Roll with the Punches Read Online Free PDF

nation. Back when Dinah Shore had been queen of the talk show, our father had sworn that Mom was on Dinah's substitute host list. We'd waited by the phone daily for the program director's ring, which had never come.
    And of course, Monica had always been Mom's assistant queen: smart, sleek, and directorial. Whereas I was the family jester. "Just Rhonda," the irresponsible one. My stomach now burned at the thought.
    To Monica, Mom continued, "The paramedics caught up with me right as I got through the express checkout line. No, no. Russell Stover. Two pounds. But not enough to bribe the doctor to just put a cast on my ankle and send me home. He still claims I need surgery to walk again.”
    Phone still to her ear, Mom offered chocolates to Caesar and shoved the curtains back to offer them to the small, gray man sitting by the woman in the other bed. When Mom got into this heavy-duty level of hostessing, Monica and I called her Vanna Mom. She didn't offer the chocolate box to me, but shoved a large peppermint at me, whispering, "In case the doctor comes."
    "Okay. Enough," I said, and grabbed the phone. "Later, Monica," I said and hung up. There'd be hell to pay.
    Mom anxiously took my hand, her Christian Science roots surfacing. "Rhonda. How sure do you think that doctor is about surgery? His words were might not walk , not will not walk. Bet he's just covering his ass—" She colored. "I mean bottom. Don't say “ass,” dear. Anyway, how important is walking?"
    "Trivial, really." I said, "I prefer skipping or hopping. Rollerblading, jogging, biking, skateboarding, water skiing, jazzercizing, razoring."
    Mom sighed against her pillows, dramatic hand on forehead. "I've been praying all day for a miracle, but I guess if surgery is the only way …" Her early Christian Science no-medicine beliefs had been diluted, but not erased, by years with my father's family, who swore by a good hospital birth and lots of drugs. Now her eyes closed in mute pain and suffering.
    "Yep," I said.
    "Remember if I die on the table, cremate me. And I promised Monica the crystal, but the silver plate goes to you." Then one very clear eye popped open. "Unless you can think of something better to bribe the doctor with, honey. You know, being a legal secretary for all those years doesn't mean I'm sue happy. Could you maybe help him see that? He's very handsome, you know, blond and tall . Just your type. I didn't see a wedding ring." She visibly cheered at the thought of Nordic-looking grandchildren.
    The problem with this rosy scenario was that I'd never learned how to bat my lashes at any male. Guys, usually the wrong type, just found me. And then dropped me, or took my money, or both. I looked down at my very large hands, clenched around my misshapen sweater sleeves, and cursed the genes that had conspired from both sides to make me "five-feet-thirteen" inches tall and "sturdy," according to Mom. The cute guys in high school had slapped me and my tall, gawky girlfriends on the back, making basketball-player jokes and asking how the weather was up there. But for dates, they'd asked the perky little cheerleaders, not giant me. Only guys with something to prove had taken me out. So I'd learned martial arts. Even now, most guys didn't quite meet my eyes, in more ways than one.
    But James didn't have to look up at me. He was six feet two.
    "Mom, get a grip," I said. "(A) This isn't optional. The doctor said you absolutely need surgery or you'll never walk again. And (B) he's not my type. Too GQ. I'd wrinkle his clothes if I got near him." I'd never met the doctor and this was all bullshit, but I knew nothing short of dire threats of permanent lameness would convince her to have surgery.
    "Funny, he seemed more of a surfer dude to me," she said.
    "You called?" James, who had been parking the car, came up behind me. "Listen, Rhonda. Should I wait for you? Yvette needs—"
    Vanna Mom eyed his scrubs and thrust the chocolates at him. "Hey, Doc, could you let me