Tova’s eyes narrow. “I don’t have a cell phone.”
“You do now.” Janice thrusts the device at her. “It’s Timothy’s old one, nothing fancy. But it’ll work in an emergency.” Inconspicuously, her eyes dart toward Tova’s boot.
Tova’s jaw sets. “How many times have I explained that I don’t need one of those? There’s a perfectly good telephone right there in the den. I don’t need to carry one around in my pocketbook.”
“You do, Tova, if you’re going to live here alone. Not to mention working alone in that aquarium, whenever that starts back up. What if you fell again? We all talked. We all agreed. You need a phone.”
After a long pause, she extends her hand and allows Janice to drop the phone into her open palm. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
“Good, good.” Janice smiles. “I’ll have Timothy call to give you a little tutorial. And I’ll be in touch about Mary Ann’s luncheon. In the meantime, if you need anything . . .”
“Of course.” Tova latches the door after Janice leaves.
SUPPER WILL BE potato-leek casserole. Barb is not renowned for her culinary skills, but the dish smells delicious, and it bubbles tantalizingly as Tova peers through the oven door. At any rate, it’s a welcome change from her usual chicken and rice for supper. She must send Barbara a thank-you note.
The timer dings. Tova leans over to pull the steaming dish from the oven. She has it halfway out, carefully balancing on her good ankle, when something inside her pocket attacks her.
Zap!
The casserole dish crashes to the floor, sending up a spray of oil and cheese. Zap! Tova takes one step toward the counter on the creamy linoleum and her boot slips out, sending her crashing down on her tailbone for the second time in a week.
Zap, zap, zap!
She pulls the wretched device out, its tiny strip of screen announcing an unknown caller. Jaw set, she flings it away.
Why can’t people simply mind their own business?
But now she must get herself up, and that’s going to be a challenge. Every time she tries to stand, she slides in the mess. The phone rests belly-up like a silver beetle on the far side of the kitchen. Not that she would even know how to operate it if she could get to it. Finally, she manages to hoist herself up into one of the dinette chairs.
“For heaven’s sake,” she mutters, using an absurd number of paper napkins to wipe her hands free of potato-leek casserole.
CHICKEN AND RICE for supper. Eaten on the davenport, with the plate balanced on her lap. Just the way Will used to take his meals sometimes when there was a game on.
“My, look at us. How far we’ve fallen, haven’t we, Cat?” She strokes his soft forehead, then grabs the remote and turns on the evening news.
The talking heads drone about the stock market and the weather, but Tova can’t focus on it. Her thoughts linger on Mary Ann’s big news. The beginning of Mary Ann’s ending, the first sentence of her last chapter. Unable to continue living on her own. Reverted to childlike dependence. At least her daughter Laura has the sense to take her in, rather than shuffling her off to one of those homes.
Barbara would be taken care of by her girls down in Seattle. And Janice? She and Peter already live in the basement suite of Timothy’s house, tucked away neatly under her son and daughter-in-law’s busy lives above. Everyone had to go somewhere at some point.
A man’s average life span is several years shorter than an average woman’s, and Tova has always considered this a quiet injustice. Will’s death was relatively straightforward, at least for Will himself. The cancer, the hospitalizations, the treatments: all of that was awful, but then nearly as terrible had been the paperwork, the insurance appeals, the arrangements. Tova had spent hours alone at the kitchen table, late at night, trying her best to sort it out. Who would repay her the favor when her time came? Or would the onslaught of paperwork simply shuffle off into an heirless void?
She puts the bowl of chicken and rice on the coffee table （on a coaster, naturally） and makes her way over to the mantel, the plastic boot scuffing the rug. She trails a hand over its smooth cedar corners, hand-sanded and stained by her papa. The very bones of this house had been hewn by his axe, craftsmanship from the old world, good Swedish work that would stand for centuries. How much longer will she herself stand before something stokes the embers of her frailty? The narrow stairs, the uneven driveway? An errant casserole dish, a floor slick with cream and potatoes?
Will they find her on the kitchen floor? Summon an ambulance to take her to the hospital? Who will fill out the admit forms, clipped to their clipboard? And that will merely be the beginning.