Goldengrove Read Online Free PDF

table.
    “Everyone’s heart hurts, honey,” said Dad.
    Mom silenced him with a look.
    “Your heart?” she said. “Your actual heart ?”
    “Right here,” I said. “I think so.”
    “We’ll get it checked out,” she said. “I’ll ask Dawson to recommend a specialist.” Dawson was the doctor in Albany who’d diagnosed Mom’s arthritis. “I need to talk to him, anyway. I think my hands are getting worse.”
    She held up her hands and rotated them: palms out, palms back. Her knuckles were swollen, but they didn’t seem worse than before.
    “Give it a few weeks,” Dad said. “This may not be the best time to tell about your hands.”
    My mother said, “I think I can distinguish one kind of pain from another.”
    Dad said, “Actually, there was a piece on the news about that medication Dawson prescribed.”
    “It’s dangerous, I hope,” said Mom.
    “How much are you taking?” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
    “Not enough,” said Mom. “He never gives me enough to help.”
    Dad said, “Be careful, Daisy. They’ve taken a lot of that crap off the market. The good news is, you lose the joint pain. The bad news is, you lose your life. The stroke, the blood clots, the—”
    My mom said, “The pain in my hands is my life.”
    “What medicine?” I said. “Stroke? Blood clots? Mom shouldn’t—”
    “Don’t worry, she won’t,” Dad said.
    Mom said, “Maybe he can switch me to something safer. Anyhow, I’ll call him. He can recommend someone for Nico.”
    Dad said, “The chances of something happening to Nico are statistically less than lightning striking twice in the same place.”
    “Lightning does strike twice,” I said. “It hits the highest point. If there’s one tree in a field—”
    “You’re fine,” said Dad.
    “I’m not fine,” I said.
    “That’s not what I meant,” Dad said.
    “It was treatable,” said Mom. “Henry, my God, it could have been treated.”
    That was something I hadn’t known, and wished I hadn’t found out.
    “If we’d only paid attention,” Mom said. “If we’d only been more aggressive . . .”
    Aggressive was the last word I would have used about my parents. They could have prevented this. Margaret would be alive.
    I said, “Why don’t you make an appointment for me to see a real doctor in the city?” I was sorry as soon as I said it. I didn’t want to know.
    “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Dad.
    “Okay,” said Mom. “I’ll get a name. We’ll make an appointment.”
    We went back to not eating. Dad had made edamame. I unzipped a pod, and teased the membrane off one bean, then another. I was getting thinner, but it wasn’t what I’d wanted when I used to stand in front of the mirror, inhaling till my ribs ached.
    My mother said, “Speaking of health concerns . . . Nico, aren’t you losing a little weight? The last thing we need around here is some life-threatening eating disorder.”
    My father put his hand on her arm.
    “Daisy,” he said. “Relax.”
    “Relax?” she said. “You’re kidding.”
    “No one’s eating,” he said. “We don’t have to torture Nico about food. We didn’t when—”
    “When what?” I said.
    “Radishes?” my father said. “Remember the radish diet?”
    So they’d known about that, too. How could I have thought it was a secret when for days I ate nothing but radishes and ramen noodles for dinner? My parents never even glanced at what I put on my plate. Maybe it was part of their theory that anything they forbade would become our heart’s desire. And maybe they were right, because the diets never lasted. Mom and Dad often mentioned how twisted our society was for making young women want to be thin. They’d pretended that they were just talking and not giving us warning advice.
    “It’s not like that now,” I said. “I’m never hungry.”
    “Make sure you drink plenty of water,” said Mom.
    “I do,” I lied. Then we sat there.
    What had