Off Season Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jean Stone
left over from expensive dinners or an occasional contact name or two—anything to help her survive until next season, to help her and Kyle survive.
She strolled around the waiting room that had undergone little if any change since she’d last been here three years ago. Three years ago last Labor Day weekend, to be exact. The day, and the night, her world changed forever.
She remembered the orange vinyl chairs, the huge white clock that hung over the doorway, the table that overflowed with tourist-rumpled magazines. She remembered looking through the magazines, trying to find a recipe that she’d make when Kyle came home, if he came home. She remembered how freezing cold it had been in here.
Slowly, Rita moved across the room, trying to push away the memories, trying to push down the pain. She cleared her throat and looked around the room. It held a handful of hanging-on tourists in L.L. Bean clothes and a couple of islanders in flannel shirts and jeans. She recognized no one and wondered if the island had changed when she’d not been looking, when she’d been in the vacuum since that Labor Day weekend night.
Seeing the list of doctors’ names on the wall, Rita idly glanced at them.
Warren Hastings
caught her eye, the name of the ancient gynecologist who’d delivered most natives, fifty and under, on this side of the Vineyard, Rita included. Next to his name it said
Room 103
.
She absently scanned the remaining names, then realized there was no longer a listing for
Robert Palmer, M.D
. No longer a listing for the doctor who had told her that Kyle was going to die.
“Your son has third-degree burns over sixty percent of his body.” The young doctor’s words were rooted in her mind, her poor, helpless mind that had never been the same. “His chances of survival are slim.”
She stared at the listings now, seeing not the names but the haze of the desk and the chair and the file folders that had sat on Dr. Palmer’s desk in his tiny, cramped cubicle, hearing once again those hollow-sounding words, feeling that claustrophobic perception as if someone had locked you inside the dark, airless trunk of an old, unwanted car and you wanted to run but there was nowhere to run and you were as trapped as Kyle had beenin the flames as he tried in vain to save Menemsha House, hero that he was.
The doctor had wanted her to go home. We’re working on him … it might be a while … I can call you to come back
.
She had not left. She had looked down at her bony, freckled knees and known that she was not going anywhere. It did not matter if it took an hour, a day, or a month. No one was going to make Rita Blair leave her son.
In the end, it was Kyle who had left her, left all of them, as he just went to sleep, freed from his pain.
And now Dr. Palmer, like Kyle, was gone.
“Mrs. Blair?” The touch of a hand on Rita’s arm pulled her up from the tunnel, back to the present. “Mrs. Blair,” a young woman in white said, “Dr. Hastings can see you now.”
Rita looked at the young woman’s kind face and wanted to tell her that her name was not Mrs. Blair, but
Ms
. Blair. People who hadn’t known her all her life or who hadn’t known Hazel always made that mistake, thinking Rita was married because of Kyle. A long time ago, that was okay. Now, like most things, it no longer mattered.
He was behind his desk, busily scribbling something on a pad the way doctors did, as if it were the most important note in the realm of the universe.
“Rita,” he said, standing up, without ceasing to write, without raising his eyes from the notepad. “How’s your mother?”
She sighed and sat down in the wooden chair across from the desk that was even older than he was. “Fine, doc.” She briefly wondered if Doc Hastings had been one of Hazel’s lovers, though if he had been, Rita wouldprobably have known. Hazel would have been proud to have a doctor share her bed, if only on alternate Tuesdays or whenever he’d been
She strolled around the waiting room that had undergone little if any change since she’d last been here three years ago. Three years ago last Labor Day weekend, to be exact. The day, and the night, her world changed forever.
She remembered the orange vinyl chairs, the huge white clock that hung over the doorway, the table that overflowed with tourist-rumpled magazines. She remembered looking through the magazines, trying to find a recipe that she’d make when Kyle came home, if he came home. She remembered how freezing cold it had been in here.
Slowly, Rita moved across the room, trying to push away the memories, trying to push down the pain. She cleared her throat and looked around the room. It held a handful of hanging-on tourists in L.L. Bean clothes and a couple of islanders in flannel shirts and jeans. She recognized no one and wondered if the island had changed when she’d not been looking, when she’d been in the vacuum since that Labor Day weekend night.
Seeing the list of doctors’ names on the wall, Rita idly glanced at them.
Warren Hastings
caught her eye, the name of the ancient gynecologist who’d delivered most natives, fifty and under, on this side of the Vineyard, Rita included. Next to his name it said
Room 103
.
She absently scanned the remaining names, then realized there was no longer a listing for
Robert Palmer, M.D
. No longer a listing for the doctor who had told her that Kyle was going to die.
“Your son has third-degree burns over sixty percent of his body.” The young doctor’s words were rooted in her mind, her poor, helpless mind that had never been the same. “His chances of survival are slim.”
She stared at the listings now, seeing not the names but the haze of the desk and the chair and the file folders that had sat on Dr. Palmer’s desk in his tiny, cramped cubicle, hearing once again those hollow-sounding words, feeling that claustrophobic perception as if someone had locked you inside the dark, airless trunk of an old, unwanted car and you wanted to run but there was nowhere to run and you were as trapped as Kyle had beenin the flames as he tried in vain to save Menemsha House, hero that he was.
The doctor had wanted her to go home. We’re working on him … it might be a while … I can call you to come back
.
She had not left. She had looked down at her bony, freckled knees and known that she was not going anywhere. It did not matter if it took an hour, a day, or a month. No one was going to make Rita Blair leave her son.
In the end, it was Kyle who had left her, left all of them, as he just went to sleep, freed from his pain.
And now Dr. Palmer, like Kyle, was gone.
“Mrs. Blair?” The touch of a hand on Rita’s arm pulled her up from the tunnel, back to the present. “Mrs. Blair,” a young woman in white said, “Dr. Hastings can see you now.”
Rita looked at the young woman’s kind face and wanted to tell her that her name was not Mrs. Blair, but
Ms
. Blair. People who hadn’t known her all her life or who hadn’t known Hazel always made that mistake, thinking Rita was married because of Kyle. A long time ago, that was okay. Now, like most things, it no longer mattered.
He was behind his desk, busily scribbling something on a pad the way doctors did, as if it were the most important note in the realm of the universe.
“Rita,” he said, standing up, without ceasing to write, without raising his eyes from the notepad. “How’s your mother?”
She sighed and sat down in the wooden chair across from the desk that was even older than he was. “Fine, doc.” She briefly wondered if Doc Hastings had been one of Hazel’s lovers, though if he had been, Rita wouldprobably have known. Hazel would have been proud to have a doctor share her bed, if only on alternate Tuesdays or whenever he’d been
Similar Books
The Channel (The Gifted Book 2)
C. L. McCourt
UpAndComing
Christi Ann
For Lovers Only
Alex Hairston
Broken Heart 04 Wait till Your Vampire Gets Home
Michele Bardsley
Separate Roads
Tracie Peterson, Judith Pella
Eden's Hammer
Lloyd Tackitt
State of Grace
Joy Williams
Witch Hammer
M. J. Trow
The Book of Joe
Jonathan Tropper