Knitted Hearts by Amber Kelly
Sonia
“Thank you for lunch,” Momma says as we finish our sandwiches.
“You’re welcome.”
“Now, tell your mother what’s wrong.”
“How do you know something’s wrong? Did one of the girls blab to you?” I ask.
“No. I’m your mother. I just know. When you have children of your own, you’ll understand. You can read the silence.”
Only the people who truly love you can hear you when you’re quiet.
“If I have children of my own, not when. I’m beginning to think I’m cursed in love,” I mumble.
The door chimes as a customer enters the consignment shop. It’s a mother and her little girl. She explains that she is looking for something to wear to a job interview.
“I don’t have much to spend. My husband left us about a year ago, and it’s all I can do to keep food on the table. I want to look nice for this interview because it could be a blessing for us.”
Momma smiles at her. “Oh, I’m sure we can find the perfect thing. You’re a size eight, right?”
The lady nods as Momma leads her to the boutique side.
I bend to speak to the girl who looks to be about four years old.
Her thumb is in her mouth, and she is quiet as a mouse.
“Would you like a cupcake? I have an extra one.”
She shakes her head.
“How about some lemonade?”
She pops her thumb from her lips to answer, “Yes, please.”
I go to pour her a glass and watch as she walks shyly around the consignment store, stopping at the section that holds used toys and books. She doesn’t touch anything, but her focus is on a fuzzy brown teddy bear with a yellow bow around its neck.
“Do you want to know his name?” I ask as I walk back to her and set the plastic cup on the table beside her.
She nods.
“I call him Beary Potter,” I say as I pluck the stuffed animal from its spot on the shelf.
“I used to have a teddy bear like him, but Buddy went and tore its head off,” she says.
“Is Buddy your brother?” I ask.
“No, he’s my neighbor’s dog. He’s big and scary.”
“Well, that wasn’t polite. I think that Mr. Beary Potter here would love to go home with you. If you promise to keep him safe in your room and not let Buddy get him.”
Her eyes light up. “I promise,” she squeals.
I hand him to her, and she squeezes the toy tight to her chest.
When her mother returns, we are sitting on the sofa chatting and drinking lemonade.
Mom rings up the dress and heels that she helped the woman pick out, and I notice that she charges less than her cost for the items.
“That’s too low. The sticker says—” the lady begins to correct, but Momma interrupts her.
“No, no. These items were supposed to be on the consignment side of the store. My husband helped me with inventory last week, and he got everything all mixed up. I’ve been finding things on the wrong side for days. It’s a mess.”
The woman gives her an appreciative smile as she pays for her purchase in cash.
She and her daughter thank us profusely as they make their way out of the shop.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for your business, and good luck at that interview. I’ll be praying you get the job,” Momma replies.
How could a father just walk away from his family like that?
Once they are gone, Momma turns the Open sign to Closed and looks to me.
“Now, let’s take a break and stretch our legs, and you can tell me all about what’s happening with you and Foster.”
As we walk around downtown, I tell her about Wendy and the baby, about the advice the girls gave me over wine last night, about Truett scolding me outside of the bakery. I pour my heart out like a little girl who fell from her bike, hoping that her mother can kiss the scraped knee and make all the pain go away.
“This too shall pass,” she says as I finish.
It’s an odd thing to say in response to everything I just told her.
“That’s not much help, Momma. I’m tired of waiting out the pain. I’m ready for things to be easy.”
She chuckles. “Oh, baby, if that’s what you’re waiting for, I’m afraid you’ll be waiting forever. Life doesn’t give us easy.”
“It sure seems to for everyone else. All my friends are happily married or about to be and having babies and building businesses, and here I am, divorced, living above your store, and picking up the pieces yet again.”
“Don’t go comparing your planting season to someone else’s harvest. They don’t have a better life than you do. They’re just further along in the process—that’s all. You know that each one of them had obstacles to move in order to get to where they are. It’s not how you start that matters, but how you finish,” she explains.
“What if I can’t get past this?”
She takes my hand as we continue to stroll. “Only you can answer that, sweetheart.”
We pass the pharmacy, and the door flies open and halts us.
A woman comes bounding out, looking in her bag. When she notices that she almost toppled us, she looks up to apologize.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and then she stops.
Wendy Tomlin is standing before us.
“Sonia, right?” she asks.
I nod.
“I wasn’t paying attention. The doctor sent me here for prenatal vitamins. I didn’t realize there’d be so many to choose from. How am I supposed to know which ones I need? Are they all the same? Do I need one with calcium or without? Are gummies as good as the pills? Should they be organic? It’s all a bit overwhelming.”
“Don’t get the gummies. They aren’t as good as the pills. Organic or not, as long as it’s a good multivitamin with folic acid, it should be what you and the baby need,” I tell her, the nurse in me coming to the surface.
“Thanks.”
I nod as we walk around her and back to the store. We spend the rest of the afternoon moving bookshelves in the shop and rearranging displays for the new winter items that will be trickling in the next few weeks.
Around four, I kiss Momma good-bye, and George and I head to my apartment.