The Old Wool Factory

Prologue

 Joy woke up drowsy from a mostly-drug-induced sleep. It was 5 pm and the pain was alerting her to the need for the next medication regimen. She could hear her mother downstairs in the kitchen preparing, she supposed, the tea and toast that passed for dinner. They had had their differences over the years, one of her regrets, but her mother had put it all aside, without hesitation, when the diagnosis came in.

She pushed herself up on the pillows and picked up the crochet hook resting in her lap from earlier in the day. She was working on a small circular afghan she had started two years earlier, when the diagnosis had been handed down. It still seemed unbelievable that her life would be over at fifty-four, but here she was. The current row would be her final one, Angel Wings.  

As she wrapped the yarn around the hook in a slow familiar rhythm, the door opened. Her mother placed the dinner tray on the bedside table.

“Hi Mom,” she said weakly. “I’m just finishing the last round.”

“No. You can’t finish it, Joy. Please, not yet.”

“I have to. You know it.”

“No. It can wait. You have one more treatment, in Buffalo, next week. That one could work. You don’t know.”

Joy dismissed her with a shake of her head. “I won’t last that long and you know it.” Joy struggled to hold up her work, showing Irene her progress. “Just another two pairs of wings and I can close the round.”

“Not now. You need to eat.” Irene moved the crochet onto an upholstered chair opposite the bed, and replaced it with her evening meal. Today’s entre came with a dollop of apple sauce placed beside a small plastic cup containing the palliative pills that would get her through the night.

“You’ll have to finish it, Mom. Please. You have to do this for me. You know there’s no other ending.”

“Stop talking and eat.”

“Promise me, Mom.” Joy was just as insistent, using what energy she had to sit a little taller and stare her mother down. Their last two years together had healed a lot of old wounds, but their respective stubborn streaks could still face off, even now.

“Okay. Okay. Eat.”

Her mother retreated to the cushioned chair and placed the crocheting on her own lap as if to work. Then hesitated.

“I won’t eat if you don’t crochet.”

Her mother picked up the hook with a tired ease. She took a moment to admire the intricate carvings on the hook’s base. It had come over from the old country more than a century ago but it dated back even before that. Dark with age and continued use, the grain of the wood could barely be seen. The meaning of the unusual design was lost to time.

“Alright. You win. Although it hardly matters now. The magic is nearly gone.” Irene knew it was true for her, but she suspected its power was still strong if wielded in the hands of youth.

Joy watched her mother begin the next motif as she started on her evening ritual by swallowing the first pill and chasing it with some apple sauce.

“You don’t know that. It could be my daughter. You have to tell her. She’s next in line.”

“Ah, Gabriella. You should have told her yourself, years ago. But no. Now, you leave it to me.”

“I was waiting for the right time. You know that.”

“You were stalling. You didn’t want her to know.” Irene crocheted without thought, the memory of the stitches familiar to her fingers.

“Really, Mom? You’re going to do this on my death bed.”

“You chose the timing! Don’t blame me.”

Joy laid her head back on the pillow and sighed. “Will you tell her?”

Irene’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes. I’ll tell her. She’s the only hope for the town at this point. And for the family legacy she doesn’t even know about.”

Joy winced with a wave of pain. “Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t tell her myself.”

“Yes. Yes. I’ll tell her. Rest now.”

Joy swallowed the last of her pills and escaped into sleep.

Irene remained with her, finishing the last of the angel wings. Connecting the last stitch to the first, she tied off the round, snipped the yarn, and wove the tail in before laying the piece over her daughter’s unconscious body. She took the hook and yarn with her as she closed the door.

Downstairs in the sitting room, Irene started a new piece of crochet work, her heart breaking with each pass of the hook. White yarn to begin, using the stitches for sorrow and tears also familiar to her hands. She wept while she worked.

 Upstairs, Joy exhaled for the last time, releasing her soul from its confinement.

Chapter 1

 “Why does it have to be me! Why now? I’m twenty-four years old. What the hell am I going to do in Branford? And who thinks I’m even capable of taking care of my grandmother!” Gabby clenched her fist, stopping just short of pounding it on the small bistro table.

“I don’t like this any more than you do.” Dylan threw up his hands. “Who’s taking care of her now?”

“Her brother, Uncle Byron, from Arizona.”

“Why can’t he stay?”

“He’s got a laundry list of diseases and conditions that apparently must be treated in Phoenix – by a team of doctors. A team! Who has a team of doctors?” The idea of having enough medical conditions to warrant an entire team of doctors seemed like the rantings of a hypochondriac.

“Isn’t there anyone else?”

“We’ve been over this, Dylan. Mom’s older brother lives in Vancouver and her younger one is out of the country for two years building a dam in Chile.”

“Great,” Dylan let out a huff. “Well, maybe it won’t be for too long and you can convince her to move out here.” The here Dylan referred to was Albany, New York. “There’s so much more to do and better medical services if she needs it.”

“Nanna isn’t leaving Branford unless it’s in a pine box.” Gabby hesitated, recalling their most recent argument then added, “And not even then.”

“Jeez, Gabby. You just buried your mom. Now they expect you to give up everything and move to the middle of nowhere? To what! To take care of an old lady who refuses to leave a town that’s dying anyway?”

Gabby took offense. “Hey! That’s my grandmother you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, Gabs. But you have to admit this is all pretty crazy.”

“Crazy or not, there’s no one else.”

“Can’t you just pay someone out there to look after her?”

Gabby’s glare caused him to wince. “Would you just pay someone to take care of your grandmother?” She held up her hand. “Don’t answer that.”

“What about your job? What about our apartment? What about us?”

“It’s good to know us is third in line of your concerns.”

“Gabs. You know it’s not like that.”

“Sure.”

“Really? Because now I’m getting clearer about where we stand on your list.” Dylan crushed his empty coffee cup in his fist and stormed out of the café. Gabby didn’t follow him. She knew they both needed time to cool off.

She sat there, swirling her cappuccino, trying to think. Beyond the café window, the slushy gray of the March streets echoed her mood. Her mother’s death four weeks ago had hit her like a tornado. She was still consumed by the shock of it. Now this? Her grandmother’s keeper? She and her grandmother had been at odds since her teenage years. As Gabby tried to stay current with her peers, Nanna was committed to old school restrictions. Nanna had been born here in New York, fourth generation German American. But she acted like she was straight from the old country, with a stiff back, and an overdeveloped work ethic, not unlike her mother, although Joy would have argued the point.  Was it genetically transferred? If it was, she had missed that gene in favor of her father’s alleged laissez faire approach, a fact that had caused many arguments over the years. Nanna was very clear about how things should be and always have been. It seemed like she got on Gabby about everything. Don’t stand like that. Don’t dress like that. Don’t talk like that. She couldn’t win with Nanna. Maybe that was why Mom had left town at eighteen.

Their most recent argument had been about where to bury her mother’s body, for God’s sake. How was she going to live with her now? And why should she? Nanna was just fine as far as she could tell. Her mother had moved out there two years ago because Nanna was lonely. Really? Then why didn’t Nanna move to a town with a population greater than 329!

Gabby’s coffee swirled right out of the cup, spilling on her hand and causing her to jump.  

“Are you finished with that?”

The barista was standing beside her table. She glanced around and noticed she was the only one left in the shop. How long had she been sitting here?

“Closing?” she asked.

“In a few. Take your time. You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“You have no idea.”