“You wouldn’t know him, Nana. He’s from…not here.”
Like hell she wouldn’t know the Windemere name. Though I feel guilty for lying, I have no intention of telling her who he is or why I’m going out with him.
“I didn’t ask where he’s from, Piper. I asked his name,” she says, looking me right in the eye with that assessing gaze that I know I can’t hide from.
Clearing my throat, I hope for the best. “Um, it’s Nate—Nathaniel.”
“Nathaniel?” She questions this as if making sure I have it right.
“Right.” I clear my throat because it’s suddenly extremely dry. “Gosh, I never realized how much you like to crochet. This blanket is really big. And heavy.”
Her crystal blue eyes twinkle mischievously, but she doesn’t call me out on my diversion. “It’s the first thing Istarted making when I came to live here. I’ve been working on it ever since, a little at a time.”
She pauses to look down at her handiwork. “At first, I wasn’t very good. I didn’t know what I was doing or how to follow a pattern properly. See these first few rows here? They’re not very tight. But I kept going, kept practicing, and after a while, I started to figure it out. And the path forward got easier, smoother. Less messy.”
Her hand runs over the blanket as she looks at me. “It just takes one loop, one stitch, one row at a time to end up with something beautiful. You’ll see.”
Oh, Nana. She knew the moment I walked in here that something was wrong, and now she’s giving me sweet advice wrapped up in a crochet analogy. My chest swells with affection as I lean over and give her a hug. She hugs me back with both arms, tightly.
“What is it, Pip?” she asks, using her old nickname for me. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything has been such a circus since Dad got in trouble. And now I might lose my job. It’s all I have left, Nana.”
I’m still not sure how much she knows about her son-in-law’s Ponzi scheme or the legal trouble that he’s in. She doesn’t ask, but I’m sure enough gossip has flown around this place that she’s aware of what he’s been accused of, even if she doesn’t know all the details.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know how important dance is to you,” she says gently.
“It is.”
I lean back, swiping at a stray tear, and she puts a hand over my wrist and squeezes lovingly. “You’re a smart, brave,hard-working young woman, Piper. And you’re going to come out of this on top, believe me. Just keep working one row at a time. One row at a time.”
She always gives roundabout advice or words of encouragement instead of criticizing someone or saying anything negative, but this time the advice feels extra meaningful. Maybe because I’m at the point where I just want someone to tell me how to fix my dumpster fire of a life.
“That’s good advice,” I say. “Maybe you can show me how to do that one of these days.”
She gestures to her crochet needles, and I nod in confirmation. If Nana can find joy in an ordinary skill, then maybe I can, too. I still can’t get over the fact that she taught herself how to make this beautiful blanket. What else is my sneaky Nana hiding from me?
“How about now? Do you have to hurry off?” she asks.
Even if I did, I’d cancel whatever I had to do and make time for her lesson. She shows me a pattern one of the nurses printed from the internet for her, how the yarn connects to the crochet hooks, and the technique for making different types of stitches. I barely retain any of it, and when she thrusts the tools and yarn in my hands, I do my best to fumble my way through. My first row falls apart almost immediately, but I don’t mind. I’d fail a hundred more times as long as I can spend this time with her.
The shadows grow long as the sun begins to set and the waft of fresh baked dinner rolls filters into her room. She’ll have to excuse herself to the dining room for supper soon. I help her collect the knitting things and gently fold thenearly completed blanket and place it into a large wicker basket beside the couch.
“Piper.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and smiles gently. “I know it’s hard to believe right now, but you’ll get through this—and you’ll be stronger for it.”
“Thanks, Nana.”
“Just remember, one row at a time.”
Her advice sticks with me as I take the train back to Nate’s neighborhood, stopping to make a quick detour at the farmers’ market to pick up a few things. It used to be that I’d go to an organic grocery store and grab whatever looked good, never thinking twice about overpaying for something prepared that I could eat instantly. But I’ve gotten better about only buying what I know I’ll be able to eat all of before it expires, comparing prices, and staying away from the gourmet delis with their twenty-dollar soups and salads.
I find a vendor who I recognize and pick up some smoked salmon, a container of cream cheese, and a small boule of sourdough, along with a few apples and lemons and a tub of Greek yogurt I can eat for dessert later with honey and cashews.
There’s no urgency to go to my apartment and eat alone, so I take my time strolling back to Nate’s. Once I get there, I let myself in and set the grocery bags down. The unfamiliar scent of my apartment hits me as I enter. It’s not unpleasant, but the mix of leather and floor polish is a far cry from the bougie scents that I’m used to, like the French lavender candles my mother used to have shipped from France, or her designer perfumes that would linger in the air.
This is a new life. A new row, as Nana would say. A deep curl of loneliness twists inside me and I wish that I’d stayed with Nana a little longer. Emotionally drained and exhausted from the events at the dance studio and starving after putting off eating most of the day, I feel ready to rest and get something to eat.
The kitchen is sterile and stark as I flip on the lights and stand in the silence for a moment. Faint noises seep inside, but we’re not on a main street so there isn’t much foot traffic out there. If it were noisier, I might not feel so alone.
