Hostile Makeover Read Online Free PDF Page A

scaring us this way.” She smoothed her hair back into place. “Why, I can practically feel the gray hairs sprouting.”
    “Mother,” Shelley said carefully, “I don’t think Dr. Shapiro would approve nagging and scolding as an incentive to recovery.”
    “Hmmph!” Miriam Schwartz snapped her purse shut and slung the strap over her shoulder. “For your information, I never nag. I only
prod
your father along when it’s absolutely necessary. Subtle is my middle name.”
    There was a lot of eye-widening, but no one came out and countered her claim to subtlety. Miriam Schwartz had just spent the night confronting what must have been every one of her worst fears. However she chose to express her relief, it was not their place to criticize. And of course, asking her mother to stop nagging was like asking her not to breathe.
    “Besides,” her mother said in a deceptively reasonable tone, “your
father
’s the one who’s been ordered to change his lifestyle. Dr. Shapiro, who by the way was NOT wearing a wedding ring, didn’t say a word about
me
.”
     
    The dough was moist and smooth in Judy’s floured hands, the weight of it comforting. Intent, she used her fingers and palms as well as the heels of her hands, pressing forward, pulling back, applying both muscle and finesse to work the dough into two perfect rolls.
    It was Wednesday, four P.M., four and a quarter days since her father had come out of surgery, and she hadn’t left the house once all day. The boys would be home soon and she knew she should be planning dinner, but she was making mandelbrot instead. The dog-eared recipe card, written in Nana Rose’s spidery handwriting, was propped up against the flour canister. Judy knew the recipe by heart, but the card, like the smell and taste of this German/Jewish version of biscotti, brought her grandmother closer. When the mandelbrot was finished, she’d store it in one of Nana’s old tins.
    Nana Rose had lived to ninety-one. She’d been independent and feisty right up until the day she dropped dead in the middle of her kitchen while making matzo balls. Both her mother’s and father’s families were known for their longevity. Sprung from good European peasant stock, the Schwartzes and Kleins got shriveled and wizened and shrank like Great-aunt Sonya was doing now; they didn’t drop dead from heart attacks at the age of sixty-three like her father had almost done.
    Judy arranged the rolls of dough on the baking sheet and slipped it into the preheated oven.
    She’d assumed her parents would live to ripe old ages; had assumed she and Craig would do the same. But what if she didn’t have another fifty years? What if she was going to drop one day soon in the sportswear department at Bloomies? Or while letting Lars, her sadistic personal trainer, push her through yet another workout? What if it happened in a car pool line while she was waiting for one of the boys?
    Her thoughts swirling, she cleared the counters and scrubbed the mixing bowls, breathing in the almond-scented warmth that began to fill her kitchen. She gathered the dirty clothes strewn across the boys’ bedroom floors and deposited them in the laundry room, then hurried back to the kitchen to take the warm mounds from the oven. She had just sliced the dough and put the crescent-shaped pieces back in the oven when Sammy, her youngest, breezed through the kitchen door.
    “Hi, sweetie.”
    At twelve Sammy had already more than matched her five feet four inches. Although he was rapidly catching up with his older brother physically, in many ways he was still her little boy and not averse to the occasional display of affection.
    Judy gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “How was the social studies test?”
    “Killer.”
    “And?”
    “I knew it. I did fine.”
    “Good.” The timer went off and she pulled the browned cookies out. “What kind of homework do you have?”
    “Just language arts and science.”
    “All right. Pick one and