turned to look at him, a total stranger, probably thirty-something, grinning, and boyishly handsome with sandy-brown hair. She said, “What?”
“Nevada Barr. I haven’t read that one.”
“Oh, here, take it.” She held the book toward him.
He stepped backward, holding up both hands in negation. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it first.”
She smiled, relaxing a little. It had been a long time since she had had this kind of chance encounter. “All right then, I’ll bring it back next week.”
“I’ll be here waiting with bated breath.”
Elenora laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it, but I will return it.”
Elenora had a week that was bad, bordering on awful. The late August weather was hot and muggy. It affected her breathing and made doing her housework difficult. Her hoped for chance to do another story for the paper didn’t happen when the event was postponed, although the editor half-promised that it was still hers. It deepened her depression and produced a migraine.
On Thursday both the heat and humidity went up, her air conditioning couldn’t cope with it, and one of her two window units failed. She retreated to her not-really-cool bedroom and again didn’t do her required floor washing. “There are extenuating circumstances,” she told herself firmly, but she couldn’t believe it because her father had allowed for none.
In the middle of the night she awoke from a dream of suffocation, thinking she was locked in a small dark room with no way out. She gasped, trying to draw a breath as the constriction tightened around her chest. She kept an emergency albuterol inhaler in her bedside table and she was able to reach it, groping in the dimness of a nightlight from the hall. The medication usually worked almost instantly.
She drew in a lungful of the medication, shook her inhaler again, and sucked in a second dose. She sat on the edge of the bed, gulping mouthfuls of air. The tightness eased a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to call for help. That was a sign of weakness.
If two puffs aren’t enough, take some more, her doctor said; it won’t hurt. She inhaled the medication again, two more puffs. She couldn’t lie down, afraid of again feeling suffocated, so she moved to a chair by the window, still trying to breathe normally and forget the terrifying dream.
It was almost a half hour before she felt confident enough to go back to bed. She lay still, breathing raggedly but at least getting enough air, and eventually she relaxed enough to go back to sleep. She awoke a little groggy and determined not to let it happen again. She wouldn’t break the routine. It was way too scary.
Elenora would have stayed home from the group session on Friday but she had to return the library book. She had managed to read it during odd moments and had thoroughly enjoyed it . I managed that one, so I’ll get another. I deserve that much! I wish I could just sit down and read.
She knew she could. She just had to believe she could read the book instead of doing the wash on Monday. But she couldn’t. I can’t risk another bad night.
But she did take one more step toward freedom; she made baking powder biscuits for supper on Thursday, telling herself that counted as Friday’s baking since she would enjoy them for several days. She liked to split a cold biscuit and put it under the broiler topped with a slice of cheddar cheese, leaving it until the last moment as the cheese bubbled and toasted a golden brown. Not only are they great with my after-work coffee, they are baked.
So she went to the session and again sat at one side and listened. Some of the stories were interesting, a couple even inspiring, suggesting some strategies she might try, but she didn’t feel motivated to join in . I have no successes to talk about.
She had almost forgotten about the man who had wanted the Barr book and was therefore surprised to meet him by the circulation desk.
“See,” he said, grinning, “I told
“Nevada Barr. I haven’t read that one.”
“Oh, here, take it.” She held the book toward him.
He stepped backward, holding up both hands in negation. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it first.”
She smiled, relaxing a little. It had been a long time since she had had this kind of chance encounter. “All right then, I’ll bring it back next week.”
“I’ll be here waiting with bated breath.”
Elenora laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it, but I will return it.”
Elenora had a week that was bad, bordering on awful. The late August weather was hot and muggy. It affected her breathing and made doing her housework difficult. Her hoped for chance to do another story for the paper didn’t happen when the event was postponed, although the editor half-promised that it was still hers. It deepened her depression and produced a migraine.
On Thursday both the heat and humidity went up, her air conditioning couldn’t cope with it, and one of her two window units failed. She retreated to her not-really-cool bedroom and again didn’t do her required floor washing. “There are extenuating circumstances,” she told herself firmly, but she couldn’t believe it because her father had allowed for none.
In the middle of the night she awoke from a dream of suffocation, thinking she was locked in a small dark room with no way out. She gasped, trying to draw a breath as the constriction tightened around her chest. She kept an emergency albuterol inhaler in her bedside table and she was able to reach it, groping in the dimness of a nightlight from the hall. The medication usually worked almost instantly.
She drew in a lungful of the medication, shook her inhaler again, and sucked in a second dose. She sat on the edge of the bed, gulping mouthfuls of air. The tightness eased a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to call for help. That was a sign of weakness.
If two puffs aren’t enough, take some more, her doctor said; it won’t hurt. She inhaled the medication again, two more puffs. She couldn’t lie down, afraid of again feeling suffocated, so she moved to a chair by the window, still trying to breathe normally and forget the terrifying dream.
It was almost a half hour before she felt confident enough to go back to bed. She lay still, breathing raggedly but at least getting enough air, and eventually she relaxed enough to go back to sleep. She awoke a little groggy and determined not to let it happen again. She wouldn’t break the routine. It was way too scary.
Elenora would have stayed home from the group session on Friday but she had to return the library book. She had managed to read it during odd moments and had thoroughly enjoyed it . I managed that one, so I’ll get another. I deserve that much! I wish I could just sit down and read.
She knew she could. She just had to believe she could read the book instead of doing the wash on Monday. But she couldn’t. I can’t risk another bad night.
But she did take one more step toward freedom; she made baking powder biscuits for supper on Thursday, telling herself that counted as Friday’s baking since she would enjoy them for several days. She liked to split a cold biscuit and put it under the broiler topped with a slice of cheddar cheese, leaving it until the last moment as the cheese bubbled and toasted a golden brown. Not only are they great with my after-work coffee, they are baked.
So she went to the session and again sat at one side and listened. Some of the stories were interesting, a couple even inspiring, suggesting some strategies she might try, but she didn’t feel motivated to join in . I have no successes to talk about.
She had almost forgotten about the man who had wanted the Barr book and was therefore surprised to meet him by the circulation desk.
“See,” he said, grinning, “I told
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