peace. And the other? You know that little chat she had with Shelby? I loved the part when she said I was one of her favorite patients. Ha! She hated me, and who could blame her? I was so smug, with my Louis Vuitton pocketbooks and professional manicures. Plus, I never had an appointment I kept. I’d call to change them two or three times, then arrive late with apologies to no one. And yet, you heard Irma. She made it sound as though she adored me.
Then that bit about how I almost choked Bernie to death? Never happened. Not even close because it simply never occurred to me to question him. I guess I was too self-involved and vain to think I could actually have a serious problem. Which, in retrospect, made me no better than he.
Still, you’ve got to love Irma for lying to win Shelby’s trust. And for understanding the one thing Shelby desperately needed to validate was that her mother was a fighter. Just like her.
Now here’s the ironic part. Irma’s ex-husband is lying in North Shore where his days are numbered. Only one floor above my husband, whose days may also be numbered, depending on what God has in mind. That means the two men who had more to do with shaping my destiny, and whose own destinies were ultimately and dramatically altered by my death, are now under the very same roof as I when I was fighting for my life.
Honestly. Who’s writing this script?
Oh, and something else. Irma was right when she guessed Shelby wouldn’t be leaving yet. Somehow she sensed she wasn’t going anywhere until she came to terms with both these men.
I do hope there’s time.
Chapter Eight
When Shelby awoke the next morning, in a bed and a room that were completely unfamiliar, she only vaguely remembered why. Something about a bad dream involving an accident, a frightening visit to an emergency room, and a bunch of unfortunate reunions with people she didn’t care for, or about. It reminded her of one of those Ann Tyler novels where one insufferably long day in the heroine’s life took seventy-three pages.
Then she came to. She was back in New York among the people she was connected to by blood and ancestry. It wasn’t a dream or even a decent novel. It was her damn life.
She opened one eye to slowly take in her surroundings and gasped. Surely this part had to be fictitious. Otherwise, she’d just spent the night in a place where a disciple of Martha Stewart had gone mad. Large, maple furniture and lemon yellow chintz were everywhere. Curtains. Dust ruffles. Tablecloths. Chairs and ottomans. Was she hallucinating again, or had Aunt Roz hired a decorator who was legally blind?
Shelby inched out of bed to begin a full examination of what she now recalled was the guesthouse. It was more akin to a studio apartment, but she had to admit there was a certain coziness to the place. She especially liked the airy feel of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the plush, plum-colored carpet under foot. Welcome to Hotel Lazarus, she thought as she made her way to the private bath, which boasted a Jacuzzi tub and a closetful of velvety towels. If there was also maid service, she might never leave.
Question of the day was, why didn’t she have any recollection ofhow she’d gotten here? As if that never happened before, she mused. But this time she was certain alcohol had played no part. Maybe if she took a moment to collect herself, the details would surface.
Shelby was beckoned to a massive, leather chair in the corner, which looked perfectly comfortable save for the bright, yellow gingham throw pillows tucked inside. What decent decorator would mix twentieth-century Haddassah with goyishe country chic?
As she tucked her legs in, it occurred to her she was still unsure how she ended up asleep here, but she now knew what woke her. A bird convention had assembled outside the window near the bed, and they were so insanely loud, Shelby surmised they were either planning to overthrow the government or visit the in-laws in Miami.
So
Then that bit about how I almost choked Bernie to death? Never happened. Not even close because it simply never occurred to me to question him. I guess I was too self-involved and vain to think I could actually have a serious problem. Which, in retrospect, made me no better than he.
Still, you’ve got to love Irma for lying to win Shelby’s trust. And for understanding the one thing Shelby desperately needed to validate was that her mother was a fighter. Just like her.
Now here’s the ironic part. Irma’s ex-husband is lying in North Shore where his days are numbered. Only one floor above my husband, whose days may also be numbered, depending on what God has in mind. That means the two men who had more to do with shaping my destiny, and whose own destinies were ultimately and dramatically altered by my death, are now under the very same roof as I when I was fighting for my life.
Honestly. Who’s writing this script?
Oh, and something else. Irma was right when she guessed Shelby wouldn’t be leaving yet. Somehow she sensed she wasn’t going anywhere until she came to terms with both these men.
I do hope there’s time.
Chapter Eight
When Shelby awoke the next morning, in a bed and a room that were completely unfamiliar, she only vaguely remembered why. Something about a bad dream involving an accident, a frightening visit to an emergency room, and a bunch of unfortunate reunions with people she didn’t care for, or about. It reminded her of one of those Ann Tyler novels where one insufferably long day in the heroine’s life took seventy-three pages.
Then she came to. She was back in New York among the people she was connected to by blood and ancestry. It wasn’t a dream or even a decent novel. It was her damn life.
She opened one eye to slowly take in her surroundings and gasped. Surely this part had to be fictitious. Otherwise, she’d just spent the night in a place where a disciple of Martha Stewart had gone mad. Large, maple furniture and lemon yellow chintz were everywhere. Curtains. Dust ruffles. Tablecloths. Chairs and ottomans. Was she hallucinating again, or had Aunt Roz hired a decorator who was legally blind?
Shelby inched out of bed to begin a full examination of what she now recalled was the guesthouse. It was more akin to a studio apartment, but she had to admit there was a certain coziness to the place. She especially liked the airy feel of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the plush, plum-colored carpet under foot. Welcome to Hotel Lazarus, she thought as she made her way to the private bath, which boasted a Jacuzzi tub and a closetful of velvety towels. If there was also maid service, she might never leave.
Question of the day was, why didn’t she have any recollection ofhow she’d gotten here? As if that never happened before, she mused. But this time she was certain alcohol had played no part. Maybe if she took a moment to collect herself, the details would surface.
Shelby was beckoned to a massive, leather chair in the corner, which looked perfectly comfortable save for the bright, yellow gingham throw pillows tucked inside. What decent decorator would mix twentieth-century Haddassah with goyishe country chic?
As she tucked her legs in, it occurred to her she was still unsure how she ended up asleep here, but she now knew what woke her. A bird convention had assembled outside the window near the bed, and they were so insanely loud, Shelby surmised they were either planning to overthrow the government or visit the in-laws in Miami.
So
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