Circle of Stones Read Online Free PDF Page B

my prescription refilled at the pharmacy next door, then wait an hour and a half for Geoff to return. I read magazines in the doctor’s waiting room, trying not to notice when Cindy, the receptionist, looks over and smiles. I hate sympathy.
    She looks young enough to have been one of my students, years ago, I realize, remembering the days when children were afraid of me, and teachers and parents respected my authority. I stare at the low-pile carpet, trying to decide whether it’s pink flecked with brown or brown flecked with pink. When I get up to use the powder room I choose the one with the handicapped sign on the door, where there are cold metal bars to hang on to. I look into the bathroom mirror and think of Nikky. He has my eyes. Voluminous pools. He’s not at all like his father. I busy myself with washing my hands, waiting for the tepid water to turn hot.
    Geoff speeds into the parking lot and honks his horn. The passenger door flings open before the truck even comes to a full stop. It’s raining again and I’ve forgotten my umbrella. I get into the truck and wish my son would ask questions about my appointment or Nikky’s visit, but he stares at the road and twiddles the windshield wiper controls.
    â€œI can take a cab, dear, if driving me is a hassle.” I hold on to the passenger door as Geoff rounds a corner too quickly.
    â€œWaste of good money.” Geoff shakes his head no.
    â€œNikky took a cab to the bus station,” I say, trying to pique a reaction. “He didn’t see Annette.” Geoff turns up the volume on the radio. I think I heard him mumble “Kid’s messed up,” but I’m not certain. I worry about Nikky, trying to take care of himself in Vancouver. Will he do his own laundry? Did I give him enough money? Should I send more? What is he eating? It starts to rain harder. Geoff twists the windshield wiper controls again, agitated. He adjusts the fan and vents then bangs his hand on the steering wheel.
    â€œCan’t see a damned thing.” He leans forward and rubs condensation off the windshield with a swoop of his hand. “Quit breathing so hard, Ma.”
    A small stream of water pours down from the roof of the truck, onto Geoff’s matted hair and the front of his dirty ski jacket. “Goddamn roof leaks. Goddamn rain.”
    The bulky shape of my condo building appears ahead. I fret about what the rain will do to my set hair. It won’t do to arrive home looking as bedraggled as my son. Geoff screeches to a stop at the door, under the lobby overhang so I won’t get wet.
    â€œI’ll bring the groceries on Friday.” Geoff reaches around me to open the passenger door. “I won’t forget.”
    â€œThat will be nice. Thank you.” I climb out, taking my time. Geoff watches, trying to be attentive. “Call your son,” I say and push the door closed. The lobby is toasty warm after the damp of the truck, and, as I shake the rain off my coat, I feel my silver curls still bouncing.
    Back upstairs I decide to make a batch of blueberry scones. I’ll feed them to the seagulls if Charles declines a visit again after our walk. I pace in the living room while waiting for the oven timer to ring, thinking about Nikky. And Charles. The timer bleats its staccato beep and I place the scones on a trivet to cool, checking and rechecking to make sure I’ve turned the oven off. I flip the pages of a mystery novel, realizing I’m clever enough to have already figured out whodunit, but not enough to know whether Charles wants to see me. I pour myself a glass of ice wine. And then another.
    I feel something prickling my face. Carpet. The colour of slate. The same shade as the dull morning light streaming through the windows. Wobbly, I push myself up to my feet using the chair for support. I step over to the windows and watch tufts of morning fog coming up from the water, rolling up like the spasms in my