Read Online The Art of Mending by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Berg
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
Ads: Link
so much to all of you. I wanted to apologize to you kids for keeping some things from you. I wish I hadn’t done that. It took coming in here for me to realize that. And yet now there’s nothing wrong, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to tell you after all, to dig up such old bones.” He smiled. “You know what I mean? Maybe it’s better just to let things be.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
Medication?
I thought.
Is he confused? Should I tell the nurse?
But then he smiled, his old self, and reached out to touch my hand. “I don’t know. I just don’t know if it’s right. And yet if something comes to you so strongly when you think you might be dying, shouldn’t you go ahead and take care of it when you’re alive?”
“Take care of what?”
“Of . . . apologizing, I guess.”
“But for what?”
He hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “You know what, honey? It was a long time ago. I don’t know. Forget it.” He sat up straighter in his bed. “Is your mother still out there?”
For a moment I thought about pressing him to tell me what he was going to say, then decided against it. I’d talk to him about it later, when he came home. It couldn’t be that important, if he’d never mentioned it before now.
“Yeah, Mom’s out there. Aunt Fran left, and I sent Pete and the kids back to the fair.”
“Good. I’m coming home tomorrow, I’ll go with you then. But maybe I’ll lay off the fried food.”
“Okay.” I stood up to move beside him, kissed his forehead. “I love you,” I said, and he answered, “You’re my girl,” which was what he always said when I told him I loved him.
“Want me to send Mom in?”
He nodded, closed his eyes. “Tell her not to be offended if I’m sleeping. I’m so sleepy.”
When I got back to the lounge, Caroline and Steve were sitting together on one of the sofas.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked, and Steve said, “Gone out with Aunt Fran. She’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Well, he looks fine,” I said. “He’s sleeping now.”
Caroline closed the magazine she’d been reading. “Let’s go to the cafeteria. I need coffee.”
Steve said, “I’m too full.”
Caroline said, “Just come, okay?”
He looked quickly at me, shoved his hands in his pockets, and we all headed for the elevator as though it were a gangplank.
9
“YOU KNOW I WANT TO TALK TO YOU BOTH,” CAROLINE said. “It might as well be now.” She was nervous; her hands were clenched tightly before her.
We were sitting at a small round table, off by itself. The cafeteria was all but empty. But Caroline’s voice was so low I could hardly hear her.
“
Now?
” Steve asked.
“Do you mind? I mean, we’re here.”
Steve and I looked at each other and then sat quietly, waiting for her to begin.
Finally, she said, “All right. I was at a friend’s house, not long ago. She had some new perfume, and she was telling me about how she always let her husband pick out her perfume, because her mother told her that that and good cooking were ways to keep your man happy. And then she started telling me all these other things her mother told her, most of them funny but some of them really wise, and I started trying to think about what Mom had told
me.
And I realized she’d never told me anything.”
She looked up from her coffee at me, then at Steve. He was staring straight ahead, probably trying very hard not to drum his fingers on the table.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“I mean she never told me
anything.
Like . . . about how to iron, or sew, or cook.” I rolled my eyes at this last—who would want to learn to cook like our mother?—but Caroline saw me and said, “
Or
about fashion. Or how to talk to boys. Or girls! And when I started thinking of that, I realized—”
“Caroline,” Steve said.
“What?”
“Is this going to be . . . I mean, are you going to tell us about all the injustices you suffered at the hands of our terrible,
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
Medication?
I thought.
Is he confused? Should I tell the nurse?
But then he smiled, his old self, and reached out to touch my hand. “I don’t know. I just don’t know if it’s right. And yet if something comes to you so strongly when you think you might be dying, shouldn’t you go ahead and take care of it when you’re alive?”
“Take care of what?”
“Of . . . apologizing, I guess.”
“But for what?”
He hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “You know what, honey? It was a long time ago. I don’t know. Forget it.” He sat up straighter in his bed. “Is your mother still out there?”
For a moment I thought about pressing him to tell me what he was going to say, then decided against it. I’d talk to him about it later, when he came home. It couldn’t be that important, if he’d never mentioned it before now.
“Yeah, Mom’s out there. Aunt Fran left, and I sent Pete and the kids back to the fair.”
“Good. I’m coming home tomorrow, I’ll go with you then. But maybe I’ll lay off the fried food.”
“Okay.” I stood up to move beside him, kissed his forehead. “I love you,” I said, and he answered, “You’re my girl,” which was what he always said when I told him I loved him.
“Want me to send Mom in?”
He nodded, closed his eyes. “Tell her not to be offended if I’m sleeping. I’m so sleepy.”
When I got back to the lounge, Caroline and Steve were sitting together on one of the sofas.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked, and Steve said, “Gone out with Aunt Fran. She’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Well, he looks fine,” I said. “He’s sleeping now.”
Caroline closed the magazine she’d been reading. “Let’s go to the cafeteria. I need coffee.”
Steve said, “I’m too full.”
Caroline said, “Just come, okay?”
He looked quickly at me, shoved his hands in his pockets, and we all headed for the elevator as though it were a gangplank.
9
“YOU KNOW I WANT TO TALK TO YOU BOTH,” CAROLINE said. “It might as well be now.” She was nervous; her hands were clenched tightly before her.
We were sitting at a small round table, off by itself. The cafeteria was all but empty. But Caroline’s voice was so low I could hardly hear her.
“
Now?
” Steve asked.
“Do you mind? I mean, we’re here.”
Steve and I looked at each other and then sat quietly, waiting for her to begin.
Finally, she said, “All right. I was at a friend’s house, not long ago. She had some new perfume, and she was telling me about how she always let her husband pick out her perfume, because her mother told her that that and good cooking were ways to keep your man happy. And then she started telling me all these other things her mother told her, most of them funny but some of them really wise, and I started trying to think about what Mom had told
me.
And I realized she’d never told me anything.”
She looked up from her coffee at me, then at Steve. He was staring straight ahead, probably trying very hard not to drum his fingers on the table.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“I mean she never told me
anything.
Like . . . about how to iron, or sew, or cook.” I rolled my eyes at this last—who would want to learn to cook like our mother?—but Caroline saw me and said, “
Or
about fashion. Or how to talk to boys. Or girls! And when I started thinking of that, I realized—”
“Caroline,” Steve said.
“What?”
“Is this going to be . . . I mean, are you going to tell us about all the injustices you suffered at the hands of our terrible,
Similar Books
