Read Online Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) by Carol Heilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol Heilman
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turned around, my eyes were drawn to Ida Mae’s room. The door was ajar, and Prissy was sitting on her mother’s bed, holding and rocking her like a small child.
Both women, their eyes closed, looked like a picture of peace, of calm. Was this the same crazy old woman and her snippy daughter?
“Charlie,” I said, “does this mean the director is actually human? Her heart isn’t a frozen catfish? She isn’t as mean as a cottonmouth?”
A staff person walked past me carrying sheets smelling of fabric softener. She entered Ida Mae’s room and shut the door. After a moment, I turned back to the calendar, but my mind wasn’t on upcoming events. If Miss Johnson was doing the best she could, like Smiley allowed she was, then how on this earth could I justify thinking of her as a monster, an ogre, a cold woman with no feelings … or even as Prissy?
Clearly, she loved her mother, and I could find no fault with that.
I had hardly finished that Christian thought when I heard someone crying in Ida Mae’s room. The crying soon turned to sobbing. Sounds of distress rose higher as if a frightened child had encountered a monster.
Chills traveled clear down my spine, and I froze in place.
Chapter Eight
L ater that night, sleep wouldn’t come. The nurse had rushed out of Ida Mae’s room holding an empty syringe. After waiting until fairly certain she wasn’t coming back, I tiptoed to the door and listened, but heard nothing. Miss Johnson never appeared, and I finally went to my room and dressed for bed, trying to get the incident out of my head. I had not actually seen anything but had heard plenty.
Around midnight I tapped on Alice’s door, poked my head inside her room, and called, “Alice, Alice. Do you have more of that Nyquil?” I didn’t actually plan to drink any, but I needed an excuse to be visiting in the middle of the night. Somehow, I didn’t want to be alone.
The only answer was a long snore as loud as Charlie’s tractor on a cold morning. I knew she couldn’t hear me, but I tiptoed over to her bed and told her anyway. “Going in your bathroom. Might take a sip of your Nyquil. Can’t sleep.”
After flipping on her bathroom light, I bent over and looked in the cabinet under the sink where I’d seen her push the large bottle of green liquid. It wasn’t there. On my knees now, I searched the dark space and knocked over a bottle of White Rain that knocked over a box of bubble bath.
Alice stirred noisily in her bed, then resumed snoring, thank the Lord. I managed to get back on my feet and do a quick search with my eyes across the countertop. Dang, just when I’d convinced myself there was nothing wrong with taking a wee bit of Nyquil every now and then, it was gone.
Back in my room, after deciding if I couldn’t sleep I could at least enjoy a Milky Way, I opened the drawer to my nightstand. I wasstunned. It was completely bare except for two packs of Juicy Fruit and a box of tissues. No Vick’s Salve, no deep-heat rub, no Geritol, Milk of Magnesia, camphor, or aspirin. Not even a Sugar Daddy or a Baby Ruth. I thought maybe my eyes had failed me, so I ran my hands over the flowered drawer liner, stirring up nothing but sweet-scented dust, which made me sneeze.
“I’ve been robbed, Charlie,” I said between sneezes. “Robbed!”
Thinking of the money hidden in the bottom drawer, I pulled out the tabloid with the headline of
Big Foot Spotted in New York City
and opened to page twenty-eight. My garage sale money was all there. Small bills—ones, fives, tens—totaling five-hundred and fifty dollars. Now I’d have to use some of the money to replace the items stolen by a no-count scum. And I’d have to find another hiding place for the new candy bars and medicine.
In my little notebook, I flipped to the ten or so empty pages at the end and wrote:
Friday, August 8
. I frowned at the date and scratched it out. It was after midnight. It was now Saturday, August 9. Saturday already? One day
Both women, their eyes closed, looked like a picture of peace, of calm. Was this the same crazy old woman and her snippy daughter?
“Charlie,” I said, “does this mean the director is actually human? Her heart isn’t a frozen catfish? She isn’t as mean as a cottonmouth?”
A staff person walked past me carrying sheets smelling of fabric softener. She entered Ida Mae’s room and shut the door. After a moment, I turned back to the calendar, but my mind wasn’t on upcoming events. If Miss Johnson was doing the best she could, like Smiley allowed she was, then how on this earth could I justify thinking of her as a monster, an ogre, a cold woman with no feelings … or even as Prissy?
Clearly, she loved her mother, and I could find no fault with that.
I had hardly finished that Christian thought when I heard someone crying in Ida Mae’s room. The crying soon turned to sobbing. Sounds of distress rose higher as if a frightened child had encountered a monster.
Chills traveled clear down my spine, and I froze in place.
Chapter Eight
L ater that night, sleep wouldn’t come. The nurse had rushed out of Ida Mae’s room holding an empty syringe. After waiting until fairly certain she wasn’t coming back, I tiptoed to the door and listened, but heard nothing. Miss Johnson never appeared, and I finally went to my room and dressed for bed, trying to get the incident out of my head. I had not actually seen anything but had heard plenty.
Around midnight I tapped on Alice’s door, poked my head inside her room, and called, “Alice, Alice. Do you have more of that Nyquil?” I didn’t actually plan to drink any, but I needed an excuse to be visiting in the middle of the night. Somehow, I didn’t want to be alone.
The only answer was a long snore as loud as Charlie’s tractor on a cold morning. I knew she couldn’t hear me, but I tiptoed over to her bed and told her anyway. “Going in your bathroom. Might take a sip of your Nyquil. Can’t sleep.”
After flipping on her bathroom light, I bent over and looked in the cabinet under the sink where I’d seen her push the large bottle of green liquid. It wasn’t there. On my knees now, I searched the dark space and knocked over a bottle of White Rain that knocked over a box of bubble bath.
Alice stirred noisily in her bed, then resumed snoring, thank the Lord. I managed to get back on my feet and do a quick search with my eyes across the countertop. Dang, just when I’d convinced myself there was nothing wrong with taking a wee bit of Nyquil every now and then, it was gone.
Back in my room, after deciding if I couldn’t sleep I could at least enjoy a Milky Way, I opened the drawer to my nightstand. I wasstunned. It was completely bare except for two packs of Juicy Fruit and a box of tissues. No Vick’s Salve, no deep-heat rub, no Geritol, Milk of Magnesia, camphor, or aspirin. Not even a Sugar Daddy or a Baby Ruth. I thought maybe my eyes had failed me, so I ran my hands over the flowered drawer liner, stirring up nothing but sweet-scented dust, which made me sneeze.
“I’ve been robbed, Charlie,” I said between sneezes. “Robbed!”
Thinking of the money hidden in the bottom drawer, I pulled out the tabloid with the headline of
Big Foot Spotted in New York City
and opened to page twenty-eight. My garage sale money was all there. Small bills—ones, fives, tens—totaling five-hundred and fifty dollars. Now I’d have to use some of the money to replace the items stolen by a no-count scum. And I’d have to find another hiding place for the new candy bars and medicine.
In my little notebook, I flipped to the ten or so empty pages at the end and wrote:
Friday, August 8
. I frowned at the date and scratched it out. It was after midnight. It was now Saturday, August 9. Saturday already? One day
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