The Winter Of A Mind by Elizabeth Towles (the snowy day read aloud .txt) 📖

THE WINTER OF A MIND


“Oh! Bobby!” She gasped, reaching out to steady herself against the bathroom door. “I didn’t hear you come in. Where’s Betty? Is she in the car?”
Silence swallowed up her words.
“I asked...?” Her eyes squinted to narrow slits; deep furrows drawing her brows close. “What’s the matter with you?” She took a step toward him; a finger jabbed the air. “Now listen…where is my daughter?”
The quiet lengthened.
A sliver of light moved through the narrow hallway. She spotted the tape and coil of rope held half-hidden by his leg. He lunged toward her.
A cry froze in her mouth, choking back the air in her throat. Fright hammered painfully against her ribs.

Her eyes flew open. She clawed at the bedcover, her fingers catching a hold; and with one final jerk, she had it bunched in a roll underneath her chin. In slow motion, her eyes traveled the small room. Obscure shadows of daybreak shifted and took on solid shapes, revealing the contents of a place she’d called her own for nigh on forty-seven years. She burrowed deeper into the mound of pillows cushioning her upper body. Freeing a hand, she wiped at the sweat beading on her face. Her arms instinctively crossed to cover her chest—as though the gesture might somehow slacken the frenzied flutter of her heart.
“Only a dream,” she murmured, but still...her mind rejected the too easy answer, so real and scary. She tried calming herself with deep breath intakes, and out; however, the fretful images lingered, refusing to give her rest.

Dawn’s first blush of light seeped into the room. She lifted her head, willed her body quiet; and with an ear turned toward the door, listened for any unusual sound. Now in her ninety-fourth year, she’d spent half her lifetime in this house, alone for the last twenty-five years. She knew it intimately, every creak, every pop and each cooling-into-nighttime settling, the noises—all as familiar as the well-worn bedroom shoes she kept by the bedside.

From the window, early morning rays laid a strip of warmth across the hardwood floor. Don’t let the day catch you sleeping. Her mother’s daily greeting…spoken so long ago. She smiled to herself. Lordy, Lordy, the things that popped into her head.
She threw back the covers and struggled to a sitting position. Her legs dangled over the side of the bed; looking down, her eyes studied their fullness, so like her mother’s in late life: log-like, shapeless. And her feet, her mind now thoroughly engrossed, once slender, elegant, someone had said, now appeared bloated and belonging to someone else. A long sigh added sound to the silence around her; her head bobbled; her mind slipping away….
Her eyes cleared abruptly. She drew in her shoulders, leaned over, and eased her feet into misshapen shoes. With balled fists digging into the mattress, she rose to a slightly humped standing. In her walk from the room, the gown swirled down and circled her ample body; the soft cotton brushing her legs with feather-like strokes as she moved. The rubber soles of her shoes smacked the bare floor in a sing-song manner, adding a rhythmic noise to the early hour hush.
When she reached the dream site, she hesitated, then darted a look around. Her mind fell back into the unsettling scenes; although in the last few months, she’d found it difficult to know reality from fantasy. And lately, there was the Family showing up uninvited and not wanting to leave. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, urging the visions from her mind. Her hands slackened their hold; she raked back straggling wisps of hair, her fingertips then patting the strands into place.
Stepping into the kitchen, she clicked on the light switch, painting the room a soft pink. She opened the refrigerator door; a blast of cold air sent goose bumps welting on her naked arms. Her hands crossed to rub away the chill. She peered at the shelves, her mind mulling the options. Her lips puckered—coffee, she’d have only coffee.
She lifted the tin percolator from a back burner. After filling it with cold water, she inserted the strainer, mouthed the count as she added four teaspoons of ground coffee and slid both tops into place. She sat the pot on the same burner. Her mind recalled the numerous gifts of electric coffee makers from her children at Christmas and birthdays, and their insisting that she throw out the old bent percolator. “No, thank you,” she’d told them, “I’m used to it. We start the day together…have for many years. And I don’t intend to change it.”
Her fingers curved the sides of her generous waist as she stood near the stove, waiting for the water to turn brown and burble up into the tiny glass globe at the top of the percolator. The garbling noise struck her as a happy sound, and like many mornings before, a smile lit up her face.
She stepped over to the sink, rolled out each side of the small window and in moving away, roamed mindlessly about the room. The smile remained as though placed, and there for the day.
In that same state of unawareness, she popped a slice of bread into the toaster and leaned against the counter. A blank stare looked out from her eyes. She started when the coffeepot hissed a final gulp in unison with the bread zipping up in the toaster.
With her breakfast at last gathered on a tray, she sat down heavily at one end of an L-shaped bench facing a square Formica-topped table. She began taking small bites of the dry toast. Her eyes drifted toward the window, its cloth shade rolled halfway up. A thickening haze promised a summer day’s intense heat. Her gaze held; she nodded at the thought—the day being so young and all—it wouldn’t be long before she’d have to turn on the window air-conditioner. Another nod followed.

Because of her declining eyesight, as well as her hearing, her two grown children often questioned the rationale of her living alone, citing a list of things that could go wrong. She grinned in remembering her ready response: a sly smile and a change of subject. The grin abruptly whipped from her face. No! She’d not lose her independence, the choosing of her meal times, when to go to bed, and playing cards whenever it suited her. No! Her children would definitely not become her parents. Her hands pressed together, fingers restless, kneading the worry.

At mid-morning, the phone rang several times before catching her attention. She lifted the receiver and pressed it close to her ear. “Hellooo.”
“Goodmorning."
“Who is this?”
“John.”
“Who?” she strained for some recognition, her eyes flitting about—nothing came.
“John. You know…your son.”
“I’m sorry I can’t talk now, I’m expecting a call.” She slammed the receiver in place.
Her eyes clouded over. Now...what had made her say that? She put a finger to her lips and gazed at the phone…was someone supposed to call her?
She stood tapping her lips. That call she’d mentioned…who? Oh, of course…it must be Betty. Her daughter was going to call today, she’d written it down somewhere….
She eased down to the bench and slumped into a comfortable pose—to wait.

A scraping noise across the room drew her look toward the cabinet underneath the sink. One door stood ajar. Her gaze widened when she saw a small gray mouse come into view. The little animal scurried boldly across the floor, his tail twitching and head bobbing as he slithered underneath the refrigerator. She sat watching. Silence moved in, stretching; no rustle of long-stored debris, no feet scratching about, nothing.
“That’s it,” she said, when her eyes began to smart, and her lids started blinking like a bird’s wings in flight. She moved to one side and pushed from the bench. “I’m going to the store, little mouse; you’ll have a nice dose of rat poison for your dinner tonight.”

She hurried to her bedroom. With a quick yank of a sliding closet door panel, she stood looking at the array of clothes: blouses, pants, sweaters, a few dresses, and a couple of short coats. Out of the corner of an eye, she saw movement. She twirled around. There he was—hovering in a far corner of the ceiling—the movie-star-handsome Tuxedoed Man! A rush of air shot from her mouth. “What are you doing here this time of day? Night-time is when you always show…or have you become like me…lost in time? Oh,” she snickered, “you thought to catch me in my ‘altogether,’ didn’t you?” She wagged a finger at him, noting the grin on his face. “I keep asking you to come down off that ceiling…but you like playing me for the fool. I know you, you know, you’re that salesman I slammed the door on one day. You thought because of your looks I’d buy whatever you were selling, but I didn’t, did I? Instead, I slammed the door; I’d been watching from the front window and saw you flirting with old Mrs. Wiggins and Gloria, too. I heard you call her a darling girl as you were leaving and waving at her. But later, I heard you laughing, like you’d put one over on her—and you probably had.” She went quiet. “Is that all you can do…just grin?” She waved him down. “Come on, get down here, I’m tired of talking to you with my head bent back…it’s making my neck hurt.” She glared at him. He only kept grinning.
“Go away, then, I’ve got better things to do today than deal with a stubborn man.” No sooner had she spoken,