What Family Means Read Free Page A

Mrs. Bradley.” Debra slipped through the kitchen door as quickly and quietly as she could.
    Violet’s reply followed her into the foyer.
    “Will, after you take her back, you come straight home. Do you understand me, Will?”
    “Yes, Mama.”

CHAPTER THREE

    Present Day
Buffalo, New York
Debra

    T HE SCREAM LODGED in the back of my throat. I swallowed and bit my lip. I no longer viewed the knitting needles in my hands as tools that turned a hand-spun mohair blend into a piece of art.
    They were potential weapons.
    If I heard one more boring remark about family trees from any of the ladies seated around the café table, I was going for it.
    I was going to poke my eyes out.
    “I like knitting, but it’s not the same as scrapbooking.” Shirley sat across the table from me and went on to rave about how scrapbooking had changed her life.
    I wasn’t convinced. “Shirley, that’s nice, but isn’t it a lot of work, clipping and gluing and finding the right colored papers?”
    Our group’s youngest member at age thirty-four, Maggie paged through Shirley’s latest creation. Her slim hand turned another sheet of Shirley’s ode to her youngest grandchild.
    “I agree. Give me a ball of good yarn and my rose-wood needles and I’m set for any journey.” Dolores laughed. She was her own best audience.
    Nine of us sat at the restaurant table, our breakfast dishes long cleared. We’d met here every Wednesday morning for the past several years. To knit, talk and grouse.
    Maybe I could steer the conversation back to knitting.
    “I just think it’d be tough to go through every single photo I’ve ever taken.” I kept purling as I spoke. “Besides, the best time of my life is now. I love to look at baby pictures of my kids, but to have to sift through them all…”
    I shuddered at the thought of the boxes and boxes of photos shoved under the eaves in our attic.
    “Can anyone help me with this? I dropped a stitch rows ago but I can’t bear to rip this out now.” Maggie held up the wool sweater she was making for her husband. It was a beautiful cable pattern. But an ugly ladder ran down one of the cables.
    “Let me show you how to fix that.” I stood up to walk over to her when my cell phone rang.
    “Hang on.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.
    It was Violet, my mother-in-law.
    “Hey, Vi.”
    “Debra.” Her voice was soft, too soft.
    “What’s wrong?”
    Alarm made my simmering estrogen flush turn into an all-out hot flash. I started fanning my face with a knitting pattern.
    “My legs are swollen again and I’m having a hard time moving around.”
    “Did you take your pills this morning?” Vi had chronic congestive heart disease. At eighty-five she was doing pretty well but every now and then her symptoms flared, despite the medications.
    “Yes, but the cold’s making my bones ache.” I heard her sigh and the resignation it carried. Vi was used to good days and bad, but the “bad” days seemed to be getting worse, as though her circulatory system was wearing out.
    And with it, her desire to continue the fight.
    “I’ll be home in a few minutes. Keep the phone with you.” I put the phone back in its purse pocket and gathered up my knitting, shoving the needles into the large ball of yarn.
    “I’m sorry, Maggie, I have to go. Can you get someone else to help?”
    At Maggie’s murmured agreement, I finished my cup of tea.
    “Debra, of all people, you should put together a series of scrapbooks about your family. You’ve been through more than any of us. You’re a living part of American history!” Shirley’s intent gaze was on me and I saw the serious glint in her blue eyes.
    I waved my hand. “Please. Let’s not be drama queens. We’ve all had our troubles.” I returned my knitting to my tapestry tote bag. I was sorry to leave and even sorrier that Vi wasn’t feeling well. But I was also secretly grateful for a way out of the knitting group’s current conversation.
    “I have