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  Alice’s Summertime Adventure

  Suzanne Jenkins

  Alice’s Summertime Adventure

  by Suzanne Jenkins

  Alice’s Summertime Adventure. Copyright © 2013 by

  Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.

  Alice’s Summertime Adventure is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For information on the Greektown trilogy, the Pam of Babylon series, and author Suzanne Jenkins, please refer to the ‘Also by…’ section at the end of this novel.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Also by Suzanne Jenkins

  Chapter 1

  Alice Bradshaw reclined on a beat-up wooden deck chair as she looked up at the brilliant blue sky. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, she thought, What am I going to do with the rest of my life? The slender redhead was taking advantage of the beautiful June weather while contemplating with anxiety what needed to be accomplished not only that day or for the summer, but forever, if there was a forever. She had on long sleeves and pants made of a light gauzy fabric, cool enough for the hot sun but offering protection for her pale skin. A worn basket sat at the end of the chair and held her pruning shears and spade. In spite of her grim prospects for that future, she’d still planted a small garden in the spring: tomatoes, a must-have if you live in New Jersey, sunflowers for the birds, and an entire seed packet of zinnias. They would proliferate until the garden was a mass of color lasting until October.

  On a small, weather-beaten wooden table sat an old-fashioned transistor radio tuned to an oldies station as the Beach Boys “I Wish They Were All California Girls” played. The technology in the house was mirrored by the vintage of the radio. She didn’t have a computer or even a cell phone. Her lone TV was a giant Sony Trinitron her sister had given her twenty years ago.

  Alice didn’t have a dryer, so she’d hung sheets on the laundry line her late husband had strung across the yard. They fluttered in the breeze, and with each whoosh of air the scent of the fabric softener she used wafted to her. She’d raised her children here, in the middle of a thousand-acre blueberry farm sitting at the edge of a swamp, surrounded by pine barren scrub and rural farmland. No highway traffic disturbed the peace, just the sound of farm tractors occasionally and more frequently, the beeping noise of heavy equipment going in reverse, constructing a housing development in the distance. Every so often a gull, having come inland for a drink of fresh water, would call. She’d moved into the house as a young bride and never wanted to leave it, had never considered leaving it, until now.

  Two years earlier Alice Bradshaw had gotten sick. She thought the process of dying had begun but was taking longer than it should. She felt like the boy who cried wolf; when she needed to be surrounded by her loved ones, they’d already grown tired of sickrooms and doctor appointments. Now happily, but embarrassingly, it looked like she might not die after all. Her kids hadn’t visited in a while since it was clear she was going to stick around, so what was the urgency? She kept apologizing to her family for still being alive.

  Now summer was here, three long months of fabulous weather. People in this part of the world made weekly treks to the Jersey shore, planned barbeques every weekend, spent a small fortune on summer clothes and flip-flops. But not Alice. She hadn’t gone to the beach since Doug died. Her house was on a creek, and the sandy soil and wild roses were the same she’d find down the shore. Besides, she’d worked full time until she got sick, and there was never the opportunity to go, raising four children all alone.

  While she was sick, she didn’t have the energy to have her grandchildren over. She and Doug had three daughters and a son. Faye, her oldest, lived close by. They had a history of awful visits together. Her five kids would rush into Alice’s tiny house, squeezing through the doorway two at a time, yelling for food, regardless of the time of day.

  “Mother, a normal grandmother would have something ready for her grandchildren to eat,” Faye said, going right for the pantry. “Don’t you have any bread?”

  “Don’t you ever feed your kids?” Alice asked.

  The fighting and whining would disturb the peace of Alice’s day. When Faye’s kids were younger, she didn’t believe in regimented potty training, so they wore training pants until they were ready for preschool. With four of them under five years of age, there’d be constant yelling reminders to get to the bathroom, with the accompanying crying tantrums and clothes having to be washed and hung out to dry. Faye never brought extra changes of clothing either, so there was always a naked kid or two mooning the adults and leaving their DNA around the tiny house. Alice chuckled at the memory of it, glad Faye’s children were finally growing up. Mario, only eight, was demanding and messy just like his older siblings had been, always in motion, running around, doing somersaults. Alice wasn’t able to muster the courage to confront Faye about her children’s behavior, so the inconvenience went on until Alice got sick. After Faye and her kids left, Alice would take to her bed and leave the mess until the next morning.

  One morning, her son, John, came to see her. “Mother, for God’s sake, why are you allowing them to trash your house?” He walked through the tiny kitchen, pointing at the mashed-fruit tabletop and sink filled with dirty dishes, spilled milk on the floor alongside something unrecognizable. “I don’t even want to know what that is.”

  “I know, I know,” she said, agreeing. “But what can I say to my own daughter? ‘Faye, you’re a terrible disciplinarian, and your children are misbehaved.’”

  “That’s exactly what you should say,” John replied. “I hope I’m here the next time she comes because this is just not acceptable.” He stood in the kitchen, shaking his head. “She never would allow this at her own house. I don’t know, Mother; I think we might have a passive-aggressive thing going on here.”

  “Faye still complains that I never cooked when you kids were home. I feel like that’s all I did; the first thing when I got home from work was start dinner,” Alice said, sadly.

  “Mother, you should tell her to go fuck herself,” John said. “You’re still recovering, and she’s bringing up her old, imagined complaints. If I remember, she was pretty well developed for never being fed.”

  Alice shook her head in bewilderment. It was an ongoing dialogue with her daughters that they’d been neglected, that Alice was a horrible mother. Lately, her youngest, April, had badgered her because in all the family photos, she didn’t remember seeing one of her as an infant. Alice wracked her brain, trying to remember back that far. Doug got sick shortly after April was born. Could that have
been the reason? And when Alice got sick, the concern over the baby photos slid back on the list of priorities.

  When Alice got sick, she thought it was just the flu. She managed for weeks, ignoring the increasing fatigue and forcing herself to go to work. But it got worse, and she finally gave up and got into bed. John called to check in, concerned when he heard her voice. He and his wife, Beth, were both nurses. Beth took the phone from her husband.

  “You should’ve gotten a flu shot, Alice,” she said. “What do you need, and I’ll head over in a bit?”

  “I did get one,” Alice replied defensively. “Could you bring me some ginger ale and aspirin?”

  Beth agreed to come by as soon as she could, after the children got off to school and before she had to leave for her afternoon job at the local nursing home. Her relationship with Alice had evolved into one of mutual respect and admiration; Beth because she understood the sacrifice Alice had made trying to support her children after her husband had died. Alice maintained peace with her acerbic daughter-in-law because she wanted to have a relationship with her son. And she did have some good qualities. A good wife and mother, Beth was also a hard-working nurse. She’d contributed to her family’s financial security so the boys could go to college someday without working themselves to death as John had done. Alice avoided thinking about it; she’d done the best she was able, squirreling away a little money so that when John graduated from high school, he’d had two years of junior college paid for. He went to nursing school, got a job at a hospital in Wilmington, and then let his employers pay for his bachelor’s, then master’s degree, and finally anesthesia school.

  Beth and John were high school sweethearts. Beth recalled the first time she saw John’s house. They were in the Chevy Malibu she’d gotten for her sixteenth birthday. Although John had a license, the only car available was a beat-up Ford Falcon Alice drove to work, and she couldn’t take a risk with her transportation. The children took the bus to school and walked everywhere else.

  Beth remembered her shock the first time she saw their house: a whitewashed speck in the middle of a flat, vast blueberry field. “My dad’s family owns all this land. Our house is over a hundred years old,” John had said proudly. At the time she wasn’t sure if the family still farmed the land or if his father was still alive. John never spoke of him. She remembered Alice in the kitchen, preparing to start dinner. She had on her Howard Johnson’s uniform: a short-sleeve, peach-colored polyester dress with a turquoise plaid apron and matching collar. Her name was embroidered in orange thread on the pocket over her left breast. For reasons Beth didn’t understand at the time, seeing the mother of a boy she liked dressed in the childish uniform embarrassed her.

  She secretly began to wonder if John’s ambition would cease at a similar, menial job, working at the 84 Lumber like the other boys in their class or as a laborer on the Garden State Parkway. Her cousin, Josie lived in nice little house in Alloway furnished with pieces she found at the Salvation Army, all on her husband’s GSP salary. No, thank you. Beth had already decided she would go to nursing school because it was the quickest way to financial independence, and then if she ended up with a husband who didn’t have much ambition, she’d at least be able to pay her bills. She glanced over at John as he greeted his mother and introduced her to Beth.

  “Mom, this is the girl I told you about. Beth, this is my mom!” He absolutely beamed when he said it, his arm around Alice’s shoulder as he steered her away from the stove to the door. Alice wiped her hands off on her apron and reached out for Beth’s hand.

  “Please to meet you, Beth,” Alice said in a thick New Jersey accent. “John here told me so much about you. Would you care to stay for dinner?” John was smiling at Beth, eager to meld her into the family, not suspecting she was thinking less than charitable thoughts about his mother and his house. She knew she didn’t want to eat dinner with him; the house smelled of old wood and mold, and although it was neat, who knew how clean?

  “Oh, I can’t, I’m sorry. My mother is expecting me tonight. But some other time, please,” Beth said, lying through her teeth. She said good-bye, and John walked her out to the car.

  “I wish you could stay,” he said, smiling at her. She looked up at his face; he was so handsome, did it really matter if he didn’t amount to anything? It would be worth it just to go to sleep each night looking at him.

  “I didn’t want to impose. I guess you must really like me if you want your family to get to know me so badly,” she teased.

  John looked up at the house, and when he was confident his mother wasn’t spying on them, took Beth by the arm and led her around to the back of her car. Like dancers, the two fell into each other’s arms effortlessly and kissed. John was in love with Beth; she was his first love and would remain so for the rest of his life, no matter what else happened. Beth was at a crossroads; she knew he loved her more than she loved him, and wasn’t that a guarantee for a happy marriage? But she was frightened because she didn’t want to settle. Her father was consistently unfaithful to her mother; everyone knew that the wealthy businessman always had a girlfriend, and her mother looked the other way, staying busy being beautiful, staying drunk. Maybe having a loyal husband who wasn’t the most successful man would be a good tradeoff to living in splendor with an ass.

  “I love you, Beth. As soon as we’re finished with college, I want to get married.” He held on to her, willing his desires to become hers. As it worked out, they’d get married the following summer right after graduation because Beth was pregnant. Her parents were furious, convinced she’d ruined her life. Alice Bradshaw became Beth’s champion, supporting her through two years of nursing school and four pregnancies. Her life slowly morphed into pleasant and unexciting, revolving around the activities of her children and husband and leaving little time or energy to worry about anything else. She loved her husband with all her heart, and the little concern she’d had about his ambition no longer mattered; he’d proven to her he wanted a certain type of life, and they had it, with a big house on the water, new furniture, and a healthy bank account. As for John loving her more than she loved him; she wasn’t sure that was still the case, afraid to exam it too closely. One of the ways she honored her marriage was by being solicitous to her kind mother-in-law, even if it wasn’t always sincere.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Alice’s symptoms didn’t go away, John and Beth insisted she go to the doctor. After a bone marrow biopsy, she got a Hodgkin’s lymphoma diagnosis.

  “Why’d you wait so long to be seen?” the doctor asked, looking down at her chart with his lips tight.

  “Do you run off to the doctor’s every time you get the flu?” she asked him back, and then concerned, “Why? Is it bad?”

  “Well, it could be better if you hadn’t waited so long,” he said.

  “So it’s my fault I’m sick, then?” Alice was angry.

  “No,” he answered. “But you are very sick. If you’d come in sooner, we could’ve treated you and you wouldn’t be at this stage.” He looked up from her chart. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Now that you feel guilty, it’s not my fault.” But she was smiling, not wanting him to feel like the jerk he was. He’d made arrangements for her to see a specialist closer to home instead of driving into Wilmington in her junk car. Alice always drove a junker. The doctor tore a page off his prescription pad.

  “Here, get this filled in the hospital pharmacy, and they’ll give you a discount,” he said.

  “What is it?” Alice asked, looking up at him. “Something to calm me down?”

  “Yes, and to help you sleep.” She’d never told him she wasn’t sleeping, but maybe he could tell. She looked like hell. She thanked him and left the office. She’d been alone for a long time, and she’d grown used to it. But for some reason, today she felt awful, like there was nothing worse than being told you had a life-threatening illness and not having someone who cared, who would be sad if you died, standing there with
you. Trying with all of her poise to smile and stand up straight, Alice walked out of the office and, without stopping at the hospital pharmacy, left for home.

  She’d never had depression that she’d acknowledged. Even during the worst, numbing days after Doug died, there wasn’t the luxury of feeling sorry for herself. But now, she let a tiny feeling creep in. She knew it was self-pity and, wanting to try it on for size, closed her eyes and felt the sensations as they rolled over her body. It did the weirdest dance over her skin, pinpricks of pain that settled into her stomach and brain, whispered in her ears, and finally, made her cheeks go numb, so that all she had to do was to lower her head and cry. If she allowed it, she’d take to her bed and stay there forever. She imagined what it would be like, the misery growing larger every day until she couldn’t control it, and what little time she had left wasted.

  She thought of her grandchildren, of daughter April’s boys, three small clones of her husband, who loved her unconditionally. They were smart, well-behaved angels, but they lived an hour away. If she took to her bed, she’d miss out on April’s boys. And John’s kids were wonderful. Amy was adorable, and Brian, brilliant. Faye’s kids may have been brats, but they were growing up into attractive, pleasant adults. It was enough warning to snap out of it, push the self-pity away, and never let it creep in again.

  She saw the oncologist, and he arranged for her to have chemo and radiation at a rural clinic rather than having to travel into Philadelphia or Wilmington. It allowed her to drive alone. When she got worse, there was no alternative; she had to call on her family for help. Beth and John took turns, and her sister Vicky was there every day.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you,” Alice said to her.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Vicky said. “Beth and John have a life, and those girls of yours are pieces of shit.”

  “Don’t talk trash about my kids. I don’t see yours hanging around you.” Alice was indignant, but she knew she better be careful. Vicky was known to hold a grudge for a long time, and Alice needed her. They had a younger sister Vicky hadn’t spoken to in eight years. But regardless, she couldn’t allow her to say mean things about her children. It was bad karma.