Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
She looks up quickly, confusion and scorn mixed together on her face. “What the fuck?”
“Joking,” I sputter, the tension getting to me. I actually giggle. “Jeez.”
For a split second, something like humor crosses her face. Then the scowl returns. “You’re a nursing student?”
“Yup.”
“Pay close attention when they teach you to draw blood. Because most of the nurses here suck at it. Big time. I look like a junkie with track marks because none of them can find a damn vein.” She shows me her forearm, where I see some nasty bruising.
“Ouch. I’m sorry.”
My sympathy doesn’t go very far with her. “Whatever. I’m having a spinal tap tomorrow. That’s ten times worse.” She squints at her knitting and then suddenly throws it down. “My mother says that knitting is relaxing. But this ribbing is all wrong, and I just want to stab someone with the needles.”
Given the look on her face, I think she’s mere seconds away from following through with that threat. “I know ribbing,” I say quickly. “What’s the problem?”
“Really?” For the first time since I sat down, she looks hopeful. And the change of expression takes years off her gaunt face. “Why do I have all these extra loops?” She passes her knitting to me.
And it’s a total wreck.
“Hmm…” I say, taking care to find the right words. “The regular stockinette stitch looks great.” She’s made a bunch of stripes—burgundy and mustard-colored.
“Thank you.”
“But the ribbing has some issues.”
“It’s a disaster.”
“I think I know why. When you switch between knit and purl, you have to move the yarn before you make the stitch. Those extra loops happen when the yarn is in the wrong place. When you’re going to knit next, it needs to be in back, and when you’re going to purl, it has to be in front.”
“Oh,” she says slowly. “Can you show me?”
“Sure. But we’re fixing this, right?”
“Can it even be fixed?”
“Anything can be fixed.” I grab the stitches and slide the whole thing off the needle.
With a gasp, she clutches her heart.
“Omigod, are you okay?” I squeak, sounding nothing like a nurse.
She points a shaking finger at the knitting. “You just…murdered it.”
“No, I didn’t.” I grab the working yarn and tug, and her stitches start to fly apart.
“Holy…” With a sob, she buries her eyes in her hands. “You’re going to drop all the stitches. That took me weeks.”
“No—look! If you want to be a good knitter, you have to be a good unknitter.”
One eye emerges from behind her hand. “Can’t look. That’s, like…gory! Blood and guts everywhere.”
“Do you have a name?” I ask, working quickly. It takes me about sixty seconds to remove the bad stitches and then catch all the remaining ones on the needle again.
“Leila,” she says from behind her hands.
“Look now, Leila. See? You only lost a half inch of knitting.” I pass it back to her.
“Wow.” She turns it over in her hands. “Okay. That’s pretty cool.” She picks up the other needle and knits two stitches. “Now tell me what you mean about moving the yarn.”
I show her. “Now, with that yarn in front, purl.”
She hesitates.
“You’ve got this.” I mimic the right motion and give her the memory line I used to learn knitting. “Come out the front door, grab your scarf…”
She puts the needle through and wraps it.
“Now duck out the back before the cat barfs.”
“Oh my fucking God,” she says, squinting at the needle. “Worst rhyme ever.”
“It worked, though. Where is the gratitude? Now move the yarn to the back and get ready to knit.”
She does. And a few minutes later, she’s holding her knitting up to the light and crowing about how great it looks. “Like real ribbing!”
“That’s because it is.”
We talk knitting for a while longer, and then I’m surprised when Nurse Hailey taps me on the back and says our time is up. “Meet us out in the hallway, please,” she says.
“Thank you,” Leila tells me. “I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Jess. Good luck with your…is it going to be a sweater?” I ask, although the knitted piece is really too small for that.
“A hat,” she replies, and then the shape makes more sense. “It’s for my little brother. He loves Harry Potter, and these are Gryffindor colors. It’s for Christmas.”
“Oh! That’s brilliant. He’s going to love it. And you’re almost there. This will be done way before Christmas.”
Tired eyes lift to mine. “Has to,” she says, and her gaze dares me to look away. “I’m stage four. Might not make it to Christmas.”
Just like that, I crumple inside.
My exterior keeps going. I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. I call her by name and make eye contact and tell her I’ll be thinking about her. I pick up my bag with the play dough inside, and my feet carry me out the door.