“I could go look it up.”

“Don’t bother. You go sit under the awning, and I’ll bring you a drink.”

They sipped their lemonade, not saying much. Joyce thought Kathleen looked worn-out. Had her arms been this skinny yesterday?

“Buddy was upset with me,” Kathleen said after a long pause.

“Because you were late?”

“Yes. And I know it’s stupid, but I feel like I’m being punished for yesterday.”

“For not calling?”

“For having a good time.”

“Don’t do that to yourself.”

Kathleen didn’t say anything, and for the first time, there was awkwardness to the silence between them.

“Can I get you anything else?” Joyce asked.

“No. I think I’ll try to nap.”

“Okay. I’ll come by tomorrow and pick up the bras that don’t work.” At the door she gave Kathleen a hug and thanked her for saying what she was really thinking. “Call me if you need anything.”

The next day was worse. Kathleen woke up feeling as if she’d been hit by a load of bricks or flattened like the coyote in those Road Runner cartoons. She felt encased in cotton wool. She felt like their old dog, Kirchel, on his last shaky legs before Buddy had taken him to the vet, to have him put to sleep. She came up with one image after another, lying in bed, trying to marshal the energy to stand.

It took all her strength just to get dressed. Reluctantly, she asked Buddy if he’d drive her to the clinic, where she asked to speak to the doctor again. She felt guilty about taking his time two days in a row, but he walked in wearing a sympathetic face. “I will order some blood tests, but I suspect there will be no explanation for your exhaustion there,” Dr. Singh said after listening to her heart and lungs. “I do not mean to imply that your fatigue is not genuine. This is a well-documented side effect. But it, too, shall pass, Mrs. Levine.”

On the way home, Kathleen closed her eyes and replayed the doctor’s accent. “Pahss.” What would it be like to be kissed by a man who spoke so beautifully? she wondered, and dozed until Buddy leaned over and whispered that they were home.

She revived a little, straightened up the kitchen, read the newspaper, did the exercises for her arm. But then everything drained out of her and she lay down on the couch.

Kathleen opened her eyes three hours later, feeling stiff, groggy, and sweaty. She must have been dreaming because her heart was pounding. Buddy had left a note on the kitchen table, saying he was sorry he’d been angry with her the other day, and that he’d be home early. Kathleen felt abandoned.

“I hate this,” she said out loud, disgusted by the sour smell of her body and the unfamiliar taste of self-pity in her mouth. “I refuse to live like this.”

She went to the computer, dialed into the library system, and searched for Final Exit. The subtitle, “The Practicalities of Self-Deliverance,” struck her as creepily funny, and she laughed out loud at the message line: “Copy lost.” That’s a good one, she thought. I guess someone used it and forgot to return it. Joyce would get a kick out of that.

But she didn’t mention it to Joyce when she called to ask about walking. Kathleen begged off: “I’m so tired, I just want to read and nap all day. I hope you don’t mind.”

From the chaise on the deck, Kathleen worked through the box of children’s books from the temple. She was appalled at the quality of the writing and illustrations from the 1960s, but also ashamed by how little she knew about some of the basic Jewish concepts they contained. She wrote the rabbi a note saying that nothing in the “collection” was worth keeping but added that she really wasn’t feeling up to meeting with Brigid.

With that out of the way, she turned on the television and watched old sitcoms. That night, Buddy sat with her while she watched news programs that seemed intent on terrifying their audiences: doctors made terrible mistakes without remorse; supermarkets sold spoiled meat and poison vitamins; the police were vicious.

Kathleen slept badly. When Joyce called the next day, Kathleen put her off again. In the evening, she watched a report about automobile manufacturers cutting corners on safety equipment; about teenage murderers; about how the Internet was a minefield of pornography and hate-mongers. The phone rang.

Buddy put his hand over the receiver and said it was some lady from a breast cancer support network. Would Kathleen like to talk? She shook her head.

“Are you sure, Kath?” Buddy asked.

She stood up and, without a word, walked past the TV and out the back door. Buddy followed and fell in beside her.

“I got a nice-sized striper today,” he said as they reached the end of the block and looked out at the water in the moonlight. He talked too quickly, about how one of his suppliers was going out of business, about how much Miguel, his assistant manager, liked the striper Buddy had caught for him and how his mother had fried it in spicy cornmeal. Kathleen knew Buddy was making an effort, but she couldn’t rouse herself to ask the questions that would have eased the conversation. She took his arm, and they walked back.

The following morning as the lights went down in the treatment room, Rachel said, “We’re half-done, Mrs. Levine.” The laser cut the room in half. Kathleen closed her eyes, but the red string of light remained before her.

I’m half-done and July is winding down, she thought. Is the summer going quickly or slowly?

Tags: Anita Diamant Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net