Back on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #4)(59)

Rebecca Deeprose, www.arizonaknittingandneedlepoint.com

Lydia Goetz

Margaret and I talked it over yet again, and decided not to tell our mother about the carjacking. Her physical and emotional health was fragile and growing more so all the time. It would’ve been too much for her.

The problem neither of us foresaw was her intuitive awareness of her children. Neither of us said a word, but somehow Mom sensed that something was wrong. She asked repeatedly if everything was all right. Again and again I assured her it was.

“Lydia,” she said the minute I stepped into her room. “Where’s Margaret?”

This wasn’t exactly the greeting I’d hoped to receive, and not only because it reminded me that Margaret had always been closer to her than I was. “She’s at the shop,” I explained, coming into Mom’s room. “Business was a bit slow this afternoon, so I thought I’d take some time and come for a visit.” I didn’t mention that Margaret had purposely stayed behind.

Mom sat in her favorite chair in front of the television, which had become her main source of entertainment. She used to rarely turn it on. These days the set was constantly tuned to one program or another. I sometimes wondered if Mom actually turned it off when she slept.

Mom pursed her lips. “I haven’t seen Margaret in days.”

“Wasn’t she here on Sunday?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Margaret and Matt had come by early in the afternoon, the first time they’d left Julia alone since she was released from the hospital. Margaret had fretted the entire time and they’d gone home after only the briefest of visits.

Mom picked up the remote and lowered the volume on her television. She was watching one of those courtroom programs with ordinary people appearing before a judge. “When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked anxiously.

I sighed. At that moment I wanted to tell her everything. I couldn’t, though. If she learned about the carjacking it should be from my sister, not me.

“What did you have for lunch?” I asked instead.

Mom’s eyes returned to the television. “I don’t think I went in for lunch this afternoon.”

One of the advantages provided by the assisted living complex was that they served three balanced meals a day. Margaret and I had carefully evaluated a number of places before selecting this one. For us, the meals had been a selling feature, and so were the many social events.

Mom had her own apartment and even a tiny kitchen with a microwave and refrigerator. Best of all, she was surrounded by her own things. Margaret and I had gone through the house before it was sold, choosing pieces we knew she particularly loved. Mom was pleased that we were able to get so much of her furniture into her new home; it was a comfort to have familiar things after so many unnerving changes.

I was immediately alarmed to learn she’d skipped lunch. “Mom, you’re diabetic. You need to eat!”

“Yes, honey, I know. I had some tuna on a cracker.” She sent me a weary look that pleaded for understanding. “I don’t seem to have much of an appetite.”

It was more than skipping a meal that concerned me. She also needed the social contact. I hated the thought of Mom sitting alone in her room for days on end. When she’d first moved into the complex, Margaret and I were ecstatic at how quickly she’d made friends with her tablemates. But Helen Hamilton had moved to Indiana a month ago to be closer to her children. And Joyce Corwin had died of a stroke. Both losses had been blows to my mother. She’d been far more reclusive ever since.

“Margaret’s fine, Mom,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Everyone is.” I wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t believe it to be true. Julia had given us all a scare, but the counselors had been wonderful, helping my niece deal with the tumble of emotions that sometimes overwhelmed crime victims. Julia met regularly with a group of other people who’d undergone similar ordeals. They’d helped her cope with her anger, and perhaps more profound, the sense of vulnerability.

Personally, I felt the sessions might help Margaret, too. I happen to like my head, however, and I knew my sister would’ve bitten it off had I suggested she meet with a support group herself.

Mom reached for my hand. “Tell me about the yarn store. You say business is down?”

“Not down. In fact, we’re doing better than ever. This afternoon was a bit slow, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like me to tell you about my classes?” I asked. Mom used to enjoy hearing about them. I’ve run classes for beginning knitters; I also taught sock-knitting on circular needles and held a workshop on Thursday mornings for anyone who had a knitting problem. The charity knitting class on Friday afternoons continued, too.

Mom stared blankly at me. “Perhaps some other day,” she murmured. “I didn’t know you taught.” She smiled rather proudly at me.

I decided to try something else. “You remember Alix Townsend, don’t you?”

Mom frowned.

I couldn’t believe she could possibly have forgotten Alix. “She was in my original class.” Mom had met her dozens of times over the past three years.

“Oh, yes, yes, the one with the baby.”

I didn’t correct her. “Alix is taking my prayer shawl class. She hopes that knitting will get her through the wedding jitters.”