Chapter 6
Mrs. Vance asked me to drive her to the craft shop the next morning.
Marcus had a work meeting he could not move. He had offered to cancel it, but she told him she could arrange her own ride. When she called me, she offered to pay for my time. I told her I was already off that morning.
“You still spend money on gas,” she said.
“Then you can buy me coffee.”
“Agreed.”
At the shop, the owner showed Mrs. Vance the messages Camille had handled. Most were routine questions about colors and delivery dates. One came from a woman named Elaine Porter.
Elaine had ordered a small yellow blanket every year for six years. She kept one and donated the others to a hospital program for families who had lost a baby. This year she asked for two. Camille never replied. Eventually Elaine canceled.
Mrs. Vance held the printed message.
“I’ve always answered her myself before,” she said.
The owner gave her Elaine’s number. Mrs. Vance called from the shop.
I stood near the yarn while they spoke. I heard Mrs. Vance apologize for the missed message without giving away her family’s troubles. Then she asked whether Elaine still wanted the blankets.
When she ended the call, her eyes were wet.
“She does. She thought I’d retired.”
“Are you taking the order?” I asked.
“Both of them.”
She bought yellow yarn, then bought coffee for me as promised.
On the ride home, she spoke about Elaine’s daughter. The baby had lived only a few days. Mrs. Vance remembered the first time Elaine came into the shop, looking for something soft to carry to the hospital. Mrs. Vance had made the blanket overnight.
“I know I can’t fix her loss,” she said. “I can remember her child with her.”
I understood why missing the order hurt her more than a missed sale.
When we reached her house, Marcus was waiting on the porch. His meeting had ended early.
“Did you reach her?” he asked.
“I did.”
He helped carry the yarn inside, then showed his mother a file. The bank had provided a full record of the transfers Camille made from the knitting account. The dealership had also sent the car documents to the investigator.
Mrs. Vance read everything before speaking.
“She used the blanket money for almost four months,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Have they decided what happens with the car?”
“Not yet.”
She closed the file.
“I want Camille to repay what she took. I also want her to get help understanding why she lied every time I asked.”
Marcus looked relieved.
“That’s what I want too.”
“I know you want us to be a family again,” she said. “I do too. That won’t happen by pretending this is finished.”
He nodded.
Later that week, Camille gave a formal account to the investigator. Marcus told me she admitted signing their mother’s name to trade in the car and using the account money. She also said she had told Marcus their mother was unavailable when he called because she feared he would ask questions.
Mrs. Vance listened to the update, then asked Marcus not to relay every detail of Camille’s panic to her.
“I care about her,” she said. “I’m not the person who can comfort her through the consequences right now.”
It was a boundary I could hear her working hard to keep.
Ruby and I visited on Saturday. Mrs. Vance had begun the first yellow blanket. Ruby sat beside her with the red square she had been making.
“Mine has a hole,” Ruby announced.
“So did my first one,” Mrs. Vance said.
“Did you keep it?”
“I did. My mother put it in a drawer, and I found it years later.”
Ruby examined her square.
“I might keep mine too.”
I took a photograph of them working, after asking. Mrs. Vance made me send it to Marcus. He replied with a picture of the crooked scarf she had knitted him as a child. She laughed so hard that she had to put down her needles.
For a few minutes, the room felt light.
Then Mrs. Vance’s phone rang. It was Camille.
She let it ring. When it stopped, she looked at the screen and set it facedown.
“Do you want Marcus?” I asked.
“No. I’ll call her when I’m ready to have a conversation. Today I have a blanket to finish.”
May you like
I watched her pick up the yellow yarn.
The woman I had met on the sidewalk was still there. She was tired, hurt, and determined. She had not lost her voice. She was deciding how to use it.
