Page 18 of Lift Me Up

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite customer,” she says with a perfectly poised smile, her red lips pulling into a grin as she rounds the counter. At eighty years young, Abi barely looks fifty. Like Jane Fonda before she let her hair grow naturally grey, but with body for days. Franny and I always tell her how gorgeous she looks; she never fails to impress. For eighty, she has the wild spirit and heart of someone in their twenties and is the perfect example of ‘you are only as old as you feel.’

Her arms open wide as I walk into them and hug her back. She has been fueling my yarn addiction since I was fourteen and has practically seen me grow up. She nudges me with her hip before returning to her place behind the glass counter which holds the cash register and her latest project. “How’s your mom doing these days?”

Mom was the one who used to bring me here. But since it’s become harder for her to actually craft, she doesn’t come out to the store anymore to get new materials, so she waits for me to bring mine over instead. I think secretly, Abi misses her. She misses their conversations, their ability to catch up as if no time had passed at all when in fact, there were probably months in-between visits. I think they’re both lonely.

“She’s good. She asked about you the last time I was over, actually.” Which is true, she did. But not in the way a friend asks when they haven’t heard from someone in a while. She asked me if the shop was still open and if they’d brought in anything new. I think she wanted to know what she’s missing out on, but I don’t tell Abi this.

“And you? How are you doing?” Again, she’s watched me grow up, so she’s known all about my illness for as long as I can remember too. She always would ask how I am doing or ask mom how I was when she would come in for yarn for me to work on projects while laid up from surgeries past.

“I can’t complain.” I shrug, brushing it off like it’s nothing.

“I know when my girl is lying,” She narrows her eyes at me, but doesn’t press. “So, should I show you around?”

As if I don’t know my way already? I think, but instead, I let her link her elbow in mine and say, “Of course. Lead the way.”

She shows me to the back of the open concept space that is Get Crafty Co. as if I don’t already know that the endless wall of yarn is back here, sorted by colour and brand in a giant rainbow. If I had a happy place, it would be right here, sitting in the chair just mesmerized by its beauty. It’s the little things in life that bring joy.

Abi’s selection of colours always astounds me. She gets this yarn locally sourced, and she dyes each and every skein with care and by hand. One time she even let me help her dye some during one of her down times just to show me how it all works. I would never be able to do this myself like she does, my yarn dye job came out brown and blah and sad. But she meticulously splashes bits of blue and pink and purple and creates a galaxy colourway that is, pun fully intended, out of this world. I remember buying an entire lot once, just to have it on hand for butterfly costumes for the babies one year.

“So, this is our newest,” she tells me, pulling out her in-house brand yarn from its cubby in the cubed bookshelves that hold the yarn. In her hands is a crisp and vibrant red. I smile and take it in my hand, nearly sighing at how soft the cotton blend feels between my fingers. I can picture a blanket in this yarn, a ripple wavy blanket of white, red, and green to look like a candy cane. The pattern formulates in my brain as I let Abi run me through her newest colour combos.

“So, I need to buy you out of all your red, and green, and white, and-”

“Let me grab the cart for you, and we’ll just keep pulling. Then we’ll set a price.”

One thing I love about Abi: the moment I told her where my yarn goes, and the reason for the bulk purchases, she automatically offered me discounted rates to help combat the fact that yarn is not cheap. Especially handmade. When I had argued, she told me that if it was a good deed, it was worth it to contribute to the cause in her eyes.

We load the cart to the top, all the colours melding into one big pile of blends, and then the doorbell chimes. Abi excuses herself to greet the customer, and I continue to touch and see how each yarn feels in hand. I am a very texture sensitive person, and the idea of using a yarn that won't be soft or comforting is just not something I can ever do. It makes me itch all over just thinking about it.

I decide to leave the cart where it is, knowing I can come back to it. I peruse the other areas of the crafting store, always fascinated by the items people can use to make amazing things. There’s a little something for everyone here, and that’s what I love about this place. That, and crafter’s night. A night where everyone comes together regardless of what hobby they do, and we all do our respective hobbies together in one big group. It’s nice to have that night with kindred spirits.

After perusing, I return to my cart to count the yarn skeins. Somewhere in the craziness, a ball of white has unfurled and tangled with a red. I set to work untangling so I won’t have to do it again when I’m home. But the tangles become knots and I know I’m making it worse by trying to rush. I take my time, gently coaxing nails into knots and effectively getting myself tangled in the process.

“Someone’s been naughty.”

The voice startles me, the words send a shiver through my whole body, and my hands remain tangled in the knots.

“I beg your finest pardon?” I try and fail to untangle myself.

They laugh, “I’m sorry. I meant—the yarn. Knotty. It seems you’re a little tied up at the moment.”

Oh. They’re flirting with nerdy pick-up lines. Two can play at this game. “It’s not my first rodeo,”

I smirk and glance over my shoulder, but all I can see is a looming shadow in my peripheral vision. Something… feels familiar about this.

“I can see that. But in any case… How can I help?”

I freeze. Back pin straight. Skin erupting with goosebumps. Spidey senses on high alert. I know what is so familiar now. I’m almost certain. I know that voice. I turn around in my chair, hands still completely tangled, but I have to see for myself. I have to know.

“Tell me something good?” I whisper.

A flash of recognition.

“Georgie?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

NOAH