| General Fiction posted May 19, 2022 |
  |
What about Father?
Ransom
by irishauthorme
Ransom
In the bright, early spring sunshine the sisters smiled at each other through their windshields as they pulled in together and parked in front of the old house at the upper end of Folsom's historic Sutter Street. They embraced without speaking and walked, hand in hand, through the gate, up the steps, and into the old home. In the kitchen coffee was ready. Their dad was already out in the garden.
They took cups out, sat down and drank coffee together at the old kitchen table. They watched the old man in the garden, looking out through the three open windows that framed the seating nook. The morning sun was warm and bright. The sky was clear after the spring rain the night before.
The old man shuffled through the garden gate, hitching up one strap of his overalls. As he squeezed through, he brushed the tall, blossom-covered Russian Sage bushes, dislodging an angry cloud of black and yellow-pollen coated bumble bees that swarmed around him before lighting again, gorging on the fresh nectar.
Across the yard, a flock of sparrows feuded over the feeder, a flutter of wings and scrappy chirps as they fought for the seeds.
As she looked at her sister, Jennifer marveled again at the differences between them. Bea had the dark hair, brown eyes and the olive skin of the Black Irish. Bea was the realist, the atheist, the trim fitness nut. She was the physics professor at UC Berkeley.
Jen had been a tow-head until she was thirteen, now her hair was light brown with red tints when the sun touched it. She had the light complexion and green eyes of what her father had called "The Throwback Irish." Jen motioned at the window with her coffee cup. "So, Bea, what do you think?"
Bea took a sip, centered her cup in the saucer then carefully put it on the scarred table. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, looked out at her father in the garden, then back at her older sister. "Well, Jen, can I ask you first how your latest collection of poetry is going?"
Jen smiled and shook her head. "The illustrator should finally finish the monochromes tomorrow, so I have to get back and approve them so we can go to print."
Bea pressed her lips together and nodded. "I know, and I have finals due Monday, rush, rush, rush!" She cocked her head and gave Jen a look. "Still using that guy-what was his name-Alan, for the artwork?" She gave Jen a knowing smile. "And other work?"
Jen put her head on her chest, blushed and nodded. She glanced up at Bea and in a soft voice, said, "I won't ask you about Morgan."
Bea's smile morphed into a straight line. "The divorce will be final in July." She shook her head and said, "Well anyway, about Dad." She looked out the window. "He is eighty-seven next month, so he's bound to be losing it a little, but-" she stopped and pressed her lips together. "All this about visitors, entities, I mean, doesn't that border on dementia?"
Jen frowned. "Yes, I know, I've thought about that, but on the other hand, he's mailing checks right on time for the utilities, and his bank account balances out, so I just don't know." She added, "And he's wearing clean clothes."
"Does he ever say that mom visits him?"
"He doesn't say it, but he believes she does. The last time I called he left the phone off the hook and I heard him asking her about the cucumbers." She shrugged. "He just told me that he feels her presence here, all the time, and especially at night."
Bea sighed. "Does he still sit on the side-porch at night and have a couple of scotch and sodas?"
Jen smiled, put her cup down and put her hand on her sister's arm. "It's just late afternoon when he sits there, has drinks and watches the birds come to the feeder as the sun goes down." She patted Bea's arm. "And he talks to mom about what all he did that day, just like they used to." She squeezed Bea's arm and held on. "I'm going to tell you something that may scare you." She waited a moment, then said, "I feel mom here, too."
Bea scrutinized her sister. Jen had always been the romantic, the dreamer, writing sweet, gooey poetry that Bea choked on. She started to say something, then stopped herself. She moved to free Jen's grip on her arm. "Let's fix lunch for dad."
Ransom carefully cleaned his boots outside. He let the screen door slam behind him, like always, then came into the kitchen smiling at his daughters. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, dried them on the dishtowel hanging below, then hung his sweat-stained Ace Hardware cap on the wall hook. He had cropped his hair short with the old clippers and his nose was red from the sun. There was a small white patch on each jowl where he had missed with his razor. He sat down at the old table, scooted his chair closer, and put both hands out. He still had garden dirt under his fingernails. His daughters held his large, calloused hands as he said Grace. He took half of a tuna fish sandwich off the platter, stirred his tomato soup with his other hand, and looked at his beautiful daughters as he took a bite of the wheat bread. He left his spoon in the soup. Around the mouthful of sandwich, he said, "My favorite lunch, thank you!"
Both girls were studying their soup bowls as if they contained an important message. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Thank you both for coming down." He nodded and smiled as they looked up. "I know you are concerned about me, but I am doing fine." He waved the sandwich. "The beans and peas are ready if you want to take some, and the 'Early Girl' tomatoes are ripe enough to pick." He smiled and nodded. "No cucumbers yet, but if you come down in about two weeks, I will have some good slicers, and this year I planted some lemon cucumbers, really tasty!"
When they didn't answer, he said, "Mrs. Ferguson next door said I could pick the 'queen olives' from her tree, so I will cure a bunch, they will be great!" He reached down and dipped his sandwich in the thick, red soup. "I know, you worry about me, but I am really ok. I take my vitamins, sleep good, wake up happy, and outside of few aches and pains, I get around, just fine!"
He reached over and punched Bea lightly on her arm. "Hey Beatrice (her full childhood name she abhorred), loosen up! it's just me, your old dad, aging gracefully!" He lifted a hand. "Oh, by the way, Betty Ferguson has both your phone numbers."
The girls looked at each other, then smiled. Bea took his free hand. "We love you, dad, and we just want you to be all right."
After Ransom laid down for his afternoon nap they cleaned up the kitchen. At their cars, they paused and shifted their sacks of beans, peas, and tomatoes while they hugged and murmured their goodbyes.
Through her tears, Jen watched a grim-faced Bea make the turn and head down Sutter Street.
The phone call came two weeks later at ten-thirty at night, never a good sign. Bea sighed and put down the exam paper she had been working on. Probably another of her students needing help on a problem.
She didn't recognize the hoarse voice and she couldn't understand what the woman was saying. "I'm sorry, this is Bea Thompson, could you repeat that again?"
There was a pause, a choke, then, "This is Betty Ferguson." A sob, then, "It's your father, Ransom. I...I found him in the garden this afternoon."
Bea's voice caught in her throat. "My dad?"
"Yes, he's at the Folsom Medical Center."
"What happened?"
"He's had a stroke and he is in a coma. I am not a family member so they wouldn't tell me anything else."
"Oh, my Lord, I'll be on my way!"
"Please call me when you know anything!"
"I will, thank you for calling!"
Bea was at the registration window when Jen rushed into the hospital. A nurse in a white, crisp uniform came out and guided them to the ICU facility.
Ransom lay in bed under an oxygen tent. His face was gray and he looked smaller. A tall, slim gray-haired RN was writing on a clipboard as he checked the beeping screen above the bed with different colored lines running across. He looked at them and held up a hand, then pointed at the chairs that lined the wall. They looked at the chairs but stood anyway.
The nurse hung the clipboard on the foot of the bed and came over to them. "Ron Sanchez, I just wrote down your father's vitals but we won't really know anything until Dr. Watson gets here tomorrow, and then-"
Bea pointed a finger at Ron. Her face was tight and her eyes squinted. "Bullshit!" she exclaimed, "You know a hell of a lot more than that!"
The RN stepped back and held up a hand. "Look, I am just following regulations, we are not allowed to speculate on a patients condition and-"
Bea stepped forward and grabbed the lapel of his white lab jacket. As she spoke she pulled his jacket back and forth, jamming her fist into his chest. "Just a simple yes or no!" Her voice broke. "In your experience-and I can tell you've seen this condition before- is my father going to survive this, or die?"
Ron put his hand on Bea's. He looked down, shook his head, then looked into Bea's eyes. "If I were you, I would get all your relatives together."
Tears stained Bea's cheeks as she slowly released her grip. Ron touched her shoulder as he left the room.
At the old house, they got the call from the hospital at eleven that night.
The next morning, Betty Ferguson rang the doorbell. She brought Ransom's stained Ace Hardware cap over. She was a small, compact woman in jeans, with a beaming smile. Her white hair was tucked up in a bun. She hugged the sisters and held up both hands as she thanked them for offering coffee, but she had to go. "Sometime later, I'll come over and tell you all the things your father fixed for me, but right now I know you have a lot to do!"
Jen hung Ransom's hat on the wall hook and went outside.
Bea made the other calls, then refilled her coffee cup and sat at the kitchen table. She was looking at the stained hat when Jen walked into the kitchen holding a wicker basket.
Jen sat the basket on the table and smiled through her tears. "I just talked to Mom. Dad is with her." She reached into the basket and held out something round, with stickers on the yellow skin. "The lemon cucumbers are ready," she said.
Ransom
In the bright, early spring sunshine the sisters smiled at each other through their windshields as they pulled in together and parked in front of the old house at the upper end of Folsom's historic Sutter Street. They embraced without speaking and walked, hand in hand, through the gate, up the steps, and into the old home. In the kitchen coffee was ready. Their dad was already out in the garden.
They took cups out, sat down and drank coffee together at the old kitchen table. They watched the old man in the garden, looking out through the three open windows that framed the seating nook. The morning sun was warm and bright. The sky was clear after the spring rain the night before.
The old man shuffled through the garden gate, hitching up one strap of his overalls. As he squeezed through, he brushed the tall, blossom-covered Russian Sage bushes, dislodging an angry cloud of black and yellow-pollen coated bumble bees that swarmed around him before lighting again, gorging on the fresh nectar.
Across the yard, a flock of sparrows feuded over the feeder, a flutter of wings and scrappy chirps as they fought for the seeds.
As she looked at her sister, Jennifer marveled again at the differences between them. Bea had the dark hair, brown eyes and the olive skin of the Black Irish. Bea was the realist, the atheist, the trim fitness nut. She was the physics professor at UC Berkeley.
Jen had been a tow-head until she was thirteen, now her hair was light brown with red tints when the sun touched it. She had the light complexion and green eyes of what her father had called "The Throwback Irish." Jen motioned at the window with her coffee cup. "So, Bea, what do you think?"
Bea took a sip, centered her cup in the saucer then carefully put it on the scarred table. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, looked out at her father in the garden, then back at her older sister. "Well, Jen, can I ask you first how your latest collection of poetry is going?"
Jen smiled and shook her head. "The illustrator should finally finish the monochromes tomorrow, so I have to get back and approve them so we can go to print."
Bea pressed her lips together and nodded. "I know, and I have finals due Monday, rush, rush, rush!" She cocked her head and gave Jen a look. "Still using that guy-what was his name-Alan, for the artwork?" She gave Jen a knowing smile. "And other work?"
Jen put her head on her chest, blushed and nodded. She glanced up at Bea and in a soft voice, said, "I won't ask you about Morgan."
Bea's smile morphed into a straight line. "The divorce will be final in July." She shook her head and said, "Well anyway, about Dad." She looked out the window. "He is eighty-seven next month, so he's bound to be losing it a little, but-" she stopped and pressed her lips together. "All this about visitors, entities, I mean, doesn't that border on dementia?"
Jen frowned. "Yes, I know, I've thought about that, but on the other hand, he's mailing checks right on time for the utilities, and his bank account balances out, so I just don't know." She added, "And he's wearing clean clothes."
"Does he ever say that mom visits him?"
"He doesn't say it, but he believes she does. The last time I called he left the phone off the hook and I heard him asking her about the cucumbers." She shrugged. "He just told me that he feels her presence here, all the time, and especially at night."
Bea sighed. "Does he still sit on the side-porch at night and have a couple of scotch and sodas?"
Jen smiled, put her cup down and put her hand on her sister's arm. "It's just late afternoon when he sits there, has drinks and watches the birds come to the feeder as the sun goes down." She patted Bea's arm. "And he talks to mom about what all he did that day, just like they used to." She squeezed Bea's arm and held on. "I'm going to tell you something that may scare you." She waited a moment, then said, "I feel mom here, too."
Bea scrutinized her sister. Jen had always been the romantic, the dreamer, writing sweet, gooey poetry that Bea choked on. She started to say something, then stopped herself. She moved to free Jen's grip on her arm. "Let's fix lunch for dad."
Ransom carefully cleaned his boots outside. He let the screen door slam behind him, like always, then came into the kitchen smiling at his daughters. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, dried them on the dishtowel hanging below, then hung his sweat-stained Ace Hardware cap on the wall hook. He had cropped his hair short with the old clippers and his nose was red from the sun. There was a small white patch on each jowl where he had missed with his razor. He sat down at the old table, scooted his chair closer, and put both hands out. He still had garden dirt under his fingernails. His daughters held his large, calloused hands as he said Grace. He took half of a tuna fish sandwich off the platter, stirred his tomato soup with his other hand, and looked at his beautiful daughters as he took a bite of the wheat bread. He left his spoon in the soup. Around the mouthful of sandwich, he said, "My favorite lunch, thank you!"
Both girls were studying their soup bowls as if they contained an important message. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Thank you both for coming down." He nodded and smiled as they looked up. "I know you are concerned about me, but I am doing fine." He waved the sandwich. "The beans and peas are ready if you want to take some, and the 'Early Girl' tomatoes are ripe enough to pick." He smiled and nodded. "No cucumbers yet, but if you come down in about two weeks, I will have some good slicers, and this year I planted some lemon cucumbers, really tasty!"
When they didn't answer, he said, "Mrs. Ferguson next door said I could pick the 'queen olives' from her tree, so I will cure a bunch, they will be great!" He reached down and dipped his sandwich in the thick, red soup. "I know, you worry about me, but I am really ok. I take my vitamins, sleep good, wake up happy, and outside of few aches and pains, I get around, just fine!"
He reached over and punched Bea lightly on her arm. "Hey Beatrice (her full childhood name she abhorred), loosen up! it's just me, your old dad, aging gracefully!" He lifted a hand. "Oh, by the way, Betty Ferguson has both your phone numbers."
The girls looked at each other, then smiled. Bea took his free hand. "We love you, dad, and we just want you to be all right."
After Ransom laid down for his afternoon nap they cleaned up the kitchen. At their cars, they paused and shifted their sacks of beans, peas, and tomatoes while they hugged and murmured their goodbyes.
Through her tears, Jen watched a grim-faced Bea make the turn and head down Sutter Street.
The phone call came two weeks later at ten-thirty at night, never a good sign. Bea sighed and put down the exam paper she had been working on. Probably another of her students needing help on a problem.
She didn't recognize the hoarse voice and she couldn't understand what the woman was saying. "I'm sorry, this is Bea Thompson, could you repeat that again?"
There was a pause, a choke, then, "This is Betty Ferguson." A sob, then, "It's your father, Ransom. I...I found him in the garden this afternoon."
Bea's voice caught in her throat. "My dad?"
"Yes, he's at the Folsom Medical Center."
"What happened?"
"He's had a stroke and he is in a coma. I am not a family member so they wouldn't tell me anything else."
"Oh, my Lord, I'll be on my way!"
"Please call me when you know anything!"
"I will, thank you for calling!"
Bea was at the registration window when Jen rushed into the hospital. A nurse in a white, crisp uniform came out and guided them to the ICU facility.
Ransom lay in bed under an oxygen tent. His face was gray and he looked smaller. A tall, slim gray-haired RN was writing on a clipboard as he checked the beeping screen above the bed with different colored lines running across. He looked at them and held up a hand, then pointed at the chairs that lined the wall. They looked at the chairs but stood anyway.
The nurse hung the clipboard on the foot of the bed and came over to them. "Ron Sanchez, I just wrote down your father's vitals but we won't really know anything until Dr. Watson gets here tomorrow, and then-"
Bea pointed a finger at Ron. Her face was tight and her eyes squinted. "Bullshit!" she exclaimed, "You know a hell of a lot more than that!"
The RN stepped back and held up a hand. "Look, I am just following regulations, we are not allowed to speculate on a patients condition and-"
Bea stepped forward and grabbed the lapel of his white lab jacket. As she spoke she pulled his jacket back and forth, jamming her fist into his chest. "Just a simple yes or no!" Her voice broke. "In your experience-and I can tell you've seen this condition before- is my father going to survive this, or die?"
Ron put his hand on Bea's. He looked down, shook his head, then looked into Bea's eyes. "If I were you, I would get all your relatives together."
Tears stained Bea's cheeks as she slowly released her grip. Ron touched her shoulder as he left the room.
At the old house, they got the call from the hospital at eleven that night.
The next morning, Betty Ferguson rang the doorbell. She brought Ransom's stained Ace Hardware cap over. She was a small, compact woman in jeans, with a beaming smile. Her white hair was tucked up in a bun. She hugged the sisters and held up both hands as she thanked them for offering coffee, but she had to go. "Sometime later, I'll come over and tell you all the things your father fixed for me, but right now I know you have a lot to do!"
Jen hung Ransom's hat on the wall hook and went outside.
Bea made the other calls, then refilled her coffee cup and sat at the kitchen table. She was looking at the stained hat when Jen walked into the kitchen holding a wicker basket.
Jen sat the basket on the table and smiled through her tears. "I just talked to Mom. Dad is with her." She reached into the basket and held out something round, with stickers on the yellow skin. "The lemon cucumbers are ready," she said.
In the bright, early spring sunshine the sisters smiled at each other through their windshields as they pulled in together and parked in front of the old house at the upper end of Folsom's historic Sutter Street. They embraced without speaking and walked, hand in hand, through the gate, up the steps, and into the old home. In the kitchen coffee was ready. Their dad was already out in the garden.
They took cups out, sat down and drank coffee together at the old kitchen table. They watched the old man in the garden, looking out through the three open windows that framed the seating nook. The morning sun was warm and bright. The sky was clear after the spring rain the night before.
The old man shuffled through the garden gate, hitching up one strap of his overalls. As he squeezed through, he brushed the tall, blossom-covered Russian Sage bushes, dislodging an angry cloud of black and yellow-pollen coated bumble bees that swarmed around him before lighting again, gorging on the fresh nectar.
Across the yard, a flock of sparrows feuded over the feeder, a flutter of wings and scrappy chirps as they fought for the seeds.
As she looked at her sister, Jennifer marveled again at the differences between them. Bea had the dark hair, brown eyes and the olive skin of the Black Irish. Bea was the realist, the atheist, the trim fitness nut. She was the physics professor at UC Berkeley.
Jen had been a tow-head until she was thirteen, now her hair was light brown with red tints when the sun touched it. She had the light complexion and green eyes of what her father had called "The Throwback Irish." Jen motioned at the window with her coffee cup. "So, Bea, what do you think?"
Bea took a sip, centered her cup in the saucer then carefully put it on the scarred table. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, looked out at her father in the garden, then back at her older sister. "Well, Jen, can I ask you first how your latest collection of poetry is going?"
Jen smiled and shook her head. "The illustrator should finally finish the monochromes tomorrow, so I have to get back and approve them so we can go to print."
Bea pressed her lips together and nodded. "I know, and I have finals due Monday, rush, rush, rush!" She cocked her head and gave Jen a look. "Still using that guy-what was his name-Alan, for the artwork?" She gave Jen a knowing smile. "And other work?"
Jen put her head on her chest, blushed and nodded. She glanced up at Bea and in a soft voice, said, "I won't ask you about Morgan."
Bea's smile morphed into a straight line. "The divorce will be final in July." She shook her head and said, "Well anyway, about Dad." She looked out the window. "He is eighty-seven next month, so he's bound to be losing it a little, but-" she stopped and pressed her lips together. "All this about visitors, entities, I mean, doesn't that border on dementia?"
Jen frowned. "Yes, I know, I've thought about that, but on the other hand, he's mailing checks right on time for the utilities, and his bank account balances out, so I just don't know." She added, "And he's wearing clean clothes."
"Does he ever say that mom visits him?"
"He doesn't say it, but he believes she does. The last time I called he left the phone off the hook and I heard him asking her about the cucumbers." She shrugged. "He just told me that he feels her presence here, all the time, and especially at night."
Bea sighed. "Does he still sit on the side-porch at night and have a couple of scotch and sodas?"
Jen smiled, put her cup down and put her hand on her sister's arm. "It's just late afternoon when he sits there, has drinks and watches the birds come to the feeder as the sun goes down." She patted Bea's arm. "And he talks to mom about what all he did that day, just like they used to." She squeezed Bea's arm and held on. "I'm going to tell you something that may scare you." She waited a moment, then said, "I feel mom here, too."
Bea scrutinized her sister. Jen had always been the romantic, the dreamer, writing sweet, gooey poetry that Bea choked on. She started to say something, then stopped herself. She moved to free Jen's grip on her arm. "Let's fix lunch for dad."
Ransom carefully cleaned his boots outside. He let the screen door slam behind him, like always, then came into the kitchen smiling at his daughters. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, dried them on the dishtowel hanging below, then hung his sweat-stained Ace Hardware cap on the wall hook. He had cropped his hair short with the old clippers and his nose was red from the sun. There was a small white patch on each jowl where he had missed with his razor. He sat down at the old table, scooted his chair closer, and put both hands out. He still had garden dirt under his fingernails. His daughters held his large, calloused hands as he said Grace. He took half of a tuna fish sandwich off the platter, stirred his tomato soup with his other hand, and looked at his beautiful daughters as he took a bite of the wheat bread. He left his spoon in the soup. Around the mouthful of sandwich, he said, "My favorite lunch, thank you!"
Both girls were studying their soup bowls as if they contained an important message. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Thank you both for coming down." He nodded and smiled as they looked up. "I know you are concerned about me, but I am doing fine." He waved the sandwich. "The beans and peas are ready if you want to take some, and the 'Early Girl' tomatoes are ripe enough to pick." He smiled and nodded. "No cucumbers yet, but if you come down in about two weeks, I will have some good slicers, and this year I planted some lemon cucumbers, really tasty!"
When they didn't answer, he said, "Mrs. Ferguson next door said I could pick the 'queen olives' from her tree, so I will cure a bunch, they will be great!" He reached down and dipped his sandwich in the thick, red soup. "I know, you worry about me, but I am really ok. I take my vitamins, sleep good, wake up happy, and outside of few aches and pains, I get around, just fine!"
He reached over and punched Bea lightly on her arm. "Hey Beatrice (her full childhood name she abhorred), loosen up! it's just me, your old dad, aging gracefully!" He lifted a hand. "Oh, by the way, Betty Ferguson has both your phone numbers."
The girls looked at each other, then smiled. Bea took his free hand. "We love you, dad, and we just want you to be all right."
After Ransom laid down for his afternoon nap they cleaned up the kitchen. At their cars, they paused and shifted their sacks of beans, peas, and tomatoes while they hugged and murmured their goodbyes.
Through her tears, Jen watched a grim-faced Bea make the turn and head down Sutter Street.
The phone call came two weeks later at ten-thirty at night, never a good sign. Bea sighed and put down the exam paper she had been working on. Probably another of her students needing help on a problem.
She didn't recognize the hoarse voice and she couldn't understand what the woman was saying. "I'm sorry, this is Bea Thompson, could you repeat that again?"
There was a pause, a choke, then, "This is Betty Ferguson." A sob, then, "It's your father, Ransom. I...I found him in the garden this afternoon."
Bea's voice caught in her throat. "My dad?"
"Yes, he's at the Folsom Medical Center."
"What happened?"
"He's had a stroke and he is in a coma. I am not a family member so they wouldn't tell me anything else."
"Oh, my Lord, I'll be on my way!"
"Please call me when you know anything!"
"I will, thank you for calling!"
Bea was at the registration window when Jen rushed into the hospital. A nurse in a white, crisp uniform came out and guided them to the ICU facility.
Ransom lay in bed under an oxygen tent. His face was gray and he looked smaller. A tall, slim gray-haired RN was writing on a clipboard as he checked the beeping screen above the bed with different colored lines running across. He looked at them and held up a hand, then pointed at the chairs that lined the wall. They looked at the chairs but stood anyway.
The nurse hung the clipboard on the foot of the bed and came over to them. "Ron Sanchez, I just wrote down your father's vitals but we won't really know anything until Dr. Watson gets here tomorrow, and then-"
Bea pointed a finger at Ron. Her face was tight and her eyes squinted. "Bullshit!" she exclaimed, "You know a hell of a lot more than that!"
The RN stepped back and held up a hand. "Look, I am just following regulations, we are not allowed to speculate on a patients condition and-"
Bea stepped forward and grabbed the lapel of his white lab jacket. As she spoke she pulled his jacket back and forth, jamming her fist into his chest. "Just a simple yes or no!" Her voice broke. "In your experience-and I can tell you've seen this condition before- is my father going to survive this, or die?"
Ron put his hand on Bea's. He looked down, shook his head, then looked into Bea's eyes. "If I were you, I would get all your relatives together."
Tears stained Bea's cheeks as she slowly released her grip. Ron touched her shoulder as he left the room.
At the old house, they got the call from the hospital at eleven that night.
The next morning, Betty Ferguson rang the doorbell. She brought Ransom's stained Ace Hardware cap over. She was a small, compact woman in jeans, with a beaming smile. Her white hair was tucked up in a bun. She hugged the sisters and held up both hands as she thanked them for offering coffee, but she had to go. "Sometime later, I'll come over and tell you all the things your father fixed for me, but right now I know you have a lot to do!"
Jen hung Ransom's hat on the wall hook and went outside.
Bea made the other calls, then refilled her coffee cup and sat at the kitchen table. She was looking at the stained hat when Jen walked into the kitchen holding a wicker basket.
Jen sat the basket on the table and smiled through her tears. "I just talked to Mom. Dad is with her." She reached into the basket and held out something round, with stickers on the yellow skin. "The lemon cucumbers are ready," she said.
 Recognized |
#26 May 2022 |
Please excuse my grammar. This story is both from real life and fiction. Thank you for reading. Thank you, avmurray, for the beautiful picture.
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