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Show 94 Then Evan, then Rod again." "Did he agree?" "John?" "Yes. To the hospital, did he agree?" "I don't know," the girl lies, because she cannot bring herself to say yes. Annis turns the two lemons inside their brown paper bag. "They must be beginning to wonder where I am." The girl leans forward, turns the key in the ignition. The old motor starts "Do you want me to drive you home?" Annis does not answer, and the child eases the car out of its parking space, turns out into the street in the direction of the house, crawls slowly up the small hill. Annis can see the house now, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky; she can see the first lights of the porch, where the children are playing, the lights of the kitchen, where the bowls and pans and mixing spoons are still spread out in vast, delicious confusion for the meal she has been cooking; she can even see the lights of the living room where her husband and sons are dressed for dinner now, reading, or talking, sharing a bottle of wine, savoring the smells of the roast that is just now fully done in the oven. It is not a lavish scene, but one of great family contentment, but as the car struggles up towards the house she suddenly sees what is coming, and what has made this brief, perfect respite possible: the stark starched regimen of the hospital, the well-trained smiles, the psychotherapy, the medication, the Sunday-afternoon visits from the children, taking turns, perhaps, if she is no longer considered a risk to herself, eventual release to a nursing home, perhaps not, |
