sighed as she entered it. Little hats and little socks: crossing her arms over her breasts, she stared at her soft, unassuming enemies with unconcealed rancor.
“You’re one of our beginners, right,” a soft voice said from behind her. “There are some free patterns at the desk for babies. Good first projects, and the hospital needs all the little hats we can churn out,” the clerk said, leaning against a bentwood display case overflowing with yarns of every thickness and hue. “Or perhaps there’s going to be a special delivery sometime soon?”
Wynn frowned, but kept her lips together. Was she that transparent? “Your sister’s having a baby, maybe,” the clerk continued, “or a friend from college?”
“My sister’s getting married in December,” Wynn snapped, then paused, instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hard day.”
“No harm done,” the clerk said, calmly. “But if you want to knit something other than a scarf, a baby hat could be a good choice. Fast and easy and appreciated.”
Maybe I could give Evan both things, Wynn thought, feeling a first flush of anticipation. The scarf for right now, and the hat as...as a way of telling him.
“Yes,” Wynn said. “I think I’d like to make a hat.”
“Pink?” the clerk asked, nodding toward a nubby yarn in a bubblegum shade. “Or blue?”
“Um, what color do you use when you don’t know yet?” Wynn asked, feeling a little embarrassed.
“Green, yellow, white, purple...blue’s nice on either gender, you can just crochet a few little yellow flowers on if the baby turns out to be a girl. Can’t do the same with a pink hat on a baby boy, though,” the clerk admitted, smiling. “How about variegated yarn? That’s got a little of every color, and you can make three or four hats from one of these big skeins.”
“Thanks,” Wynn said, as the clerk moved to ring her up. “Do you happen to have any more of this maroon? I didn’t do so well starting,” she said, displaying the scarf. “I’m doing better now, though. I thought about ripping it all back and starting over, but...well, I’m so close to done.”
The clerk crossed the shop, and returned with another, more familiar, ball of wool. “When you finish the baby hat, perhaps you should find a mitten pattern to go with the scarf,” she suggested. “But I don’t think you should frog that scarf.”
Wynn blinked at the clerk’s choice of words, so she explained. “You know. What does a frog say, “rip-it, rip-it.” They laughed together, and Wynn added the new term to her slowly expanding vocabulary of jargon. Why was it that every skill had its own language? Was it a way of excluding the initiates, or was it a shared experience that you learned as you progressed? What if parenting had a language, too? How the hell would she manage, armed with nothing more than a damn baby hat?
“Oh, he’d love mittens,” Wynn decided. And as easily as that, she had no idea what to do again. For a moment, she had almost been decided, almost been poised to take her leap of faith. And now she was back to wondering what she would decide in a week.
“Can I have the mitten pattern too?” she asked. The clerk nodded, shuffled some pages in a binder, and slid out a few copies of pages, dropping them into her emblazoned plastic sack. Wynn extended her debit card and took possession of the bag. With it came a sense of inner turmoil, a sensation of being pressured to make a choice. She rebelled against the sense of urgency she felt, hated the molding and conflicting advice running through her skull.
Everything seemed to be against her. What should she do? How could she decide?
Research, she decided. She’d start with the research, and make this choice the way choices ought to be made.
A week later, she was forced to admit that she was nowhere near her decision. Books on pregnancy clustered in a conspiratorial knot on her bedside table, hastily bought in an anonymous chain bookstore, as if she were ashamed that she needed them. Both skeins of yarn sat, untouched, atop the bowl of forgotten fruit gracing the table, set for one. There were more pregnancy tests in the bathroom, and plastic sticks rattled together in the wastebasket. Her work progress had stilted, slowing from a competent race to a leisurely stroll. Offices now prepared and standing ready for associates were empty, and the hiring process had ground to a halt. She knew that was what she needed to be on top of, but the more she chased her thoughts in their endless, vicious circle, the less sure she was of the future. Her only saving grace was the nearness of the Thanksgiving holiday: after Evan knew everything, she knew they’d work out the future.
On the final day of work before the obligatory four-day holiday that Waters and Wheeling granted twice yearly – in November and December, marked with a desultory party at each occasion – Wynn’s thoughts were on her luggage, stowed in the corner of her office. Had she packed everything? She still had not decided what to tell Evan, but she thought the time would present itself well enough – and soon enough. He was growing irritated with her, his texts becoming more and more terse, and her sister, Annette, wasn’t speaking to her after she’d fallen asleep during a diatribe about how party favors for a wedding were completely essential and how she couldn’t decide which to offer.
Mumbling that no one would care so long as the bar was open and well-stocked hadn’t exactly won her any Brownie points, either. And then she’d been struck by the thought that she had to avoid drinking, which had only led her right back into the quagmire of her thoughts. It was enough, she thought, to drive a woman to binge drink! Except, of course, you couldn’t.
She took a taxi to the airport, texting Evan that she was on her way and that she had news they needed to discuss. He hadn’t answered by the time her flight was called, so as she slid her phone back into her purse, she wondered what he’d worry over as he waited for her. He would move through their brownstone loft, straightening neat furniture, picking up things that didn’t need dusting, starting a meal in his beloved slow-cooker if he hadn’t begun one before work that morning. Her mouth watered at the thought of his osso bucco, and her stomach growled in anticipation. The airplane food seemed even less appetizing than usual, but she had a few bags of sliced apples, bought at a premium from the concourse McD’s. They were bland and flavorless, but at least they didn’t nauseate her.
It was very early morning when she arrived in New York, feeling the biting chill through her down-lined overcoat as the doors swirled open and shut, swallowing the sound of the wind rushing outside as a new snowstorm ran through its paces. Drowsy in the familiarity of the city she loved, she set her luggage together, fastening it to its rolling frame by a clever system of locking clips. As she straightened, she was bowled off her feet: her arms snapped out instinctively, trying to protect herself from smashing face-first into the faded and tired lineoleum underfoot. Her first thought wasn’t of the upcoming bloody nose, though: it was If I fall, what happens to the...
In that adrenaline-soaked moment, she realized she had made a commitment, if a small and tenuous one. Relief washed over her as Evan swung her around in a circle, and she smiled widely, her arms locking around him in a crushing hug. The joy of reunion swept her worries away, even let her forget the news she needed to deliver – somehow.
But not right now, she decided, nestled in the back seat of another taxi, this one the proper loud yellow, working their slow way over the packed George Washington Bridge. Yelps from the horns of other taxis sounded on both sides, but they were in the Village within an hour. In the steamy-breathed noisiness of the embracing night, she smiled, letting Evan dicker with the cab driver as he collected her luggage from the trunk. He reappeared a few moments later, handing her her houndstooth travel hobo as he wheeled her weekender along behind him. She reached inside, fingered the soft warmth of the baby wool she’d brought with her.
“I bet you’re ravenous,” Evan groused as they boarded the elevator. “I hope the crock-pot didn’t dry out.”
“Me, too,” she said. “You won’t believe how tired I am of Thai take-out. I’d kill for your osso bucco right now.”
Her first craving. Mouth stretched in a secret smile, she wondered if she should tell him. He’d be over the moon, she knew it: hell, he’d probably insist on finding an all-night grocery just to make her the fussy dish right this instant! She clutched his elbow, her mouth full of her magnificent secret, but the elevator lurched to a stop, throwing her off balance. They disembarked quietly, with Evan turning the key in the lock and ushering her inside. The smell coming from the kitchen was pleasant, but not the dish she’d craved. However, she found herself too hungry to resist the charm of his faux-French cookery, and when he ladled the rich beef stew, spiced with wine, into two bowls and broke slightly stale Italian bread into two companionable pieces, she fell to with gusto.
He waited until her mouth was full in an entirely different way to kill the first warm glow she had felt. “Wynn,” he said, reticence and reluctance in his voice, “I have something to tell you, and it’s not going to go over well.”
She forced a smile and glanced up from her bowl, chewing rapidly to empty her mouth. Swallowing, she managed, “I have news I need to tell you, too.”
The bedroom door opened, revealing a small woman, her dark hair pulled over one shoulder as she blinked owlishly at them. “For fuck’s sake,” the girl snapped, “would you two keep it down?”
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