Clare O’Donohue - The Lover’s Knot

"I didn't have a choice," she said as she adjusted in the chair and winced from pain. It was amazing how, now that I was angry, she was suddenly in more pain than she had been since the accident.

"You didn't have a choice," I repeated. "Do you think I believe that?"

"If you trust me, you do."

"If I trust you? To do what? Decide my life for me?" I was overreacting, and I knew it. But I couldn't stop myself.

Ryan stood in the doorway. "Nell," he started.

"No," my voice cracked. "I don't want to be manipulated by either of you anymore." I pushed Ryan out of the way and ran upstairs.

I slammed the door to the bedroom not once, but twice. I wanted to make sure that my grandmother got the point. I was well aware I was acting like a child, but Eleanor had to be equally aware she was treating me as one. It wasn't just that Ryan's presence was confusing, it was that my grandmother had decided for me that he should stay. I wanted her advice, not her interference.

I flopped on the bed, wrapping my quilt tightly around me. Eleanor always behaved as if she knew what was best for me. I suddenly realized Ryan had done the same thing. He'd introduced me to restaurants and people and a life that would be better for me than the life I'd been creating. I went along with him. Wasn't it time I decided what was best for me? I was willing to admit, but only to myself, that slamming doors wasn't exactly the best way to announce I could handle things from now on. But after everything that had happened, I was in no mood for rational discourse.

I could hear noises from downstairs, but I didn't know what was going on, and I wasn't about to venture out of the room to find out. I just lay on the bed with my quilt watching the sun outside.

I wasn't going to stay in the house, I decided. I needed space, and if Eleanor didn't understand that, then she could have Ryan as a houseguest, but she would have to live without me. I grabbed my cell and dialed my last loyal friend.

"Hey there, stranger," Amanda answered in her usual bouncy way.

"Can I sleep on your couch?"

"Anytime," she said immediately. "I thought you were staying at your grandmother's."

"I was. But I can't anymore."

I launched into a long and overly dramatic retelling of the events of the last twenty-four hours. How I kissed Marc. How Ryan showed up, fists flying. How Marc was found dead and I wasn't sure if Ryan had something to do with it. How I needed time and space and support, and was getting none of it from my grandmother, who had become Ryan's ally in the fight to win me back. If that was what Ryan was trying to do. I didn't really know what Ryan was trying to do.

"Do you want to get back together with Ryan?" Amanda interrupted.

Good question. Until yesterday, I had assumed the answer was yes. But I had also assumed it wasn't an option. But now with Ryan here, I wasn't sure.

"Do you think I should take him back?"

Amanda was silent.

"Are you still there?" I asked.

"I'm thinking," she finally said.

"Should I play some Jeopardy! music while you come up with your answer?"

"I think that Ryan hasn't been fair to you, and you should think about what you really want. If what you want is Ryan, you know I'll be behind you one hundred percent."

There it was, the coded warning of girlfriends everywhere: " If it's what you want (translated: it's a huge mistake) I'll be there for you (translated: I'll still listen to you whine about his faults, even though-to be clear-you are making a huge mistake).

"I need time," I said.

"Then take it." Amanda breathed heavily on the other end of the phone. "I'm sorry."

"You're the one person who doesn't owe me an apology."

She didn't respond.

From the hallway, I could see that Eleanor was alone in the living room, propped on her bed.

In the few hours I'd been upstairs, things in the house had gotten quiet. Ryan was nowhere to be found, so it seemed as good a time as any to have the talk. I stood just outside the door and watched Eleanor sew quietly while the news played in the background. She was working so intently she didn't seem to notice me standing ten feet away. Barney was lying at the foot of the bed and the rest was covered with squares of pastel fabrics as Eleanor appliqued animals on each square.

After several minutes and without looking up, she barked, "Are you going to stand in the hall or are you coming in?"

I walked into the room. "I'm the one who's angry, not you, so lose the attitude," I said with as much strength in my voice as I could muster.

The slightest smile crept on my grandmother's face. "You used to look just like that when you were three and I wouldn't let you play outside by yourself."

"I'm mad at you," I said, losing steam.

"Why are you angry?" she asked innocently.

I almost laughed. "Are you pretending to be senile?"

Eleanor put down her sewing and gave me a long, hard stare. "I'm not sure I'm pretending." She winked. "Nell, I'm sorry. You're a grown woman and I obviously have no right to tell you or Ryan what to do. It's just when you've lived as long as I have…"

I plopped on the bed. "Not the 'I'm older so I know more' line."

She patted my hand. "No. It's the 'I'm older so I've made more mistakes' line."

"You haven't made any mistakes. You've survived. You've succeeded. You're an example to women everywhere."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Only a little." I lay down and starting petting Barney's belly. "I don't have your strength."

"After your grandfather died, I moved in here to look after Grace. You know about that," she said.

"Sort of."

"Well, Grace was an old woman and she needed a companion. I think a widow with two small children was more than she bargained for, but she was a wonderful person and she made us feel welcome." My grandmother shifted slightly, and continued. "I know you think I was strong and just kept going after your grandfather died, but the truth is I was scared and lonely. Once a week I used to get on the train and go to another town-Cold Spring, Beacon, anywhere. Once I even went into New York City and I spent the whole day walking around dreaming about living there."

"Then you came back."

My grandmother looked at me, as I was slightly addled. "Obviously."

I put my head on her shoulder. "The moral of your story is that you think I'm running away from dealing with Ryan."

"I think you had your whole life planned out, just like I once did, and now you're faced with the idea that your life might be very different. If I'm pushing you, I'm sorry, but I think it's time you dealt with that. Running away is not the answer."

"No," I said quietly, then shifted the subject to one I had the strength to discuss. "But quilting is, I suppose."

She smiled. "It was for me," she said, and went back to her sewing. I just sat next to her on the bed and watched her sew a little yellow duck onto a pink fabric background.

"Who are you making that for?" I asked.

"No one in particular." She held the block out for inspection. "I like to keep a few quilts handy. The quilt club gives them to the premature babies at the hospital."

"It's nice… that you do that." I took the fabric from her hand and she handed me the needle and thread. "Show me how."

"You catch a little bit of the duck with your needle and a little bit of the background," she explained as I took a large stitch.

I kept going until I had finished sewing the duck onto the background fabric. It was obvious this quilt had two sewers- one an expert, and the other someone who could be confused with a high-functioning monkey. But I didn't care how bad my stitches looked. I was proud of my work. I showed it to my grandmother.