25. Lillian’s Sweater
Lillian's Sweater
WYATT
I thought I had Andy Walsh figured out the night she beat Travis at darts. Turns out I didn't know the half of it.
The first time she came home from a long shift and walked straight into me, it caught me off guard.
She didn't say anything. She just dropped her bag by the door, crossed the kitchen, and pressed her face into my chest. I put my arms around her and felt the tension leave her shoulders one breath at a time.
I thought it was a one-time thing. A bad day.
It wasn't. She did it every time. After a double, after a hard call, after a Wednesday that was just long, she walked through my door and folded herself into me.
She hugged me from behind while I was cooking. She leaned into me on the couch until her weight settled against my ribs and stayed there. I'd spent months watching Andy Walsh hold the entire world at arm's length, and now she couldn't sit next to me without touching me.
She picked the movie one night. It was something with a wedding at the end and a lot of rain.
I wasn't paying attention because Andy's head was on my shoulder and that was better than anything on the screen.
About an hour in, her breathing changed.
I looked down and her eyes were wet. She blinked hard and told me she was fine, and when I smiled she told me to shut up.
By the credits she was crying and pretending she wasn't. I pulled her closer and kept my mouth shut.
Some things you don't ruin by pointing them out.
She learned every flower in Daphne's shop and what they meant.
On Saturdays, she and Birdie stood at the window choosing the week's bouquet together.
She painted Birdie's fingernails on the bathroom floor with tiny bottles of polish from the drugstore while Birdie painted Andy's toes.
The color was always glitter. Always Birdie's choice.
Andy kept her fingernails clean for work, but nobody at the precinct had any idea what was under her boots.
She learned to make Birdie's favorite chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
My kitchen smelled like burned sugar for a week.
I brought every batch to the firehouse. The burned ones, the flat ones, the ones she finally called done.
Not one of them tasted like a failure to me, and the guys couldn't tell which were which either.
And the tea parties. Birdie handed her a tiny plastic cup the first time and Andy didn't know what to do with it.
But she kept showing up. And somewhere around the third or fourth time, I walked past Birdie's room and heard her doing a voice.
Low, growly, and very serious for a stuffed bear who apparently only drank chamomile.
Andy looked up at me in the doorway and turned red, but she didn't stop.
Birdie started calling her Mommy Andy. I don't know exactly when it happened. One day it was just there, like Birdie had decided and that was that. I waited for Andy to redirect it, but she didn't. She just answered to it.
"That's pretty."
She was standing at the sink scrubbing a pan from breakfast when I noticed the necklace. A small camellia pendant on a gold chain, resting against her collarbone on top of her shirt.
"Oh this?" She glanced down and touched it. "It was my mom's. It's how I keep her close. I usually wear it under my shirt."
I stood up, crossed the kitchen, and wrapped my arms around her waist. "It looks pretty on you."
She smiled. I kissed her and sat back down.
I thought about that. A necklace from her mother, worn against her skin for years.
I wished Birdie had something like that from Lillian.
Six years old, and my daughter had photographs and stories from Barb and a father who tried every day to fill a space he didn't have the shape for.
But she didn't have anything Lillian's hands had touched and meant for her.
"Wyatt? Is there something wrong?"
"I was thinking about Birdie." I ran my thumb along the rim of the mug. "Wishing she had something like that from her mom."
Andy turned off the faucet, dried her hands, and sat down across from me.
"Lillian was making a sweater for her," I said. "She started it when she found out she was pregnant. She never finished it." I looked at the table. "It's been in my closet for six years. I can't throw it away. I don't know what to do with it."
She reached for my hand. "Can I see it?"
I took her to the bedroom. Opened the closet and lifted the sweater off the shelf. I handed it to Andy.
She held it in both hands. Ran her thumb along the edge where the needles were still threaded through the last row Lillian ever worked. Then she turned it over and studied the stitches like she was reading them.
"What if we finish it?"
"Finish it?"
"We could ask Barb to teach us."
She said it like it was simple. Maybe it was. Six years I'd been staring at that sweater, and it never once occurred to me to finish it. Andy held it for two seconds and found the answer.
"Yeah," I said. "I think that's a good idea."
We asked Barb the next day. She held the sweater for a long time without speaking, then she put on her glasses and studied the stitches.
"I can teach you both," she said. "One side each."
"Really?"
"But nobody touches the real thing until I say so." She folded the sweater carefully and set it on the table. "This is too important to be ruined by a dropped stitch."
Andy took to it faster than I did. Her hands were steadier, her tension more even.
"It's the smaller fingers," I said.
She didn't look up from her needles. "It's because I'm better at following instructions."
I started bringing my practice yarn to the firehouse. Between calls, I sat in the common room with a pair of needles and a ball of yarn, working the same stitch over and over until it stopped looking like a knot.
"Are you making that for Birdie?"
Travis dropped into the chair next to mine.
Knox was at the counter. A couple of the guys were on the couch.
They'd all seen me doing this for the past few shifts.
None of them said a word about it. They knew it was Lillian's sweater.
They knew what the yarn meant. These were men who gave each other grief about everything from haircuts to how long someone took in the bathroom, and not one of them had made a joke.
"Not this one," I said. "I'm just practicing. Barb won't let me touch the actual thing until I get the stitches right."
Travis watched my hands for a minute. I could see the gears turning.
"Can I try?"
I handed him the needles and the yarn. "One in each hand. Right needle does the work. Left one holds the stitches. Keep the tension loose."
Travis took them. I watched him wrap the yarn the wrong direction, try to pull through, and the whole thing seized into a knot.
He held it up. "I think I ruined it."
I pressed my lips together. The same voice I used when Birdie cracked an egg and got more shell in the bowl than anything else. "You'll get there."
He tried again. It got worse. He stared at the tangle for a long moment.
"Yeah no. Not my calling."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "At least you tried, brother."
I went back to my stitches. Barb let me touch the real thing two weeks later. Andy was already working on her side by then. Neat, even rows that Barb inspected and nodded at without saying anything, which from Barb was the highest compliment you could get.
We finished it on a Sunday afternoon at Barb's kitchen table. Barb cut the yarn, wove in the last end, and held it up. None of us said anything for a moment. It was small. A little uneven where my stitches met Andy's, but it was done.
Birdie put it on that evening. Soft, fitting her just right. Barb had made sure of that. Birdie looked down at herself and then up at me.
"Mommy Lillian made this?"
"Yes, but An—" Andy held my arm.
"Yes, your mommy Lillian made this for you." She looked at me and gave the smallest shake of her head. This was Lillian's. That was all Birdie needed to know.
Birdie twirled around the living room with her arms out, the sweater spinning with her. "I love it!"
Barb turned away and pressed her fingers to her eyes. She didn't want anyone to see, but I saw. Andy was watching Birdie with a look I'd never seen her give anyone.
Birdie was still spinning when I reached for Andy's hand. I wanted to tell her what this meant. What she meant. I'd figure out how.