Summer's End by Kathleen Gilles Seidel Read Free Book Online Page B

well.
    And the deal wasn’t working. Saturday morning a nurse who had known her since childhood took her aside, putting her hand on her arm. “I think you should call Ian and Amy. Have them come.”
    Have them come? That was a crazy idea. Ian lived in California. Amy was God knew where. Phoebe looked down at the nurse’s hand. Her nails were trimmed and polished clear. Her watch was practical, with big numbers and a long second hand that moved in little ticks. Phoebe watched it hop past the twelve toward the one.
    â€œPhoebe? Really, you should call.”
    Phoebe kept looking at the watch. “Dr. Morgan said as soon as they find the right antibiotic then everything will—”
    â€œAnd that’s true. If they find the right drug, she’ll be out of the hospital early next week, but Phoebe, call them anyway, tell them to come.”
    No, I can’t. If they come, it means Mother is dying. If they don’t come, it means she is not .
    â€œDo it, Phoebe. Don’t make your father have to decide to call them.”
    Phoebe took a breath. She could deal with that. Her mother wasn’t dying, she was just helping her father. She was the oldest, she had always been the helpful one. She walked down to the pay phone.
    She would call Ian first. She knew how to manage him. She never told him what to do. She would tell him what was happening, and he would do the right thing. He always did as long as someone else didn’t tell him to do it. That’s when he got difficult. He already knew that Mother was in the hospital. He wouldn’t press her with too many questions.
    Amy would be a different matter. Phoebe had no idea where she was. She supposedly lived in Denver, but she was never there. She was always off skating in shows, taping commercials, or making personal appearances. A long time ago she had given the family an emergency number to use if they ever needed to reach her. Phoebe didn’t know if the number was good anymore. Or even if she had it with her.
    But she did. It was there in her little address book under Amy’s name. Phoebe dialed. An answering service picked up immediately. Yes, they took messages for Miss Legend.
    Miss Legend? Phoebe had never heard anyone call Amy that. “This is her sister. I need to get a message to her. Our mother is ill. She should come home.”
    â€œI’ll page someone right away,” the operator promised.
    Phoebe went back to her mother’s room.
    The room was full of flowers, but they were all carnations. The ice storm must have kept the town’s one florist from getting the usual weekly delivery, and they had to fill all the orders with carnations.
    Phoebe hated carnations. They were stiff, angular, and scentless. They never seemed like real flowers to her. She couldn’t imagine them actually growing in a field.
    Her father was at her mother’s bedside. Phoebe spoke softly. “You need to have something to eat, Dad. Ellie made some sandwiches this morning.” Just as Phoebe had been her mother’s first daughter, thirteen-year-old Ellie was Phoebe’s first daughter, helpful and conscientious.
    If anyone but his granddaughter had made the sandwiches, Hal would have no doubt refused them. But he was a good grandparent. He took the sandwiches.
    Phoebe sank into his chair and touched her mother on the cheek. Eleanor turned her head. She nodded faintly, she recognized Phoebe, but she was too sick to care.
    Get well, Mother. I’m having a baby this spring. You have to get well .
    What did she remember most? The books, she supposed. C.S. Lewis. Alice in Wonderland. Winnie the Pooh . The British ones. Mother had given her the editions she had read as a child, wonderful volumes, some of them leather-bound with color plates. The American books— Little Women , the Oz books, the Little House books—the two of them had discovered together.
    Phoebe fumbled for the nightstand, almost knocking over