The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice
a superior conceit. To her mind, all it took to succeed was discipline, setting goals and lots of hard work. And she worked harder than most. She could list her achievements readily: she was a pediatrician with a thriving practice, a wife for nineteen years, the mother of a healthy daughter and the mistress of a large, well-managed home. If there was such a thing as a supermom, Birdie thought with pride, then she was it.
But today was a test of her abilities. She lifted her wrist to check her watch and her lips tightened with annoyance. God, look at the time. Where was Dennis? And Hannah? Peering outside, she saw Hannah still leaning against the rear fender, gazing at the twirling flakes of snow. Frustration brought the pounding in her head to a painful pace.
“Didn’t you hear me say we were leaving early?” she called from the back door.
Hannah’s smile fell but she remained motionless, resolutely staring out.
“Don’t pull that passive-aggressive act on me, young lady,” she called, raising her voice as she walked nearer the car. She could feel her anger growing with each step. “I’ve asked you to get your packing done for twenty-four hours and so far you haven’t done a thing. I’m not going to do it for you.”
“Who’s asking you to?” Hannah swung her head around. “You’d just pack the wrong things, anyway.”
“This isn’t a prom we’re talking about. It’s my sister’s funeral. My baby sister! It’s hard enough for me to deal with the fact that she’s gone without having to argue about meaningless things like your dress.”
“At least you have a sister.”
Birdie felt the weight of that reply start to drag her under. How many years had she had this thrown in her face like a broken promise? “Hannah, please. We don’t have time to argue. Just go upstairs and pack a black dress,” she ground out with finality.
“You never ask me to do something, you order me. Yes, you do! I hate you!” she shouted when Birdie opened her mouth to object. Hannah fled into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Birdie knew that those words were spoken in the white-hot fire of teenage anger and flung at her to burn—and burn they did. A mother never hears the words “I hate you” without cringing and feeling like a hopeless failure.
She followed Hannah back into the house with a heavy tread. Closed doors were a way of life between them now. Why did push always come to shove between them? And when had she started to feel the need to win these senseless battles? Not so long ago, she’d let trivial arguments slide by because all the parenting articles she’d read had a unified rallying cry: choose your battles! With teenagers, however, everything was a battle.
She walked to the small desk in the kitchen and worked away her frustration by cleaning up the day’s disorder. When all was spotless and organized, she reached for a stack of patient messages awaiting her. Clearing her mind of personal problems, she picked up the first one and dialed.
An hour later, she was just finishing up her last call when her husband walked in from the garage. She turned her head to see Dennis shake off a covering of powdery snow from his lambskin jacket. He was five foot ten, just an inch taller than she was, but his build was slight in line and breadth of bone. With his long, thoughtful face, his dark brown eyes behind round, tortoiseshell glasses, his blond hair worn shaggy to the collar and his rumpled corduroy trousers worn with a sweater rather than a jacket, he looked every inch the university professor that he was.
He kicked the snow from his shoes. When he looked up, she noted that his face was pale and pinched from fatigue. He used to smile and call out a cheery “I’m home!” Lately, however, he entered the house in silence. Birdie frowned with concern, then turned her focus back to the patient on the phone.
“No, Mrs. Sandler, Tommy doesn’t need an antibiotic. Yes, I’m sure. He doesn’t have a bacterial infection. It’s a virus, though a nasty one. No, an antibiotic won’t help. In fact, it would weaken his natural resistance.” Birdie caught Dennis’s eye and held up her finger for him to wait a minute. Dennis nodded, flung his coat over the edge of the kitchen chair, then reached into the fridge for a beer.
“Keep a close eye on him, and if he takes a turn for the worse or spikes another fever, then call my office. Dr. Martin is covering for me. What? Ninety-eight point six is normal.” She rolled her eyes and reached out for Dennis’s beer. “Yes, very good. Bye now.”
Birdie sighed with relief, placed the receiver back on the hook, then tossed back her head and took a long swig of the beer. “Diagnosis—worried parent,” she muttered.
“Tough day?”
“The worst. It started off with the dog being sick. He’s so damn neurotic every time he has to go to the kennel. Hannah’s been her usual petulant self. Then the patients started in.” She lifted the thick stack of yellow messages.
“I thought you arranged coverage.”
“I did, but you know there are always those patients who panic when I leave town. It’s just easier for everyone if I call them.”
“You don’t have to go that extra mile. No one else’s patients expect such service. I don’t know why you have to push yourself so hard. You’re already better than most docs out there.”
“I’m better because I’m compulsive about such things. It’s who I am. Anyway, the point’s moot because I’m all done. That was the last of the calls, thank God.” She tossed the yellow slips into the trash.
“So, you’re free.”
She smirked. “Free to go home and run a funeral.” Dennis set his beer down on the counter and lifted his hands to her shoulders, a familiar gesture that Birdie welcomed. She sighed and leaned into him, slumping in relief the moment his hands began massaging. He had wonderful hands, long-fingered and strong; he could knead knots out of her shoulders like no one else. They’d started dating in college when she was a champion swimmer for the team. He used to massage her shoulders after her swim meets. She still teased him that she married him for his hands.
“God, that feels good,” she groaned.
“You’re all knotted up. You need to relax.” He leaned closer and said in a seductive tone by her ear, “I know what will loosen you up. When do we have to leave?”
Birdie cringed and moved out from under his hands. The last thing she was interested in right then was sex and she was irked that Dennis would even think she would be. “For God’s sake, Dennis, we have to leave in forty minutes.”
Dennis held his hands in the air for a moment, then let them drop to his sides with resignation. When he spoke, his voice was lackluster. “I thought we weren’t leaving till four.”
“Did you forget we’re supposed to pick up Jilly from O’Hare?” Her exasperation rang in her voice. He could remember the dates of every foreign war the United States was ever in, but he never seemed capable of remembering one family date on the calendar. “If this front becomes the storm the weathermen predict, traffic will be snarled up all along the interstate and Jilly’s flight will be delayed, if not canceled. Who knows what time she’ll get in? It’s crazy for us to pick her up. We could sit there for hours.”
“So why doesn’t Rose pick her up?”
Birdie snorted and shook her head. “I’m not even sure Rose knows how to get to the airport. She never leaves Evanston, and as far as I can tell she rarely leaves the house! She doesn’t much care for talking on the phone, either. She screens calls on the answering machine before picking up. Who does she think is going to call her, anyway? She doesn’t have any friends. Rose is a dear heart but I swear she’s becoming more and more isolated every year.”
Birdie rubbed the stiffness in her neck. After the funeral was over and the family house was sold, she’d have to have a serious talk with her sister about her future. Rose had to face up to leaving the house, and she’d have to get a full-time job, one that would support her. At least she had her computer skills. But Rose was