Read Online The House on Sugar Plum Lane by JUDY DUARTE - Free Book Online Page A

grandmother’s influence, which was one reason Barbara hadn’t encouraged much of a relationship between her mother and her son while he was growing up. But once Joey had gotten a driver’s license, there’d been no stopping him. He’d visited his grandma regularly, a practice that had continued even after he married.
    In fact, as her mother slipped deeper into a fog of dementia, Joey had volunteered to take her in and let her live with him and his wife, rather than place her in a home.
    Barbara had tried to talk him out of it, insisting that there were plenty of quality convalescent hospitals that were better equipped, better trained to handle Alzheimer’s patients.
    â€œIf we put her there,” Joey had said, “you’d never visit her.”
    Barbara hadn’t argued that point. Everyone knew she hated medical facilities, even if they didn’t have any idea why. But her mother didn’t even recognize her these days anyway, so what would it hurt?
    As Barbara entered Joey’s private room, she spotted Craig Houston, the associate pastor of Joey’s church, seated in the blue vinyl chair next to the hospital bed. When the fair-haired young man in his mid-twenties looked her way, she returned his smile.
    There wasn’t even the slightest resemblance between the men, since Joey had inherited his brown hair—now silver-laced at the temples—and olive complexion from his father’s side of the family. Yet for a moment, seeing the two together, Barbara couldn’t help wondering what her son’s children might have grown up to look like had Cynthia, Joey’s wife, been able to carry a pregnancy to term.
    â€œGood morning,” the pastor said. “How are you, Mrs. Davila?”
    She supposed she should tell him he didn’t need to be so formal, but she hated to get too chummy with a man of the cloth. The next thing you knew, he’d be pressing her to attend Sunday services.
    â€œYou can call her Barbara,” Joey said, his voice softer than it had been yesterday.
    Weaker?
    Oh, please, don’t let him be failing, Barbara silently pleaded to no one in particular.
    â€œIs that all right with you?” the pastor asked, his grin warm and friendly.
    To call her Barbara? Not really, but she managed to revitalize her smile. “Of course.” She broke eye contact with the minister and focused on her son. “I’m not going to stay long, honey. I just wanted to check on you and say hello. Any news on the surgery? Have they scheduled it?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    An ache settled in her chest and fear clogged her throat, yet she tried to keep the optimism in her voice. “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”
    A nurse popped into Joey’s room to check his IV and take his vitals, and Barbara turned her head away. Distancing herself further, she walked to the window, where several plants and floral arrangements sat along the sill to brighten up the room. There was a basket of various plants that had been sent by one of Joey’s neighbors, a vase of drooping carnations from someone at his office.
    In the center of the display was a new arrival, a black ceramic vase holding a single red anthurium, an exotic, tropical flower with waxy leaves that reminded her of the many unique and colorful plants of Hawaii.
    She felt herself hurtling back to 1966 all over again, and this time she couldn’t stop it.
    The Beatles, Bob Dylan.
    Walter Cronkite, Vietnam.
    The phone call that turned her life on end.
    Is this Barbara Davila?
    Yes.
    Is Captain Joseph Davila your husband?
    She’d wanted to hang up, to pretend the call hadn’t come in, but she’d responded truthfully, her fingers clutched so tightly to the receiver that she’d thought her flesh would meld to plastic. Yes.
    Your husband’s plane went down.
    Somehow, she’d managed to get through the heartbreaking, blood-pounding call—maybe