Read Online Skylight Confessions by Alice Hoffman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Hoffman
Tags: Fiction, General, Sagas, Architecture, Architects, Individual Architect, Life Change Events, Spouses
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guessed it was the top floor. She wished she could see the mailboxes and find his name printed there, but she stayed in the car. Good thing; just then his truck pulled into the driveway. He was working in a pet store. George and his brother no longer spoke; they'd had a terrible argument after they'd been fired by the Moodys. Frankly, George avoided most people, preferring the quiet camaraderie of parakeets and goldfish. He got out of his truck, then went around the back for a backpack and a lunchbox. His collie, Ricky, jumped out. The dog looked older, but George looked the same, just far away. It had been only a year since Arlyn had seen him, so how could it feel like forever? He was whistling as he walked from the driveway, up to the steps to the porch. Then he was gone, the collie at his heels, the door slamming.
She didn't get out and tell him. She almost did, but she had always been afraid of stones, and the path to his house was made of them, small round bits of gravel. It was too late. It was too awful and unfair to come to him now. Arlyn was holding on to the steering wheel so tightly her fingers turned white. Lights went on in the third-floor apartment. If she'd gone with him when he asked her to leave John, they would have had this year together. Now there was only pain and sorrow to share. She didn't want Blanca fought over, pulled apart, even at this cost. At least she'd seen him.
Another perfect moment in her perfect day.
Arlie drove home slowly, trying not to think of anything but the road and her children at home. She'd been granted more than most people. Real love, after all, was worth the price you paid, however briefly it might last. There was one glitch in the day, a horrible one: a pre-op consultation at the hospital, scheduled late so that John might accompany her. The sky was turning dark blue.
April blue. Inside the hospital it was terribly bright. Arlie was the last patient of the day. Did they save the best or the worst for last?
That's what Arlyn wanted to know. The doctor was young. He told her to call him Harry, but she couldn't do that; she called him Dr.
Lewis. If he wanted her to call him by his first name the prognosis must be bad. John was there with her and she was grateful; his presence stopped her from breaking down. She knew John didn't like bad news, difficult women, tragedy. Could it be that she had never cried in front of him? Not even on that day in New Haven when she came to his dorm so convinced of the future; she'd only wept after he was gone. She wasn't about to start now.
Dr. Lewis would see the extent of the cancer when he operated; there would be two other doctors, residents, assisting in the surgery, and the thought of a team of people inside her made Arlie shudder. It took a while before she actually understood they planned to cut off her breast. She stopped thinking after that, didn't even consider further complications. She cleared her mind.
Time had stopped. She had insisted that it do so and it had. The drive home was silent and lasted a decade. She thanked Cynthia, who had made dinner for the family. After dinner, John walked Cynthia home. She put her arms around him and he fell into her.
Cynthia was there for him, the way she'd promised to be. She took him home, then upstairs to her bedroom; her love wasn't a crime, it was a gift, that's the way Cynthia saw it, and that was the way John Moody received it.
Alone in the Glass Slipper, Arlie put the baby to sleep, then washed up. Every dish was an eternity, but that was fine. She wanted it all to last. She didn't mind John's absence; she liked the stillness. That night in Sam's room, the story Arlie whispered took a hundred years to tell. It was Sam's favorite story, her father's story about the flying people in Connecticut. "If I'm gone," she told him afterward, "that's where I'll be. Right above you, flying. I'll never really leave you."
Sam had the bones of his squirrel in a cardboard shoebox in the back of
She didn't get out and tell him. She almost did, but she had always been afraid of stones, and the path to his house was made of them, small round bits of gravel. It was too late. It was too awful and unfair to come to him now. Arlyn was holding on to the steering wheel so tightly her fingers turned white. Lights went on in the third-floor apartment. If she'd gone with him when he asked her to leave John, they would have had this year together. Now there was only pain and sorrow to share. She didn't want Blanca fought over, pulled apart, even at this cost. At least she'd seen him.
Another perfect moment in her perfect day.
Arlie drove home slowly, trying not to think of anything but the road and her children at home. She'd been granted more than most people. Real love, after all, was worth the price you paid, however briefly it might last. There was one glitch in the day, a horrible one: a pre-op consultation at the hospital, scheduled late so that John might accompany her. The sky was turning dark blue.
April blue. Inside the hospital it was terribly bright. Arlie was the last patient of the day. Did they save the best or the worst for last?
That's what Arlyn wanted to know. The doctor was young. He told her to call him Harry, but she couldn't do that; she called him Dr.
Lewis. If he wanted her to call him by his first name the prognosis must be bad. John was there with her and she was grateful; his presence stopped her from breaking down. She knew John didn't like bad news, difficult women, tragedy. Could it be that she had never cried in front of him? Not even on that day in New Haven when she came to his dorm so convinced of the future; she'd only wept after he was gone. She wasn't about to start now.
Dr. Lewis would see the extent of the cancer when he operated; there would be two other doctors, residents, assisting in the surgery, and the thought of a team of people inside her made Arlie shudder. It took a while before she actually understood they planned to cut off her breast. She stopped thinking after that, didn't even consider further complications. She cleared her mind.
Time had stopped. She had insisted that it do so and it had. The drive home was silent and lasted a decade. She thanked Cynthia, who had made dinner for the family. After dinner, John walked Cynthia home. She put her arms around him and he fell into her.
Cynthia was there for him, the way she'd promised to be. She took him home, then upstairs to her bedroom; her love wasn't a crime, it was a gift, that's the way Cynthia saw it, and that was the way John Moody received it.
Alone in the Glass Slipper, Arlie put the baby to sleep, then washed up. Every dish was an eternity, but that was fine. She wanted it all to last. She didn't mind John's absence; she liked the stillness. That night in Sam's room, the story Arlie whispered took a hundred years to tell. It was Sam's favorite story, her father's story about the flying people in Connecticut. "If I'm gone," she told him afterward, "that's where I'll be. Right above you, flying. I'll never really leave you."
Sam had the bones of his squirrel in a cardboard shoebox in the back of
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