The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it’s snowing!” Hannah called, stepping out from the car. Her fifteen-year-old daughter’s face turned upward, and with a delighted grin, she darted her tongue out to catch the soft, moist flakes as they tumbled gracefully from the sky.

      “That’s just what we need. A snowstorm on top of everything else.”

      “It’s just a few flakes.” Hannah’s voice was full of reproach.

      “From the looks of it, we’re going to get a dump. Damn snow,” Birdie muttered, grabbing the bags full of last-minute shopping items from the car and hoisting them into her strong arms. “I’m sick of snow. Hasn’t Milwaukee had enough for one year? It’s April, for crying out loud. Well, that’s it,” she said with the quick decision typical of her. Slamming the door, she headed toward the house. “We’re going to have to hustle and leave for Evanston earlier than we’d planned if we expect to get everything done by the funeral.” She stopped at the door and turned to face her daughter. “I’m counting on you, Hannah. I’m going to need your help.”

      “I don’t see why we have to do everything.” Hannah crossed her arms over her chest.

      “We do if we want it done right.” Birdie privately groaned at the prospect. The notion of pushing forward her departure when her schedule was already jammed full thrummed in her temples. She was squeaking out of town as it was. Sometimes she felt like a circus performer twirling countless plates: she had had to arrange coverage for her medical practice, calm her patients, take the dog to the kennel, cancel the housecleaning service, pack…The list went on and on. On top of all that, the funeral was tomorrow and it was up to her to make certain everything ran smoothly.

      “When you need something done, ask a busy woman,” she murmured with a heavy sigh, though secretly she felt a superior conceit. To her mind, all it took to succeed was discipline, setting goals and lots of hard work. And she worked harder than most. She could list her achievements readily: she was a pediatrician with a thriving practice, a wife for nineteen years, the mother of a healthy daughter and the mistress of a large, well-managed home. If there was such a thing as a supermom, Birdie thought with pride, then she was it.

      But today was a test of her abilities. She lifted her wrist to check her watch and her lips tightened with annoyance. God, look at the time. Where was Dennis? And Hannah? Peering outside, she saw Hannah still leaning against the rear fender, gazing at the twirling flakes of snow. Frustration brought the pounding in her head to a painful pace.

      “Didn’t you hear me say we were leaving early?” she called from the back door.

      Hannah’s smile fell but she remained motionless, resolutely staring out.

      “Don’t pull that passive-aggressive act on me, young lady,” she called, raising her voice as she walked nearer the car. She could feel her anger growing with each step. “I’ve asked you to get your packing done for twenty-four hours and so far you haven’t done a thing. I’m not going to do it for you.”

      “Who’s asking you to?” Hannah swung her head around. “You’d just pack the wrong things, anyway.”

      “This isn’t a prom we’re talking about. It’s my sister’s funeral. My baby sister! It’s hard enough for me to deal with the fact that she’s gone without having to argue about meaningless things like your dress.”

      “At least you have a sister.”

      Birdie felt the weight of that reply start to drag her under. How many years had she had this thrown in her face like a broken promise? “Hannah, please. We don’t have time to argue. Just go upstairs and pack a black dress,” she ground out with finality.

      “You never ask me to do something, you order me. Yes, you do! I hate you!” she shouted when Birdie opened her mouth to object. Hannah fled into the house, slamming the door behind her.

      Birdie knew that those words were spoken in the white-hot fire of teenage anger and flung at her to burn—and burn they did. A mother never hears the words “I hate you” without cringing and feeling like a hopeless failure.

      She followed Hannah back into the house with a heavy tread. Closed doors were a way of life between them now. Why did push always come to shove between them? And when had she started to feel the need to win these senseless battles? Not so long ago, she’d let trivial arguments slide by because all the parenting articles she’d read had a unified rallying cry: choose your battles! With teenagers, however, everything was a battle.

      She walked to the small desk in the kitchen and worked away her frustration by cleaning up the day’s disorder. When all was spotless and organized, she reached for a stack of patient messages awaiting her. Clearing her mind of personal problems, she picked up the first one and dialed.

      An hour later, she was just finishing up her last call when her husband walked in from the garage. She turned her head to see Dennis shake off a covering of powdery snow from his lambskin jacket. He was five foot ten, just an inch taller than she was, but his build was slight in line and breadth of bone. With his long, thoughtful face, his dark brown eyes behind round, tortoiseshell glasses, his blond hair worn shaggy to the collar and his rumpled corduroy trousers worn with a sweater rather than a jacket, he looked every inch the university professor that he was.

      He kicked the snow from his shoes. When he looked up, she noted that his face was pale and pinched from fatigue. He used to smile and call out a cheery “I’m home!” Lately, however, he entered the house in silence. Birdie frowned with concern, then turned her focus back to the patient on the phone.

      “No, Mrs. Sandler, Tommy doesn’t need an antibiotic. Yes, I’m sure. He doesn’t have a bacterial infection. It’s a virus, though a nasty one. No, an antibiotic won’t help. In fact, it would weaken his natural resistance.” Birdie caught Dennis’s eye and held up her finger for him to wait a minute. Dennis nodded, flung his coat over the edge of the kitchen chair, then reached into the fridge for a beer.

      “Keep a close eye on him, and if he takes a turn for the worse or spikes another fever, then call my office. Dr. Martin is covering for me. What? Ninety-eight point six is normal.” She rolled her eyes and reached out for Dennis’s beer. “Yes, very good. Bye now.”

      Birdie sighed with relief, placed the receiver back on the hook, then tossed back her head and took a long swig of the beer. “Diagnosis—worried parent,” she muttered.

      “Tough day?”

      “The worst. It started off with the dog being sick. He’s so damn neurotic every time he has to go to the kennel. Hannah’s been her usual petulant self. Then the patients started in.” She lifted the thick stack of yellow messages.

      “I thought you arranged coverage.”

      “I did, but you know there are always those patients who panic when I leave town. It’s just easier for everyone if I call them.”

      “You don’t have to go that extra mile. No one else’s patients expect such service. I don’t know why you have to push yourself so hard. You’re already better than most docs out there.”

      “I’m better because I’m compulsive about such things. It’s who I am. Anyway, the point’s moot because I’m all done. That was the last of the calls, thank God.” She tossed the yellow slips into the trash.

      “So, you’re free.”

      She smirked. “Free СКАЧАТЬ