A Dropped Stitches Christmas by Janet Tronstad Page B

to be wearing.
    I had to stand for the costume fitting so I know a person could hide a full plaster cast under the dress the wardrobe person is putting together. It’s all Depression-era clothing and I’m not sure anyone had stylish maternity clothes back then. Mostly it seems they just made tents and draped it over the woman. I guess if you were pregnant you wouldn’t be going any place fancy back then anyway.
    The dress the costume designer made looked like it was made from old flour sacks. She was telling me that people really did make clothes out of the flour sacks and that the flour people obliged by printing tiny little flowers on some of the sacks. The dress for Mary had bluebells stamped on it. I think Mary would have liked bluebells.
    I had a pillow strapped to me while the costume designer fitted the dress, so it’s not like the dress is any more stylish than other clothes of the era or anything. It’s made of coarse cotton and it scratches. Still, I have to admit I would like to wear the costume and be in the play instead of just standing on the sidelines.
    I know a lot of people have to spend time on the sidelines. I’m not complaining; I’ve had more than my share of the spotlight over the years. I’m beginning to think though that I would trade a chance to walk across that stage as Mary for that time I was the Rose Parade Queen.
    There’s just something about Mary that draws me to her.
    I mean it when I tell Lizabett that it would be an honor to represent Mary in the play. Enough time has passed so that both Lizabett and I have taken a bus down to The Pews. We’re sitting at our table with some of Quinn’s books spread out around us.
    “You should learn the lines so you can say them, just in case,” Lizabett says. “I have a feeling that this could be your special break. Especially with those producers coming.”
    “Of course I’m going to learn the lines,” I say. I frown as I think about it. “It’s odd that the director hasn’t asked me to learn the lines already. Shouldn’t he do that?”
    Lizabett shrugs. “Maybe he’s getting to it.”
    “There’s not that much time until opening night.” The more I think about it the more I wonder. “Maybe I should ask him.”
    Randy brings in a couple of bowls of soup and two just-ripened imported pears for us. The pears are all cut up on a plate with a few small slices of imported cheese.
    Lizabett watches the tray as Randy sets it in on the table. “Wow.”
    “I don’t usually see fruit like this at Uncle Lou’s,” I say. “Thank you. Is this part of the menu change thing?”
    Randy shakes his head. “No, it’s just for you. You mentioned your mother buys the fancy fruit.”
    I look at Randy. “I’m very impressed.”
    Randy looks pleased. “If you need anything more, let me know.”
    Then he leaves the room.
    “Wow,” Lizabett repeats as she turns to me. “I’ve never had a guy buy me an imported piece of fruit before.”
    I shake my head. “He didn’t need to do that.”
    “But he did,” Lizabett says as she reaches for a piece of a pear.
    We eat every single piece of pear and cheese on the plate and then Lizabett goes off to make a phone call as I turn my attention back to the journal.

     
    I’m picking up where I left off. Well, maybe not right where I left off as I have something else I want to say. It’s about the pear. I think there’s something twisted about me. Not twisted in a horror movie kind of a way, but in the different-than-what-most-people-are kind of way. I’m thinking just the opposite of what Lizabett is about that pear.
    So Randy brings me an imported pear, cut into perfect little wedges. What could be wrong with that? A few months ago, I would have said there was absolutely nothing wrong. But I’m not so sure anymore. My mother has given me imported fruit for years now and all it has done is make me feel I need to keep silent about who I really am. I’m not some princess who can’t be happy with