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Please wait while your PDF document uploads. Share with all stores. Phone: He comes over and takes my hand. Come on, grilla, he says. There are some dreams that get stuck between your teeth when you sleep; so that when you open your mouth to yawn awake they fly right out of you. But this feels too real. This feels like it has actually happened.
No citrus tree can bear our climate, where we have not only White Christmases but also White Halloweens. I reach into the tree and pull down the yellow ball: a crumbling sphere made of birdseed and suet. The next morning, I drive to the senior center. As I walk into the dining hall, I see Evelyn Gadzinski moving down the buffet table, squirreling food into her purse. When she notices me, she smiles. She lifts the spoon, considers it, and sighs. Gadzinski says. She takes a book out of her purse, one with a mummy — and some granola — on the cover. They got buried with enough to last them until they got to the next life.
Does that seem fair? Honey, life is just the place where the thread manages to pick up the fabric. You do it over and over, long enough, and sooner or later you wind up with a continuous seam. I make a mental note to tell my father to keep a closer eye on Evelyn Gadzinski. I lower my voice. Before she can answer, I hear my father call my name. What are you doing here?
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I fish his wallet out of my pocket. I thought you might miss it. And then I got sidelined by a philosophical discussion. He steers me out of the cafeteria and into his office. I sit down in the chair across from his desk. My father folds his hands across his stomach.
Gadzinski is a lovely woman who takes Prilosec, Norvasc, and a hefty dose of Zoloft. He opens his hand and spills a pearl necklace into my palm.
They he leads me toward the mirror that hangs behind his office door. The offices of the New Hampshire Gazette are in Manchester, but Fitz does most of his work from home.
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Hanging on a hook on the back is his key; I use it to let myself inside. Fitz is sitting in front of his computer.
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He rubs her behind the ears, and she snuggles closer to him, knocking several photos off his desk. I bend down to pick them up. In one, there is a man with a hole in the middle of his head, in which he has stuck a lit candle. The second picture is of a grinning boy, who has double pupils dancing in each of his eyes.
I hand the snapshots back to Fitz. I also got to read a medical treatise from a doctor who had an eleven-year-old patient come to him with an ache in his arch. Turns out the kid had a molar growing out of the bottom of his foot. Like the way Eric can fold his tongue into a clover, and that disgusting thing you do with your eyes.
Maybe you were Miss Muffet in a former life. Before I know it, I am telling Fitz about the lemon tree. I explain how it felt as if the heat was laying a crown on my head; how the tree had been planted with pebbles around it instead of soil..wmemsf.mediebruket.no/hydroxychloroquine-vs-azithromycin-capsules.php
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How I could read the letters ABC, on the bottoms of my shoes. Fitz listens carefully, his arms folded across his chest. I can do a little digging for you and see what I come up with. He knows the routine. He will take off his sweatshirt and leave it at the bottom of the stairs, so that Greta has a scent article.
Once, when Greta and I were searching for a runaway, we found his corpse instead. The boy was hanging from the limb of a massive oak, and Greta turned in a circle, whining. Then she lay down, and put her paws over her nose. Greta finds him crouching behind a copse of trees whose damp leaves glitter like coins.
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While I wait for the dismissal bell to ring, I take off the strand of pearls. There are fifty-two beads, one for each of the years my mother would have been on earth if she were still alive. I start to feed them through my fingers like the hem of a rosary, starting with prayers — that Eric and I will be happy; that Sophie will grow up safe; that Fitz will find someone to spend his life with; that my father will stay healthy.
When I run out, I begin to attach memories, instead — one for each pearl. The faintest picture of her dancing barefoot in the kitchen. The feel of her hands on my scalp as she massaged in baby shampoo. I imagine each memory as the grain of sand that the pearl grew around: a hard, protective shell to keep it from drifting away. It is Sophie who decides to teach the dog how to play board games.
Ed on television, and thinks Greta is smarter than any horse. She trains the dog to step on the domed plastic of the Trouble game, press down to jiggle the dice. I laugh out loud, amazed. The telephone rings, but I have told Sophie that this is Her Time — a consolation prize for missing the tea party at school. I have to talk to you. I reach for the phone, but Sophie gets there more quickly and punches the disconnect button.
I follow her gaze toward the red and blue lights outside. Three police cars have cordoned off the driveway; two officers are headed for the front door.
Several neighbors stand on their porches, watching. Everything inside me goes to stone. Or something worse. I sit very still with my arms crossed over my chest.
I do this to keep from flying apart. The doorbell rings, and I hear Sophie turning the knob. Immediately, relief swims through me. He is holding a pair of my socks, which he folds over very neatly and hands to me. Rob has his handcuffs out. The policemen begin to push him through the doorway. I have a hundred questions: Why are you doing this to him? How you could be so mistaken?