Tight Knit
Mum is a fan of expensive shopping, but not much of a gift giver outside of birthdays and Christmas. So, seeing her at my front door holding a glossy white gift box—the type you get from fancy shops, tied up with a bow—immediately put me on edge. She hardly ever visited, especially without calling first.
‘What’s this?’ I asked as she passed the box to me as if she were presenting a prize.
‘Open it,’ she said, following me into the house. Her eyes darted from my face to the box and back again. She watched as I untied the ribbon, following its fall away from the task of holding tightly to the box before it finally relaxed onto the table. I opened the lid, and Mum lifted up on her toes, leaning towards the box as if she didn’t know what was inside, as if the gift might be for her. Under a layer of tissue paper, I found a knitted woollen jersey. It seemed forced in, kept in such a tense state that it almost leapt out like a jack-in-the-box.
Mum scanned my face, assessing the way my eyes moved, perceiving every twitch of my mouth. I smiled, raised my hands to my face and said, ‘Oh wow, where did you get this?’
‘Do you really like it though? I chose the colours. You look great in bright colours,’ she said, casting a glance over my grey sweatshirt.
‘It’s very vibrant,’ I said, nodding and smiling.
‘I knitted it myself. I went to a class. I only went so I wouldn’t have to sit at home alone. It’s hard when you’ve raised kids, and they all leave and don’t bother to check on you,’ she said. I held my breath and fingered a small piece of fluff on the jersey.
‘A few people were knitting jerseys for their kids and grandkids, so I knitted a blanket for Rufus. He wagged his tail when I put it in his basket. Then I thought about knitting a jersey for you. It’ll keep you warm in winter,’ she said. She was talking very fast, as she does when she’s excited, so her lisp closed wetly over the words.
‘How great that you knitted it yourself. How long did it take you?’
‘Six weeks on and off. I mean, it’s not like I’d take it out with me and knit in public.’ She shuddered as she spoke. ‘But it’s been nice to find a place where people are happy to see me and make me feel wanted.’
‘I’m so pleased for you, Mum.’
‘It’s been interesting getting to know other people my age. We talk about heaps of stuff. Some of them have really lovely families, others not so much. One lady, Sandra, her daughter calls her everyday.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said, laying the jersey out on the dining room table and smoothing my hand over it. I could feel her monitoring my response, waiting as if I had missed my line.
‘You do like it, don’t you? I hope so. I put so much effort into that, and the wool is not cheap. It’d be a shame if you didn’t like it. Try it on,’ she said.
*
The jersey was so tightly knitted that it could stand up on its own. It had a crew neck and five thick horizontal stripes: red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. I forced my head through the unforgiving neck and shimmied my arms up the inside of it, pushing them through the armholes and down the sleeves. I felt like I was wearing a hot, itchy, straitjacket. My neck burned against the wool and throbbed angrily against the sensation of being choked.
‘It suits you, Nat,’ Mum said, walking around me, smiling. I smiled back and thanked her.
‘That’s a great quality garment. It’ll last you a long time. You’ll probably be able to wear it for your whole life,’ she said. ‘Even after I’m dead, you’ll have a part of me with you. Isn’t that the great thing about handmade gifts?’ she said.
I smiled carefully. Since when did Mum make personal handmade gifts, I wondered. And why did I have to receive this one? ‘Did you make one for Tom and Gabby, too?’
‘Not yet. I hadn’t even thought about it, actually. Do you think I should? I’m not sure I want to knit two more, and they’re different from us anyway. They wouldn’t appreciate it.’
*
That night, I woke up sensing something looming in the darkness. I lay paralysed, scared there was someone in the room, or was it a ghost, an animal? Holding my breath and lying as still as possible, I tried to make out the shapes in the dark. There it was, a person crouched by the door. I squeezed my eyes shut hoping they would disappear. When I opened my eyes again the dim moonlight that crept past the curtains magnified their shadow, and I realised it was the jersey. I had leaned it against the wall after Mum left. I could hear Mum’s voice faintly too: I hope you like it. You’d say, wouldn’t you? I made it especially for you. It’s a mother-daughter thing.
*
In the morning, I tried the jersey on again. The seams crackled their dissatisfaction as I forced my way into it. I stared at myself in the mirror, my skin red and blotchy, my hair frizzy and standing on end, and those bands of colours wrapped around my middle like a rainbow-coloured fist. When I tried to take it off, my arms got stuck in the sleeves. I could feel sweat seeping over my reddening skin, and my heart pounding in my ears. I suspected the jersey was trying to kill me. I worried that my flatmate would find me in a heap on the floor with the jersey covering my head and my arms tangled up in the air. They’d probably wonder why I was wearing such a hideous thing. I could not die with this awful jersey wearing me. The thought of it motivated me, and after thrashing about on the floor swearing, I eventually won the battle, coming away with a deep ache in my shoulder as a lingering reminder of the ordeal.
Mum called to ask me about the jersey. Had I been wearing it? Was it warm? What did my friends say about it? Did I tell them she had knitted it for me?
Yes, it’s very warm. I have told my friends. All these things were not really lies. I glared at the jersey, still leaning aggressively against the wall.
I bought wool detergent and washed it carefully, hoping it would relax and soften the wool. I stretched it gently before hanging it up to dry, but it pulled itself back to its tight form. It hung proudly on the washing line like an army sergeant standing at attention. I brought it in and forced it into my closet, shutting the door on it and shrugging on my comfy grey sweatshirt. I knew it was there, in the dark, waiting, but was it out of sight, or was I out of its sight?
We were in a holding pattern, waiting in position until the day of the surprise attack, when I went to grab a pair of sandals from the closet and found the jersey had tied a thread of wool around the buckle, as if it meant to claim my possessions. I gritted my teeth and jerked at the sandal but the jersey held on tight and tried to haul me into its territory. I gripped the sandal with both hands and pulled, tensing my legs, but the jersey retaliated, advancing out of the closet.
‘Fuck you,’ I shouted, kicking to force it back.
The jersey released its grasp suddenly, and I nearly smacked myself in the face with the sandal as I sprawled back onto the floor. A single orange thread hung from the closet. I crawled towards it and pulled the thread.
*
‘What are you doing here? I was just about to go out,’ Mum said.
‘No worries, I’m just dropping this off,’ I said, handing Mum the white box.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, her eyes wide and angry as she stared at the gift.
‘I got some new knitting needles for you. I thought maybe you didn’t have needles that big. I talked to the lady at the shop, and she said you can make looser knit garments with them.’
Mum’s lips formed a tight white line.
‘Is this the same wool I used for your jersey?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I accidentally pulled a thread, and then the cat got at it, and it was sort of destroyed. I didn’t want the wool to go to waste, so I’ve balled it back up for you. You could make something different with it if you like. There’s a pattern book in there, too,’ I said.
She’s lying, I heard the wool say. Mum lifted her right eyebrow and put the lid back on.
*
I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks, except in my dreams. Mum and the jersey merged into a big, knitted head that stared through my bedroom window at night. Sometimes, they were trying to eat me with their big, tightly knitted teeth, and other times, the knitting group was there, trying to stab their pointed needles through me. I pulled my curtains tight, checked my wardrobe and snuggled into my grey sweatshirt before I could get back to sleep.
When I found the white box once again on my doorstep, I thought I was still dreaming. A sleeve stuck out of it, reaching towards me. I snatched the card from the top of the box, and it read:
GREAT NEWS, I MANAGED TO RE-KNIT THE JERSEY. YOU CAN’T EVEN TELL IT’S A NEW ONE. IT’S EXACTLY THE SAME.
I stepped over the box and went inside. The jersey yelled at me from the doorstep: How dare you? You ungrateful bitch. I will wear you like you are supposed to be worn. I returned with the scissors and cut off the sleeve sticking out of the box. You won’t get away with this. She’ll find out, the jersey roared. I lifted the lid and cut the jersey right through the middle. I ripped at its threads and threw handfuls of wool onto the driveway. Bits of wool got stuck in my hair and on my clothes. The jersey yelled: You’re worthless. You’re crazy. You’re nothing. I kept cutting until everything went quiet.
Rachel Offord is a Manawatu-based writer who gained an MCW from Massey University in 2023.