Read Online Roll with the Punches by Amy Gettinger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amy Gettinger
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wanted was for Monica to show up in California, kids in tow, pissed off because she'd spent thousands of dollars for an emergency trip home just a month after leaving us. She'd take over like a drill sergeant, and no one would get any rest for weeks.
"Uh, never mind. I was just so—surprised that Music Man might have dementia."
"Believe me, Rhonda. It's not dementia. He's fine. He's just stressed out. Look, watch him for a couple days. Take him home with you. Get him some Prozac."
"From a doctor?"
Monica yawned. "I don't care if it's from a veterinarian or an astrologer. But deal with it. Keep him out of trouble, Ms. Librarian. It's your turn.”
Well, maybe it was. I picked up the Alzheimer's pamphlet from Julie Bauer and read it. Scary stuff. So I got on my mother's ancient purple laptop with the screen problem and typed in dementia. Scarier stuff. Of course, I'd researched memory loss for my book, but this was Dad. Whose memory wasn't that bad, except for some dream that he still had little kids at home. Yeah, it must have been a dream. Because if he truly had dementia, this article said he shouldn't be left home alone, ever. At all. Good grief.
One website said his symptoms might be caused by a drug interaction, depression, a vitamin deficiency, or a thyroid problem. Or alcohol. I needed a doctor to sort it out, but Mom's computer suddenly went all white screen. My laptop was at home, so I called Mom. I couldn't reach her at the hospital, so I searched her index card file for doctor cards and called some.
Funny. When the receptionists heard Dad's name, they got cagey and said they were booked up until Easter. It wasn't hard to imagine Dad pulling pranks in doctors' offices with Christian Scientist Mom egging him on, laughing at the ensuing office chaos. Finally, the doddering computer came back on and I surfed the Internet to find a local gerontologist and grabbed an available slot for the next day.
Then I prayed for Hagrid to ride up on a magic motorcycle to get us there.
CHAPTER 7
By some miracle, my father was not cut by the broken glass in the dishwater that morning, although I was, when I let the dishwater out of the sink. On the way to see Mom before her surgery, Dad and I had another minor scuffle over his blue handicapped card, which he won as I swerved in traffic. When we arrived at UCI Medical Center in late morning, Mom, out of it on pre-surgery drugs, waved and dozed off again.
Dad settled down near her to wait.
I was antsy about Mom, but even more frustrated about being stuck here, unable to pursue my book problem. I needed to work with letters to calm me down and help me think. A new word scramble book sat on Mom's bedside table. Yummy.
I unscrambled OYOILRSUT to riotously . My brain started a mental list of possible book thieves. Marian. Jackie. George. No. They were my mentors, and occasional tormentors, but basically friends.
"Wow. How'd you get that so easy?" The little gray man was looking around the gold curtain over my shoulder.
"I'm a genius," I said. The word SERANGO unscrambled to oranges in milliseconds. More suspects popped up in my head: James? Harley? But they loved me, right? Hmm. I had also given my parents early drafts to read, but I’d changed the book a lot since then. They'd never sell me out, but had they given my manuscript to someone else—knowingly or unknowingly?
The little gray man poked my shoulder. "What’s your trick?"
I sighed. "See," I pointed. "It's black and white on the page, but for me, it’s like—colors. I see a silvery blue S , a green E , a red R , a violet A , a gold N , a gray G , and a white O . Makes it easy to—"
His eyes had gone wide. Oops. I'd said too much. I didn't tell him the colors had been assigned in my brain at birth to both letters and numbers by some really irritating power greater than me, one that enjoyed constant torture. The colors usually appeared stronger when I was upset, especially during life changes. Like
"Uh, never mind. I was just so—surprised that Music Man might have dementia."
"Believe me, Rhonda. It's not dementia. He's fine. He's just stressed out. Look, watch him for a couple days. Take him home with you. Get him some Prozac."
"From a doctor?"
Monica yawned. "I don't care if it's from a veterinarian or an astrologer. But deal with it. Keep him out of trouble, Ms. Librarian. It's your turn.”
Well, maybe it was. I picked up the Alzheimer's pamphlet from Julie Bauer and read it. Scary stuff. So I got on my mother's ancient purple laptop with the screen problem and typed in dementia. Scarier stuff. Of course, I'd researched memory loss for my book, but this was Dad. Whose memory wasn't that bad, except for some dream that he still had little kids at home. Yeah, it must have been a dream. Because if he truly had dementia, this article said he shouldn't be left home alone, ever. At all. Good grief.
One website said his symptoms might be caused by a drug interaction, depression, a vitamin deficiency, or a thyroid problem. Or alcohol. I needed a doctor to sort it out, but Mom's computer suddenly went all white screen. My laptop was at home, so I called Mom. I couldn't reach her at the hospital, so I searched her index card file for doctor cards and called some.
Funny. When the receptionists heard Dad's name, they got cagey and said they were booked up until Easter. It wasn't hard to imagine Dad pulling pranks in doctors' offices with Christian Scientist Mom egging him on, laughing at the ensuing office chaos. Finally, the doddering computer came back on and I surfed the Internet to find a local gerontologist and grabbed an available slot for the next day.
Then I prayed for Hagrid to ride up on a magic motorcycle to get us there.
CHAPTER 7
By some miracle, my father was not cut by the broken glass in the dishwater that morning, although I was, when I let the dishwater out of the sink. On the way to see Mom before her surgery, Dad and I had another minor scuffle over his blue handicapped card, which he won as I swerved in traffic. When we arrived at UCI Medical Center in late morning, Mom, out of it on pre-surgery drugs, waved and dozed off again.
Dad settled down near her to wait.
I was antsy about Mom, but even more frustrated about being stuck here, unable to pursue my book problem. I needed to work with letters to calm me down and help me think. A new word scramble book sat on Mom's bedside table. Yummy.
I unscrambled OYOILRSUT to riotously . My brain started a mental list of possible book thieves. Marian. Jackie. George. No. They were my mentors, and occasional tormentors, but basically friends.
"Wow. How'd you get that so easy?" The little gray man was looking around the gold curtain over my shoulder.
"I'm a genius," I said. The word SERANGO unscrambled to oranges in milliseconds. More suspects popped up in my head: James? Harley? But they loved me, right? Hmm. I had also given my parents early drafts to read, but I’d changed the book a lot since then. They'd never sell me out, but had they given my manuscript to someone else—knowingly or unknowingly?
The little gray man poked my shoulder. "What’s your trick?"
I sighed. "See," I pointed. "It's black and white on the page, but for me, it’s like—colors. I see a silvery blue S , a green E , a red R , a violet A , a gold N , a gray G , and a white O . Makes it easy to—"
His eyes had gone wide. Oops. I'd said too much. I didn't tell him the colors had been assigned in my brain at birth to both letters and numbers by some really irritating power greater than me, one that enjoyed constant torture. The colors usually appeared stronger when I was upset, especially during life changes. Like
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