Ma wouldn’t blab.
“Where’s she been living then? How’s she managing?”
“Donald and Hannah are taking care of her.”
“Good old Hannah,” Betty Senior said. “Betty, could I have some water, please?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly, Betty left the chair and gave her mother a drink.
“So how did the inspection go?” Betty Senior asked when she’d had enough to drink.
Betty sat back down. “Not as well as I’d hoped. Only got an eighty-eight.” She explained about the decubiti.
“That’s odd,” Betty Senior said. “I don’t have any. Or do I? I wouldn’t feel them.”
“No, Ma. You’re fine.”
“So, is that all?” Betty Senior asked. “Sounds like a typical day to me.”
Betty laughed. “Right, Ma. Almost. Hey, are you doing okay?”
“The same. Except I seem to be a little thirstier than usual.”
“Really? Your blood sugar is okay. If your sugar’s high, it will make you thirsty, but since it’s all right, they’re probably adding more salt in the kitchen.”
“Well, nothing about the kitchen would surprise me.”
“What’s that mean? Don’t you like the food?”
“I hate to admit it, but it’s pretty good. Most of the time. That Margaret knows how to spice things up. But she bothers me. Shifty-eyed and can’t talk straight. Mumbles, mutters, and stutters. Comes by faithfully, once a month, to ask how everything is.”
“She hired on as a cook, Ma. She’s nervous about her responsibilities. Only been food service director for about three or four months now.”
“I know that,” Betty Senior said waspishly. “I’m not senile yet. If Katherine had enough faith in her to promote her to manager, she shouldn’t be so mealymouthed. I need another drink.” Betty stood up slowly. “Hurry up, I’m really thirsty.”
“And I’m really tired, Ma,” Betty told her as she held the glass. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with her mother. She set the glass back down on the overbed tray. “I’d better get home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Betty left her mother’s room, hoping no one would stop her on her way out. No one did. She sank gratefully into the driver’s seat of her white Caddy and drove mechanically, thinking about the inspection and Mrs. Lacy and Alice.
At home, she checked on her cockatoo, Charlie, making sure he had food and water and talking to him. Later she’d water the plants. She stood in her favorite room for a moment, glancing around. A large sunny bedroom had been made into a tropical garden. She’d tiled the floor, put a fountain in one corner, Charlie in another, and plants everywhere—hanging, on shelves, on the floor—except where a few pieces of wicker furniture took up space. The window was undraped and uncurtained so she could see her flower garden and bird feeders.
She went to her bedroom and quickly changed into sweats. Barefoot, she padded to her small kitchen and made some soup and a tuna sandwich. She turned the radio on low and ate, reading a crafts magazine. She wanted to finish the bed jacket she was sewing for her mother, but she felt too drained and uninterested tonight.
After washing her few dishes, she plopped in front of the television. Clicking through channels, she avoided a movie-of-the-week about a hospital and another with a lot of violence. Finally settling on a sitcom, she lost interest when the jokes fell flat and got up restlessly to get a soda, then watered the plants.
The phone rang, making Betty jump. Only a wrong number. After she took a shower, she poured herself a tiny glass of Amaretto, telling herself a drink before bed was the medicine the doctor ordered. She watched the late news, sipping her drink, then went to bed.
The next morning Betty realized she’d distracted and medicated herself enough so she’d gotten a fairly decent night’s sleep. Except for the dream about the woman with blue hair lying on her back with her arms folded.
Betty hated weird dreams and put it out of her mind
“Where’s she been living then? How’s she managing?”
“Donald and Hannah are taking care of her.”
“Good old Hannah,” Betty Senior said. “Betty, could I have some water, please?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly, Betty left the chair and gave her mother a drink.
“So how did the inspection go?” Betty Senior asked when she’d had enough to drink.
Betty sat back down. “Not as well as I’d hoped. Only got an eighty-eight.” She explained about the decubiti.
“That’s odd,” Betty Senior said. “I don’t have any. Or do I? I wouldn’t feel them.”
“No, Ma. You’re fine.”
“So, is that all?” Betty Senior asked. “Sounds like a typical day to me.”
Betty laughed. “Right, Ma. Almost. Hey, are you doing okay?”
“The same. Except I seem to be a little thirstier than usual.”
“Really? Your blood sugar is okay. If your sugar’s high, it will make you thirsty, but since it’s all right, they’re probably adding more salt in the kitchen.”
“Well, nothing about the kitchen would surprise me.”
“What’s that mean? Don’t you like the food?”
“I hate to admit it, but it’s pretty good. Most of the time. That Margaret knows how to spice things up. But she bothers me. Shifty-eyed and can’t talk straight. Mumbles, mutters, and stutters. Comes by faithfully, once a month, to ask how everything is.”
“She hired on as a cook, Ma. She’s nervous about her responsibilities. Only been food service director for about three or four months now.”
“I know that,” Betty Senior said waspishly. “I’m not senile yet. If Katherine had enough faith in her to promote her to manager, she shouldn’t be so mealymouthed. I need another drink.” Betty stood up slowly. “Hurry up, I’m really thirsty.”
“And I’m really tired, Ma,” Betty told her as she held the glass. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with her mother. She set the glass back down on the overbed tray. “I’d better get home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Betty left her mother’s room, hoping no one would stop her on her way out. No one did. She sank gratefully into the driver’s seat of her white Caddy and drove mechanically, thinking about the inspection and Mrs. Lacy and Alice.
At home, she checked on her cockatoo, Charlie, making sure he had food and water and talking to him. Later she’d water the plants. She stood in her favorite room for a moment, glancing around. A large sunny bedroom had been made into a tropical garden. She’d tiled the floor, put a fountain in one corner, Charlie in another, and plants everywhere—hanging, on shelves, on the floor—except where a few pieces of wicker furniture took up space. The window was undraped and uncurtained so she could see her flower garden and bird feeders.
She went to her bedroom and quickly changed into sweats. Barefoot, she padded to her small kitchen and made some soup and a tuna sandwich. She turned the radio on low and ate, reading a crafts magazine. She wanted to finish the bed jacket she was sewing for her mother, but she felt too drained and uninterested tonight.
After washing her few dishes, she plopped in front of the television. Clicking through channels, she avoided a movie-of-the-week about a hospital and another with a lot of violence. Finally settling on a sitcom, she lost interest when the jokes fell flat and got up restlessly to get a soda, then watered the plants.
The phone rang, making Betty jump. Only a wrong number. After she took a shower, she poured herself a tiny glass of Amaretto, telling herself a drink before bed was the medicine the doctor ordered. She watched the late news, sipping her drink, then went to bed.
The next morning Betty realized she’d distracted and medicated herself enough so she’d gotten a fairly decent night’s sleep. Except for the dream about the woman with blue hair lying on her back with her arms folded.
Betty hated weird dreams and put it out of her mind
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