Read Online Life Support by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
Ads: Link
mother.
The summer flower garden had grown into a weedy jungle of chin-high flowers and vines. There had always been a pleasant randomness to this garden, as though the beds had been dug with no plan in mind, but rather had been expanded by the original gardener's whim, season by season.
When Toby had bought the house eight years ago, she'd planned to tear out the more unruly plants, to ruthlessly enforce some form of horticultural discipline. It was I Ellen who'd talked her out of it, Ellen who'd explained that, in the garden, disorder was to be cherished.
Now Toby stood by the back door, surveying a yard so overgrown she could not even see the brick pathway. Something rustled among the flower stalks, and a straw hat bobbed into view. It was Ellen, crawling on her knees in the dirt.
"Mom, I'm home."
The straw hat tipped up, revealing Ellen Harper's round, sunburned face. She saw her daughter and waved, something dangling from her hand.
As Toby crossed the yard and stepped through the tangle of vines, her mother rose to her feet, and Toby saw that she was clutching a fistful of dandelions. It was one of the ironies of Ellen's illness that although she had forgotten so many things� how to cook, how to bathe herself�she had not forgotten, would probably never forget, how to distinguish a weed from a flower.
"Bryan says you haven't eaten yet," said Toby.
"No, I think I did. Didn't I?"
"Well, I'm going to make some breakfast. Why don't you come inside and eat with me?"
"But I have so much work to do." Sighing, Ellen looked around at the flower beds. "I never seem to get it all done. You see these things here? These bad things?" She waved the limp plants she was holding.
"Those are dandelions."
"Yes. Well, these things are taking over. If I don't pull them up, they'll get into those purple things over there. What do you call them . . ."
"The purple flowers? I really don't know, Mom."
"Anyway, there's only so much room, then things have to be cleaned out.
It's a fight for more room. I have so much work, and I never have enough time." She gazed around the garden, her cheeks ruddy from the sun. So much to do, never enough time. That was Ellen's mantra, a recurrent loop of words that remained intact while the rest of her memory disintegrated. Why had that particular phrase persisted in Ellen's mind?
Had her life as a widowed mother of two girls been so stamped by the pressures of time, of tasks undone?
Ellen dropped back to her knees and began rooting around in the dirt again. For what, Toby didn't know, perhaps more of those hated dandelions. Toby looked up and saw that the sky was cloudless, the day pleasantly warm. Ellen would be fine out here, unsupervised. The gate was locked, and she seemed content. This was their routine during the summertime. Toby would make her mother a sandwich and leave it on the kitchen countertop, and then she would go to bed. At four in the afternoon, she'd wake up, and she and Ellen would eat supper together.
She heard the rattle of Bryan's car driving away. At six-thirty he would be back to stay with Ellen for the night. And Toby would leave, once again, for her usual shift at the hospital.
So much to do, never enough time. It was becoming Toby's mantra as well. Like mother, like daughter, never enough time.
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. The adrenaline from this morning's crisis had worn off, and now she felt the fatigue weighing down on her like so many stones on her shoulders. She knew she should go straight up to bed, but she couldn't seem to move. Instead she stood watching her mother, thinking how young Ellen looked, not elderly at all, but more like a round-faced girl in a floppy hat. A girl happily making mud pies in the garden.
I'm the mother now, thought Toby. And like any mother, she was suddenly aware of how quickly time passed, moments passed.
She knelt down beside her mother in the dirt.
Ellen looked sideways at her, a trace of bewilderment in her
The summer flower garden had grown into a weedy jungle of chin-high flowers and vines. There had always been a pleasant randomness to this garden, as though the beds had been dug with no plan in mind, but rather had been expanded by the original gardener's whim, season by season.
When Toby had bought the house eight years ago, she'd planned to tear out the more unruly plants, to ruthlessly enforce some form of horticultural discipline. It was I Ellen who'd talked her out of it, Ellen who'd explained that, in the garden, disorder was to be cherished.
Now Toby stood by the back door, surveying a yard so overgrown she could not even see the brick pathway. Something rustled among the flower stalks, and a straw hat bobbed into view. It was Ellen, crawling on her knees in the dirt.
"Mom, I'm home."
The straw hat tipped up, revealing Ellen Harper's round, sunburned face. She saw her daughter and waved, something dangling from her hand.
As Toby crossed the yard and stepped through the tangle of vines, her mother rose to her feet, and Toby saw that she was clutching a fistful of dandelions. It was one of the ironies of Ellen's illness that although she had forgotten so many things� how to cook, how to bathe herself�she had not forgotten, would probably never forget, how to distinguish a weed from a flower.
"Bryan says you haven't eaten yet," said Toby.
"No, I think I did. Didn't I?"
"Well, I'm going to make some breakfast. Why don't you come inside and eat with me?"
"But I have so much work to do." Sighing, Ellen looked around at the flower beds. "I never seem to get it all done. You see these things here? These bad things?" She waved the limp plants she was holding.
"Those are dandelions."
"Yes. Well, these things are taking over. If I don't pull them up, they'll get into those purple things over there. What do you call them . . ."
"The purple flowers? I really don't know, Mom."
"Anyway, there's only so much room, then things have to be cleaned out.
It's a fight for more room. I have so much work, and I never have enough time." She gazed around the garden, her cheeks ruddy from the sun. So much to do, never enough time. That was Ellen's mantra, a recurrent loop of words that remained intact while the rest of her memory disintegrated. Why had that particular phrase persisted in Ellen's mind?
Had her life as a widowed mother of two girls been so stamped by the pressures of time, of tasks undone?
Ellen dropped back to her knees and began rooting around in the dirt again. For what, Toby didn't know, perhaps more of those hated dandelions. Toby looked up and saw that the sky was cloudless, the day pleasantly warm. Ellen would be fine out here, unsupervised. The gate was locked, and she seemed content. This was their routine during the summertime. Toby would make her mother a sandwich and leave it on the kitchen countertop, and then she would go to bed. At four in the afternoon, she'd wake up, and she and Ellen would eat supper together.
She heard the rattle of Bryan's car driving away. At six-thirty he would be back to stay with Ellen for the night. And Toby would leave, once again, for her usual shift at the hospital.
So much to do, never enough time. It was becoming Toby's mantra as well. Like mother, like daughter, never enough time.
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. The adrenaline from this morning's crisis had worn off, and now she felt the fatigue weighing down on her like so many stones on her shoulders. She knew she should go straight up to bed, but she couldn't seem to move. Instead she stood watching her mother, thinking how young Ellen looked, not elderly at all, but more like a round-faced girl in a floppy hat. A girl happily making mud pies in the garden.
I'm the mother now, thought Toby. And like any mother, she was suddenly aware of how quickly time passed, moments passed.
She knelt down beside her mother in the dirt.
Ellen looked sideways at her, a trace of bewilderment in her
Similar Books
