buried inside it wrap themselves around her when she sits in the chair, which she has done less and less every year. And the moment she sits down Grace gets the whole point of what she’s doing, what the doctor ordered, what must be part of some of the most interesting therapy she has ever witnessed. She sits back, stretches out her legs, sets her glass down on the table next to her, and instantly realizes this isn’t going to be as easy as it might seem.
It is so hard for Grace to relax that she has to fight the urge to get up and do something because, well, sitting and sipping wine and whatever happens after that isn’t something important. Even though she knows better, even as she thinks about how her legs feel fabulous, and the wine tastes delicious and really, for a while anyway, there isn’t a thing to worry about, Grace fights it.
Then she starts to rock, and the movement begins to pull her into a place that feels familiar and comforting. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Years of rocking and babies and stories start to rumble up from the old wooden legs, into the seat, up the arms, and right into Grace’s mind. Suddenly three hours won’t be enough time. She rocks until she remembers the needlepoint and then stops abruptly.
The bag must be at least ten years old. She can’t remember the last time she worked on needlepoint, especially this one—the one she took with her everywhere when the girls were younger.
She pulls it out slowly, touching the soft strands of yarn, grabbing the last needle she held, which is still threaded with the blue yarn she was using for the background. Grace was working on a landscape, trying hard to create a place she wanted to visit, stitching in every spare moment she had. She had this idea that if she finished this piece she might actually be able to go there. She so wanted to take the girls to the ocean.
When Kelli cruises back home exactly three hours later, she finds her mother rocking and needlepointing. There’s an untouched glass of wine sitting next to her, and Kelli tiptoes into the living room, puts her hand on her mother’s arm, and says, “Mom, that’s beautiful.”
Grace looks up, and smiles. Have three hours passed? Already?
“Hey,” she says, stopping to put her hand on Kelli’s arm. “Have you ever wanted to go to the ocean?”
Then the most amazing thing happens. They don’t argue and Kelli doesn’t immediately go to her room. Kelli sits down and they talk. Grace rocks. They keep talking, and when Kelli’s cellphone rings and Grace gets up she takes the needlepoint with her. There’s so much work to do, Grace tells herself, but now there’s also an ocean that needs to be finished.
11
Whiskey A-Go-Go
P hyllis has decided to move off her throne at the end of the bed and join Olivia in the big beige living-room chair.
The devoted cocker has thirteen-year-old hips that hurt almost as much as Olivia’s, so Livie, as her friends and family often call her, has placed a soft round pillow next to her reading chair so that the dog can keep her company without much pain.
Phyllis is just about as stubborn as the woman she was named after—Livie’s beloved mother, who also had a mind of her own. Phyllis the dog comes and goes as she pleases. Even if Livie is lonely and summons her to the living room, Phyllis gets there when she feels like it. Occasionally, she doesn’t bother to leave the bedroom.
When Phyllis was a puppy, Livie started talking to her as if she were a person, especially when she sat in her beige chair and sifted through files for the next day’s appointments.
Phyllis is a pretty good listener for a dog. But even Phyllis has her limits. Livie has gotten into the habit of speaking out loud, more often if she has a tough case, and sometimes Phyllis looks up at her as if to say, “Shut it off for a while,” pulls herself up very slowly, looks disgustingly at Livie, and trots away.
But on this Monday night Phyllis is
It is so hard for Grace to relax that she has to fight the urge to get up and do something because, well, sitting and sipping wine and whatever happens after that isn’t something important. Even though she knows better, even as she thinks about how her legs feel fabulous, and the wine tastes delicious and really, for a while anyway, there isn’t a thing to worry about, Grace fights it.
Then she starts to rock, and the movement begins to pull her into a place that feels familiar and comforting. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Years of rocking and babies and stories start to rumble up from the old wooden legs, into the seat, up the arms, and right into Grace’s mind. Suddenly three hours won’t be enough time. She rocks until she remembers the needlepoint and then stops abruptly.
The bag must be at least ten years old. She can’t remember the last time she worked on needlepoint, especially this one—the one she took with her everywhere when the girls were younger.
She pulls it out slowly, touching the soft strands of yarn, grabbing the last needle she held, which is still threaded with the blue yarn she was using for the background. Grace was working on a landscape, trying hard to create a place she wanted to visit, stitching in every spare moment she had. She had this idea that if she finished this piece she might actually be able to go there. She so wanted to take the girls to the ocean.
When Kelli cruises back home exactly three hours later, she finds her mother rocking and needlepointing. There’s an untouched glass of wine sitting next to her, and Kelli tiptoes into the living room, puts her hand on her mother’s arm, and says, “Mom, that’s beautiful.”
Grace looks up, and smiles. Have three hours passed? Already?
“Hey,” she says, stopping to put her hand on Kelli’s arm. “Have you ever wanted to go to the ocean?”
Then the most amazing thing happens. They don’t argue and Kelli doesn’t immediately go to her room. Kelli sits down and they talk. Grace rocks. They keep talking, and when Kelli’s cellphone rings and Grace gets up she takes the needlepoint with her. There’s so much work to do, Grace tells herself, but now there’s also an ocean that needs to be finished.
11
Whiskey A-Go-Go
P hyllis has decided to move off her throne at the end of the bed and join Olivia in the big beige living-room chair.
The devoted cocker has thirteen-year-old hips that hurt almost as much as Olivia’s, so Livie, as her friends and family often call her, has placed a soft round pillow next to her reading chair so that the dog can keep her company without much pain.
Phyllis is just about as stubborn as the woman she was named after—Livie’s beloved mother, who also had a mind of her own. Phyllis the dog comes and goes as she pleases. Even if Livie is lonely and summons her to the living room, Phyllis gets there when she feels like it. Occasionally, she doesn’t bother to leave the bedroom.
When Phyllis was a puppy, Livie started talking to her as if she were a person, especially when she sat in her beige chair and sifted through files for the next day’s appointments.
Phyllis is a pretty good listener for a dog. But even Phyllis has her limits. Livie has gotten into the habit of speaking out loud, more often if she has a tough case, and sometimes Phyllis looks up at her as if to say, “Shut it off for a while,” pulls herself up very slowly, looks disgustingly at Livie, and trots away.
But on this Monday night Phyllis is
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