What to Expect When You Weren’t Expecting
“Wow, that’s turning out to be quite the sweater,” I say, eyeing the mostly-complete black cable-knit in Abby’s hands. “I’ve never made anything quite as intricate before—just simple sweaters, or beanies and scarves.”
I smile, watching my fingers work through the last loops on the beanie I’m making for Rome, knowing he’s going to love the Saturn appliqué I stitched on. Instead of the usual planet, the center is a baseball—his favorite sport—between Saturn’s rings.
“Thank you,” Abby murmurs softly, her green eyes gifting me with the smile her lips rarely do.
Sounds of trays being placed on tables and the hum of lunch conversations filter into my closet-sized, make-shift salon tucked into the shelter. I’m in the salon chair, waiting for Janice to come in for her haircut as soon as she finishes her lunch, while Abby sits by the sink.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve somehow managed to coerce Abby a little further out of her shell. Okay, so maybe that’s an overstatement. But she’s started saying more than a handful of words to me, a feat compared to how tight-lipped she was when I first met her.
In that time, I’ve learned that she’s a skilled knitter and has found a temporary job working as a bagger for the Safeway in Almaden, but she doesn’t love it. I also noticed little things about her, like how she pulls on her sleeves or chews her nails when nervous.
She once told me she moved to San Jose searching for something. I still don’t know what that something is, but I haven’t pushed. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, or maybe she won’t. Either way, for reasons I can’t quite explain, I like having her around.
Perhaps it’s her quiet presence or this feeling I have that she’s seen things I couldn’t begin to imagine. Or perhaps it’s her veiled strength, the kind that shows up in people who don’t know when they’ll get their next meal or where they’ll sleep that night, but continue to fight. Continue to rebuild and restitch.
There’s a lingering sorrow in her eyes, and maybe it’s that which my soul connects with.
“When did you learn to knit?” I ask, because somehow, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around the woman.
Her gaze flicks around my closet-sized make-shift salon. “More than thirty years ago. I started knitting when I was pregnant.”
Her words stir in my chest, and though I want to ask more, I get the feeling she wouldn’t tell me. I get it. Some scars are better left alone, as even touching them poses a risk of reopening them.
“Me, too,” I respond, keeping my eyes on the yarn in my hands. “I made these sea-foam-colored booties the first time.” My smile wobbles, recalling how proud I was when I’d finished them. “But I never got to use them.”
Abby’s fingers still mid-stitch, and when I glance up, her gaze is already on mine. “Perhaps they’ll get used this time around?”
My heart slams into my ribs, my mouth dropping open. I’m not even six weeks along, and definitely not showing. I haven’ttold a single soul besides the ones who were there this past Sunday at Dad’s house.
I haven’t even told Patton.
I know she posed it as a question, but it didn’t sound like one.
“How . . .” I lick my lips, feeling my brows pinch. “How did you know?”
She shrugs almost imperceptibly. “You looked like you were going to be sick when Hector stopped by to offer you his onion rings earlier. And I saw you looking in the mirror, running a hand over your stomach when you thought no one was watching.”
I blink at her, perturbed by the calm and certainty in her voice. For someone who barely speaks above a whisper and hopes to blend into the background, she doesn’t miss anything.
“I . . .” I clear my throat. “I haven’t told anyone.”
She nods, fingers threading yarn. “I understand.”
“Hold up,” Piper says, reclining in my styling chair, gesturing in the general area of my torso with a half-eaten protein bar. “So this Abby lady just knew about your uterus drama when you hadn’t shared it with her?” She raises a perfect brow. “I don’t know if that’s just some serious women’s intuition or a HIPAA violation.”
“Yeah. Isn’t that strange?” I ask, laying my clean shears perfectly in line next to the combs, which are, of course, arranged by size. “Like, am I just walking around with a neon sign that says,‘Knocked up and fucking panicking!’”
“Maybe it’s the glow,” Sarina says, helping Snatch get her little bald head through the neck of a sweater, before glancing back at me from the doorway. “You look radiant.”
Snatch wiggles out of Sarina’s hold, having had enough fashion torture for the day, and lands on the floor soundlessly. Of the three cats, Snatch is definitely the best dressed, not by choice, of course. My sister just thinks her cat needs more “layers” to keep her warm, but I swear that cat has a bigger closet than I do.
Tail flicking in obvious annoyance, Snatch prowls over to the cat tree to join Beaver, who is currently standing on his hind legs, as still as a piece of creepy taxidermy, except for the occasional twitch of his right ear.
He does this often, just standing there unmoving like a weirdo. It freaks people out. We’ve had clients—tech bros worth eight figures—yelp like little girls when they realize he’s not just a white statue.
Once, this hipster twenty-something millionaire dropped his craft matcha, and Beaver didn’t even blink. I bet he was internally saying, “Gotcha, sucker!”
