work in progress: novel "the knitting girl" by diedre m. blake

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  • 8/7/2019 Work in Progress: Novel "The Knitting Girl" by Diedre M. Blake

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    The Knitting Girl

    (A working title)

    Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy

    and all the tricks my body knows-

    the opposable thumbs, the kneecaps,

    and the mind clicking and clicking-

    dont seem enough to carry me through this world

    and I think: how I would like

    to have wings-

    blue ones-

    ribbons of flame.

    How I would like to open them, and rise

    from the black rain water

    -M. Oliver, fromSpring Azures

    The sounds of Monday morning came crashing through the window of Abbie s small Highland Avenue studio apartment in

    Davis Square. Construction vehicles with their screaming workers, the automated coffee pot beeping its brew, and the flapping

    ears of her dog, Monkee, shaking out a loud, Wake up! greeted her ears. With a weary hand, she crawled her fingers over the

    surface of the rickety pinewood bedside table where she kept her eyeglasses no need to open her eyes until she actually had to.

    Clutching her glasses, Abbie cracked open her swollen eyelids- the night before had been rough and long. Better not to think

    about it, she reminded herself. Yawning, she placed her glasses firmly on her nose and swung her legs over the edge of her futon

    bed. The hardwood floor felt cold to the touch.

    Abbie poked around under the sheets and blankets on her bed looking for socks which she knew she must have removed

    during the night. Her sleep had been quite poor lately, and she had stopped keeping track of whether or not she had taken her

    nightly sleeping pills over the last week. Winter was fast approaching.

    The last two years had been like this. As Fall ended Abbie would begin a slow descent into an inner world of darkness that

    left her isolated from the few friends and family she kept close. During the first winter, in fact, she had thought that she would

    never make it through to see the Spring. Her depression only seemed to intensify as the days went by. Only a flickering spark

    of hope that somehow had managed to remain within her, had kept her going along with a serendipitous lesson in crocheting. That

    day had been like many others of that time: long and wearisome. By then Abbie had learned to ignore her fatigue, and functioned

    on little sleep that was fueled intermittently by her consumption of iced coffee.

    On that day, she had sat on the steps in the wallpapered stairwell of the large white house that represented home for the

    twelve teenagers who had come to live there after being rejected by their families. One girl in particular had taken to spending

    time with Abbie in the mornings when she worked, asking her about her outside life to which Abbie always gave the most circular

    and evasive responses. On this day, however, no such questions came, rather the girl had made an odd request. She wanted to

    teach Abbie how to crochet. This, the young girl thought, would make them closer since they would have something in common.

    For Abbie, however, this became the first step towards enjoying some relief from the internal misery she experienced as the nights

    grew longer and in the mornings she woke to darkness. Her friends would later joke that it became impossible to find her

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    without a ball of yarn and a crochet hook. Moreover, many of them thought that she ought to have entered a speed crocheting

    contest as she tended to crochet at such a rate that it seemed as though her very life depended on every stitch she made. Little did

    her friends know or understand that they were not very far away from the truth. For Abbie, each stitch meant a moment of peace,

    a moment free from the worry about the next moment, from the darkness, from the world around her. That winter, everyone she

    knew received ill-made, but wonderfully colourful, acrylic scarves.

    The aroma of coffee mixed with a buttery scent emerging from the bakery below her studio made Abbie long for a lazy day

    spent idly in one of the local coffee shops, or just sitting at her kitchen table eating toast while contemplating patterns in one of

    the many knitting and crochet magazines to which she subscribed. As this was not to be, however, Abbie turned her thoughts

    towards getting ready for the day, starting with her typical rummage through her barely-filled cupboard to find, as usual, a

    mismatched coffee mug, bowl, and a chipped (actually cracked) plate. All of these were parts of a partial dining set she had

    found in a box marked Free, that had been sitting on the sidewalk as she walked home from the train station about a month

    before. She had thought the colours of the set beautiful: bowls of vivid sunflower yellow, raspberry reds, plates of vanilla cream,

    and deep indigo. Furthermore, since moving out of her previously shared apartment, Abbie had been desperate to save what

    money she could and the partial set would be better than the plastic camping gear she had been using, especially, if however

    unlikely, someone came over.

    Monkee, her Newfoundland Sheepdog mix, sat expectantly beside the old 1950s salamander-green Formica-topped kitchen

    table while Abbie consumed a breakfast of twelve-grain toast with butter and brown-sugared oatmeal. She liked her coffee

    sweetened with condensed milk and pure cane sugar, much like her mother had made Abbies hot cocoa when she was a child.

    Abbie sipped while staring at the cover of the unopened morning newspaper. She could tell from the headline, Hurricane, Tidal

    Waves, and Earthquakes, that this edition was bound to end up, like so many of the other dismal reports of the last month, in the

    recycling bin before she even took her morning shower- She had learned over the last two years to avoid unpleasant news at the

    start of her day. With all the goings-on in the world, at least her life was not made more difficult by living somewhere like the

    backwoods of Maine, she thought while secretly she praised the MBTA s public transportation system. It had made it easy

    enough to get around- once you got the hang of the colour-coded subway lines.

    She had been able to get to classes reasonably on time, especially when she was feeling athletically-minded and would

    actually run up the seeming mountain-sheer steepness of the Porter Square subway stairs. Since finishing graduate school,

    however, Abbie had managed to avoid the Porter Square stop altogether and spent more time, in good weather, biking, or in

    not-so-good weather, walking to and from the different Somerville Squares surrounding Davis. She had found as well that she

    had more time for things like her hobbies, friends, and going out. Not that she actually focused on the latter two. Rather, it was

    just nice to know that she could. In actuality, over the last two months since her move, Abbie had found that she had been

    distancing herself from friends, and had decreased significantly her visits to her usual haunts.

    As Abbie emerged from the Green Line Government Center train stop in downtown Boston, she heard a familiar

    high-pitched, bordering on squeaky, voice shouting her name. Looking across the plaza, she saw Charlene Baker, a sweet-faced,

    blonde-haired woman with a plump figure running (well, more skipping) towards her (Abbie was quite sure that Charlene had

    never done anything unladylike in her life, which would include, of course, doing anything that might cause perspiration.) Her

    jovial face appeared bright against the overcast grey of the morning sky.

    Hey, hon! I thought that was you coming out of the subway. Let s walk into work together. Ive got sooo

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    much to tell you about my weekend, girrrl! Charlenes southern drawl lingered so long on the r in girl that Abbie thought that

    she would omit the l altogether , which would have left Abbie more than amused for the most part of the morning as she would

    inwardly refer to herself as girrr

    Charlenes squeals, which seemed to be her preferred method of imparting information, broke through Abbies thoughts as

    she went on with the details of her latest weekend escapade. Abbie nodded along as she strode across the plaza towards the

    sidewalk, which would eventually lead to the old red-brick building that housed their workplace. As they walked, Abbies right

    brow began to take on a life of its own as it, every now and again, would raise in an arch, giving her face a look of bland

    amusement, or perhaps amazement, at some particularly revealing and bluntly risqu parts of Charlenes story. She made a

    mental note to remind Charlene of her self-proclaimed status as an upstanding southern lady, while helping her to examine her

    understanding of the finer points of being demure (as Charlene was also often wont to claim.) This, of course, would all depend

    on whether or not Charlene would ever inhale enough air to stop talking for a moment or two.

    Abbie listened on as they went along to the incessant stream of sound flowing from Charlene s brilliantly red-stained,

    bow-shaped lips, allowing her mind to capture only the most salient and pertinent aspects of the story while simultaneously

    calculating the total for this months bills. She had learned from past experience just how involved and trivial many of the points

    of a Charlene-story could be. From what she could gather from this one, there was something about a Saturday night date with a

    Mr. Right-On-Time with flowers and candy; and a Sunday picnic with a Mr. Compliments-A-Plenty with even more flowers and

    candy. Both conspired, it seemed, to turn Charlene into a giddy school girl, whose chatter was apparently never-ending and so

    telling that it had passed beyond the beyond the point of what might be deemed appropriate conversation. As she and Charlene

    entered into the lobby of the 70s-styled office building, Abbie thought, at least she had managed to nod at all the right places, even

    going so far as to make inquiring hmms?, approving uh-huhs, and understanding ah-hahs at the proper intervals.

    Well, hon, well have to catch up later on, Charlene informed Abbie, and Ill finish telling you the rest of my juicy

    gossip.

    Abbie wasnt sure about catching up with Charlene later on, nor was she having a particularly enthusiastic or even

    slightly good feeling about hearing anything juicy.

    How about lunch? My treat? Charlene now added.

    It took a few moments before Abbie registered that she needed to give a response. After all, it seemed almost incredulous

    that Charlene actually expected her to be verbal given the one-sidedness of their conversation over the last several minutes.

    Lunch, Abbie? What do you say? How bout round 12:10ish?

    Abbie attempted to fix her features with a look of deep regret as she stated, Um, no, I cant today. I.. Ive got that report

    to finish, you know, on the McKinley case.

    Charlene responded with a loud sigh of disappointment followed by Oh, gosh darn it. I was hoping to finish sharing my

    little story with you. You know, Abbie, we ought to spend some more time together, maybe go out sometime after work. I

    know some great places to meet men

    Something inside Abbie made her become more alert as Charlene spoke. She began to feel a heaviness descending upon her

    chest, which she recognized immediately as an increase in her anxiety. Not being sure of what to do or say next, Abbie began to

    turn away, and almost inaudibly uttered the words, Maybe tomorrow over her shoulders. With that she started down the

    corridor, leaving Charlene standing at the entrance, staring after her with a look of perplexity.

    Abbie could feel the weight of her feet, her shoulders and her head as she found her way along the narrow corridor leading

    to her office. Why did she get so nervous when people wanted to get close?, she wondered. Her mind thundered with the

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    multiple scenes from her life recently that had played out just as this one had. The request. The denial. The awkwardness.

    She just wanted to get to her office and close the world out of her mind.

    The sound of her short-heeled boots echoed as she walked down the empty taupe-coloured hallway filled with its partially

    opened and closed doors. Every door held a plaque, announcing the name, the degrees, and the title of the person within. The

    colour of the hallway had always bothered Abbie, who had been informed that some member of the higher-ups had decided that

    taupe was the most neutral and soothing colour for the clients who visited. Abbie thought the person who decided this was

    moronic. The colour had only managed to darken the already dark hallway, which was doused with a murky shade of yellow,

    provided by an artificial light set in the patchwork ceiling. Her eyes always dwelled on the many framed prints of famous

    still-life and landscape paintings, marked with the name of the artist and the museum in which the image could be found. Thus,

    providing a mini-art history lesson for the happenstance passerby. The printed information only cheapened the image and made

    the space feel more like low-end motel rather than a successful treatment center.

    Seeing her nameplate on the door of her office still came as a pleasant shock to Abbie, who could hardly wrap her mind

    around the idea that she was now deemed a professional. What that actually meant to Abbie, however, still remained quite

    unclear. She hadnt bothered to think about it as she raced through the third and last year of her graduate school experience.

    She just focused on working hard to finish her two masters degrees, which she earned concurrently. Here on the door was at least

    the proof that she did accomplish something, even if she didn t know what it all would eventually mean to her.

    Abania L. Lawton, M.F.A., M.S.WTherapist

    The years had scurried by and here she was, on her own with her small studio, and entering into her own tiny yet private

    office. The room had the smell of old leather-bound books with yellowed pages, pinewood, and furniture polish blended with the

    chemical scent of powerful cleaning agents. The walls, for the most part, were a combination of bare wooden panels and old

    wallpaper decorated with tiny faded fleur de lis, which Abbie had initially mistaken to be bluebells. One section of wall held

    built-in shelves, which had been a highlight for Abbie when she was first shown the office. She had already filled most of the

    shelves with her library of treatment-related books. She also kept a shelf with a drawing pad, coloured pencils, crayons, and

    markers as well as some small puzzles and toys for her younger clients. For her own personal use, she had kept one shelf, aptly

    titled Books of Interest & Novels to be Read. This held approximately two dozen books, stacked one on top of the other in

    neatly made rows.

    Her desk was old, large, and metal. Moreover, it was incredibly heavy, which Abbie soon discovered in her attempt to

    redecorate. She decided then that she would add her name to the list of previous occupants of the room who had vainly tried and

    spectacularly failed to move what she had come to term the beige monster of metal. The desk would have to remain put. She

    kept no pictures and had hung only a small mahogany framed painting on the wall opposite the door.

    The painting, an unknown artists reproduction of the William Bougereaus painting, The Knitting Girl, was the only

    new object in the room. Abbie had seen it a year before in the window of an antique shop on one of her many trips into Salem.

    The asking price of four hundred dollars had been too much for her then graduate student budget. Yet still she made monthly

    trips to visit with it while quietly squirreling away any extra money she had after paying her monthly bills.