Westlake Village Library Writes: A Community Anthology by Katharine Schwartz

Author:Katharine Schwartz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: County of Los Angeles Public Library
Published: 2015-07-17T00:00:00+00:00

THE RIGHT TIME

by Brenda Tzipori

Your arrival at wakefulness is so gradual it borders on luxurious. Throaty coos of a mourning dove nudge you from your dreams. Your nose is buried in a pillowcase imbued with the clean, reliable scent of this house. It smells like it dried on a clothesline, then someone ironed it. It smells like 1950. You push with one arm, groan, and roll from your stomach to your back. Reflexively, your hands go to the firm bump that has taken up residence in your once-flat belly. It is still comfortable to sleep on your stomach, but for how many more weeks, you wonder. A picture comes to you. It’s of the massive sinkhole you will soon be leaving in a mattress. A giggle escapes you. You have not laughed since you found out. Those first four months were no fun. You’ve wanted more sleeping, less puking.

You extend your arms and legs until you are one big X. You stretch until your tendons won’t give another inch. It has been a long time since you’ve stayed over. It was heaven. This cloud of a feather bed is upstairs at the end of a long hall in your grandmother’s house. Turning off both cell phones certainly helped. And leaving the laptop in the trunk of the rental parked out by the garden shed.

Gran is up, of course. She stirred the embers in her iron cookstove and watched as yesterday’s junk mail caught fire. There is a pot of coffee on. She will be kneading dough, rolling it into a kugel crust and topping it with fruit before you get downstairs.

She’s supposed to rest, save her strength, but she doesn’t. Save it for what, she asks her doctors. Perseverance is in her DNA. She is the most disciplined person you know. After breakfast there will be rows of things to can. Pearly onions doze in the warm dirt. Thumb-sized cucumbers dangle and sway, yearning to be baby dills.

You were not quite ready to get up but you must pee. You pull on the Nike running shorts with the elastic waist. The oval mirror above the dresser confirms the waistband is very snug. You add a loose cotton T-shirt and you’re good to go. Nothing else about your body has outwardly changed, though you feel a hint of heaviness in your breasts.

The stairs are chilly on bare feet, so you scamper. By the time you step onto the linoleum in the kitchen, you are nine or ten. The old Frigidaire’s door is open. White lace-up sneakers and sagging ankle socks show below it. Her shins look bluish. The door closes and there she is, holding a pitcher of orange juice, beaming.

“Morning, honey. Sleep good?”

“Slept great. Like a baby.” You smile at her, thinking you could say the words now. Tell her what you haven’t even told Ian.

“You’re glowing.” She looks at you adoringly. “The house is good for you. I think you should have it. After I’m—”

“Gran!” It rings out like a gunshot.

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