Stone Diaries, The - Carol Shields [126]
"She’s a real honey," Jubilee says to anyone who happens to be around. "Not like some on this floor I could mention."
"A fighter," Mrs. Dorre, the head nurse says. "A fighter, but not a complainer, thank God."
"A sweetheart, a pet," says Dr. Scott.
"A real lady," says the physiotherapist, Russell Latterby, "of the old-fashioned school."
Which is why Mrs. Flett forgets about the existence of Daisy Goodwill from moment to moment, even from day to day, and about that even earlier tuber-like state that preceded Daisy Goodwill; she’s kept so busy during her hospital stay being an old sweetie-pie, a fighter, a real lady, a non-complainer, brave about the urinary infections that beset her, stoic on the telephone with her children, taking an interest in young Jubilee’s love affairs, going coquettish with Mr. Latterby, and being endlessly, valiantly protective of Reverend Rick’s sensibilities, which, to tell the truth, are disturbingly ambivalent. "She’s a wonder," says her daughter, Alice, arriving from England in time to help her mother move out of Sarasota Memorial and into the Canary Palms Convalescent Home, "she’s a real inspiration."
Inspiration, Alice says, but she doesn’t mean it. She means more like the opposite of inspiration.
Alice is a strong, handsome woman in her mid-forties who has thought very little about life’s diminution—not until a moment ago, in fact, when she happened to look into the drawer of her mother’s bedside table at Canary Palms and saw, jumbled there, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a notebook, a ring of keys, some hand cream, a box of Kleenex, a small velvet jewelry box—all Mrs.
Barker Flett’s possessions accommodated now by the modest dimensions of a little steel drawer. That three-story house in Ottawa has been emptied out, and so has the commodious Florida condo.
How is it possible, so much shrinkage? Alice feels her heart squeeze at the thought and gives an involuntary cry.
"What is it, Alice?"
"Nothing, Mother, nothing."
"I thought I heard—"
"Shhhhh. Try to get a little rest."
"All I’ve been doing is resting."
"That’s what convalescence is—rest. Isn’t that what the doctor said?"
"Him!"
"He’s very highly thought of. Dr. Scott says he’s the best there is."
"Did you tell the nurse about the apple juice?"
"I told her you thought it had gone off, but she said it was fine.
It’s just a different brand than the hospital uses."
"It tastes like concentrate."
"It probably is concentrate."
"It’s not even cold. It’s been left out."
"I’ll talk to her again."
"And the gravy."
"What about the gravy."
"There isn’t any, that’s what’s the matter. The meat comes dry on the plate."
"People don’t make gravy any more, Mother. Gravy was over in 1974."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. Just a joke."
" ‘Yolk, yolk,’ you used to say. You and Joanie, clucking like chickens."
"Did we?"
"There’s nothing to see from this window."
"Those trees? That lovely garden?"
"I liked the hospital better."
"I know."
"I miss Jubilee."
"Oh, God, yes."
"And the Flowers. Glad, Lily—"
"It’s so far for them to come."
"I’m not myself here."
"You will be. You’ll adjust in a few days."
"I’m not myself."
"You and me both."
"What’s that? I can’t hear with all that racket in the hall, that woman screaming."
"I said, I’m not myself either."
Alice has officially adopted her mother’s maiden name; it appears now on her passport: Alice Goodwill. Her ex-husband’s name, Downing, was buried some years ago in a solicitor’s office in London, although their three grown children, Benjamin, Judy, and Rachel, retain it. And for Alice the name Flett was symbolically buried two years ago with the publication of her fifth book which received unfavorable reviews everywhere: "Alice Flett’s first novel should be a warning to all academics who aspire toward literary creativity." "Posturing." "Donnish." "Didactic." "Cold porridge on a paper plate."
What was she to do? What could she do? She went to court and changed her name. Even as a girl Alice had complained about the name Flett, which suffered, she felt, from