Read Online Hot Flash Holidays by Nancy Thayer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Thayer
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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traps and transparent insect-rearing cages, the beautiful ant house she’d built with him when she was a child, the Schmidt boxes filled with specimens caught and mounted with exquisite care.
“You
have
mineral hammers and rock cabinets,” Sharon had argued when she caught Marilyn trying to sneak her father’s into her own luggage. “I’ve seen your house and your lab. You don’t need another bit of old equipment!” Sharon was strong-willed and assertive. They’d ended up giving anything useful to a children’s museum and taking much of the rest to the dump.
Finally they had the apartment sorted out, clutter-free and airy. Ruth had been sad to see the scientific equipment go, but only because it reminded her of her husband. After retiring from teaching, she had turned her attention to other things, small things, and lots of them, including knitting, doing crossword puzzles, and compiling a recipe collection. During the past five years of her widowhood, Ruth had accumulated a rather daunting mass of clutter of her own. Her increasing inability to part with her new possessions was one of the reasons Sharon thought she was no longer fit to live by herself.
Still, Ruth could shop for herself—she didn’t drive, but took the shuttle provided by the retirement community. She cooked for herself and kept her kitchen clean. She bathed daily, and her clothing was fresh and spotless. True, she was developing a tendency toward keeping her food around longer than it should be . . . the refrigerator was crammed with foil-covered packets. As with her needlework, Ruth tended to lose interest in her current meal, and being a child of the Depression, she wrapped it up and saved it for the future rather than throwing it out.
Ruth’s health was good enough. She’d had a hysterectomy years before, and suffered a few very minor strokes that hadn’t paralyzed her, only slowed her down. She was active; she had friends she played cards with in the lounge. Her sense of hearing was failing, she’d had cataract operations, and she needed a cane to walk because of arthritis, but still she was self-sufficient, goodhumored, and happy.
And, perhaps, failing. She often forgot appointments, names, where she put something, but then, Marilyn thought, who didn’t? Occasionally, Ruth’s speech was jumbled. Most worrisome: she’d fallen a month ago, while stepping out of the bath. She hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t wanted to make a fuss. But a week later, at her annual physical checkup, the doctor had seen the bruises, still purple and yellow, along the front of her torso, and had told Ruth—and Sharon, who’d accompanied her to the appointment—that she had most probably had a transient ischemic attack, a momentary blockage of the blood supply to the brain. He’d suggested follow-up tests. Ruth had stalled. He’d suggested she use a walker. These TIAs were transitory, but often recurring. They were mini-strokes, the doctor warned her. They could happen anytime. Ruth had delicately rejected the walker, saying in her gentle way she would think about it, but didn’t feel she needed it
quite
yet.
“I really can’t tell if I want to move Mom into assisted living because it would make
her
feel better, or make
me
worry less,” Sharon had told Marilyn. “You have to help me evaluate.”
So Marilyn had invited her mother to visit for a couple of months, and Sharon had helped Ruth pack and board a plane, and now, here she was.
After her divorce, Marilyn had moved out of the huge Victorian where she and Theodore had raised Teddy— what a mind-warping, backbreaking project that had been! Much of her personal scientific paraphernalia and most of her books were in a storage locker until she decided where to live permanently. For the time being, Marilyn was renting a bland, furnished condo in Cambridge. She’d never been one to fuss about her surroundings or attempt coordinating curtains with carpets, and she found the small, practical
“You
have
mineral hammers and rock cabinets,” Sharon had argued when she caught Marilyn trying to sneak her father’s into her own luggage. “I’ve seen your house and your lab. You don’t need another bit of old equipment!” Sharon was strong-willed and assertive. They’d ended up giving anything useful to a children’s museum and taking much of the rest to the dump.
Finally they had the apartment sorted out, clutter-free and airy. Ruth had been sad to see the scientific equipment go, but only because it reminded her of her husband. After retiring from teaching, she had turned her attention to other things, small things, and lots of them, including knitting, doing crossword puzzles, and compiling a recipe collection. During the past five years of her widowhood, Ruth had accumulated a rather daunting mass of clutter of her own. Her increasing inability to part with her new possessions was one of the reasons Sharon thought she was no longer fit to live by herself.
Still, Ruth could shop for herself—she didn’t drive, but took the shuttle provided by the retirement community. She cooked for herself and kept her kitchen clean. She bathed daily, and her clothing was fresh and spotless. True, she was developing a tendency toward keeping her food around longer than it should be . . . the refrigerator was crammed with foil-covered packets. As with her needlework, Ruth tended to lose interest in her current meal, and being a child of the Depression, she wrapped it up and saved it for the future rather than throwing it out.
Ruth’s health was good enough. She’d had a hysterectomy years before, and suffered a few very minor strokes that hadn’t paralyzed her, only slowed her down. She was active; she had friends she played cards with in the lounge. Her sense of hearing was failing, she’d had cataract operations, and she needed a cane to walk because of arthritis, but still she was self-sufficient, goodhumored, and happy.
And, perhaps, failing. She often forgot appointments, names, where she put something, but then, Marilyn thought, who didn’t? Occasionally, Ruth’s speech was jumbled. Most worrisome: she’d fallen a month ago, while stepping out of the bath. She hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t wanted to make a fuss. But a week later, at her annual physical checkup, the doctor had seen the bruises, still purple and yellow, along the front of her torso, and had told Ruth—and Sharon, who’d accompanied her to the appointment—that she had most probably had a transient ischemic attack, a momentary blockage of the blood supply to the brain. He’d suggested follow-up tests. Ruth had stalled. He’d suggested she use a walker. These TIAs were transitory, but often recurring. They were mini-strokes, the doctor warned her. They could happen anytime. Ruth had delicately rejected the walker, saying in her gentle way she would think about it, but didn’t feel she needed it
quite
yet.
“I really can’t tell if I want to move Mom into assisted living because it would make
her
feel better, or make
me
worry less,” Sharon had told Marilyn. “You have to help me evaluate.”
So Marilyn had invited her mother to visit for a couple of months, and Sharon had helped Ruth pack and board a plane, and now, here she was.
After her divorce, Marilyn had moved out of the huge Victorian where she and Theodore had raised Teddy— what a mind-warping, backbreaking project that had been! Much of her personal scientific paraphernalia and most of her books were in a storage locker until she decided where to live permanently. For the time being, Marilyn was renting a bland, furnished condo in Cambridge. She’d never been one to fuss about her surroundings or attempt coordinating curtains with carpets, and she found the small, practical
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