Blossom Street

Business was beginning to pick up and I was pleased. I’d sold out of most of my inventory in nearly every yarn weight. I already had my second order into my main supplier. My first beginners’ class was about to officially end. I couldn’t believe six weeks had gone by so quickly. I was thrilled that after five weeks, my three students claimed they wanted to continue, so I agreed to extend the course. Because each class member was working on a different project now, except Alix, I suggested we turn Friday afternoons into a knitting support group. That way, they could all bring in whatever they wanted to work on, and I’d be there to help them at each stage of development. Despite their differences, these three dissimilar women were becoming friends. I could see it happening. Friends with each other and my friends, too.

As for their skills as knitters, Carol’s the most adept and has started a felted hat project.

Alix and Jacqueline still struggle with the basic stitches, but Alix has limited time to knit and Jacqueline—well, Jacqueline’s attitude bothers me. She’s obviously not fond of her daughter-in-law, although she’s never spoken openly about her. Jacqueline has started eyeing other projects now and is leaning toward the pricier yarns. Alix paid for her yarn a little each week, which made it abundantly clear that this is an extravagance. Still, the group simply wouldn’t be the same without her.

Just when I was ready to close on Tuesday afternoon, I saw my sister walking across the street toward the shop. She’d only come here once before, on my first day of business. She’d taken such pride in forecasting financial disaster, but I refuse to allow her to get me down and I braced for a confrontation.

When Margaret entered the store, I knew instantly that something was wrong. She hadn’t come to spread doom and gloom or chastise me. Her face was pale and she seemed close to tears.

“Margaret, what is it?” I hurried toward her.

“I—I …” She had trouble speaking and grabbed my hand so hard I almost cried out.

“Come,” I said, steering her to the back of the store where I had the table and chairs set up for my class. “Sit down. Can I get you a glass of water?”

Margaret shook her head. I’ve never seen my sister this upset. I couldn’t imagine what had caused her distress or driven her to approach me.

“Dr. Abram’s office phoned,” she said, looking up at me as if I should be able to figure out the problem from that little bit of information. I didn’t know who Dr. Abram was. I wondered if Matt had fallen ill or been involved in some kind of accident. Another possibility loomed and filled me with dread.

“Is this about Mother?” I asked. The thought of something happening to Mom so soon after losing Dad terrified me.

“No,” she cried. “This is about me. Dr. Abram said my mammogram needs to be retaken.” She grabbed my hand again. “It seems—it seems I have a lump in my breast.” My sister stared up at me, eyes wide and fearful.

I’ll admit I was shaken by this and sat down next to her. The pressure on my hand increased when she realized I understood.

“I’m so afraid,” Margaret whispered.

“This doesn’t mean you have cancer.” I tried to sound reassuring, but it was difficult. Margaret was thinking the same thing I was. I’d already been on intimate terms with the big C. Mom and Dad had always worried that they’d passed on a genetic flaw that made us vulnerable to the disease. Two of our grandparents had died of it. When I’d first been diagnosed, Mom had insisted Margaret be thoroughly checked, as well. Everything had seemed all right then—but now …

“When’s the second mammogram scheduled?”

“I … was just there…. The technician wouldn’t tell me anything. She said Dr. Abram would have the results read. Then he’d like to see me.”

“Oh, Margaret, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?”

“I … don’t know. I haven’t told anyone.”

“Matt?”

She sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to scare him.”

“But he’s your husband! He has a right to know.”

“I’ll tell him when I have something to report.”

Her voice was cold, and I knew better than to argue. My sister did things her own way and in her own time. Pressuring her wouldn’t do any good.

“How did you feel when you found out you had cancer?” Margaret asked.

I had to strain to make out the words. I’d been sixteen during my first illness and I hadn’t known what I do now or even what I did the second time. The day I learned the tumor had grown back was the worst of my life. I was well aware of what lay ahead and in some ways death seemed preferable.

I knew what this could mean to my sister, and I couldn’t hide my reaction. “I was frightened, too,” I told her.

Her grip on my hand tightened briefly.

“How long have you been keeping this to yourself?” I asked and gently smoothed the hair away from her face.

“Five days,” she whispered and then added urgently, “I want you to promise me something.”

“Of course,” I assured her. Margaret had never asked anything of me before and I was willing to comply, no matter what.

“Don’t tell Mom.”

I hated keeping secrets from our mother but in this case I agreed with Margaret. It was useless to upset Mom until we had the facts.

“Thank you,” she whispered, clearly relieved.

“Anything, Margaret. You know that.”

Her gaze held mine. “Would you …” She hesitated. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but would you go to the doctor with me?”

“Of course.” I’d been planning to offer.

She seemed shocked. “You’d do that?”

I nodded.

“You’d have to close the shop.”

“I won’t let you face this alone.”

Her eyes swam with tears and I reached for a box of tissues and handed her one. Then, because I’ve always regretted that Margaret and I aren’t close, I put my arms around her.

“I’ll be with you, Margaret.”

“Thank you.” She sobbed against my shoulder for a minute before she regained her composure. Breaking away from me, she blew her nose and sniffled. “I’ll do what I can to get the appointment on a Monday—but if I can’t …”

“It doesn’t matter what time of day it is or even what day,” I insisted. I intended to help my sister through this, no matter what.

Margaret seemed about to speak when the bell above the door chimed. I wanted to groan at the interruption, but I was in business and my job was to serve my customers. Even at quarter past five …

The friendly whistle told me it was Brad Goetz, my UPS deliveryman. He wheeled in three large boxes and set them next to the cash register. “How’s it goin’?” he asked as he handed me the computerized clipboard, leaning against the counter.

“Really well,” I said and quickly signed my name, eager to push him out the door.

“Every time I come by I see women in the shop, especially on Friday afternoons.”

“I’ve got a class then.”