Audiobook Reading, Open House by Elizabeth Berg
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EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
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Open House by Elizabeth Berg for long, You know before you know, of course, you're bending over the dryer, pulling out the still warm sheets, and the knowledge walks up your backbone. You start the man you love and you're staring at nothing. He has gone before he is gone. The last time we tried to talk to David was a couple of weeks ago. We were in the family room, David and his leather recliner, me stretched out on the sofa. Travis was this late. You have his 11th birthday party that afternoon, usual free for all. It had fallen into bed. Exhausted. The television was on, but neither of us was watching it. David was reading the newspaper and I was rehearsing. Finally, David, I said he looked up. I said, You know, you're right and saying we have some serious problems but there are so many reasons to try to work things out. I hope my voice was pleasant in light. I opened my hair, wasn't sticking up for that. My nose didn't look too big that I didn't look fat. When I set up a bit to adjust the pillow, I was wondering. I said, if you would be willing to go to see someone with me just once. A marriage counselor, I really think Samantha, he said. And I said, OK, you returned to the paper and I returned to lying on the sofa, falling down an elevator shaft. There were certain things I could not think about that kept thinking about anyway, how to tell the people I have to tell how long the nights would be. It was a very long elevator shaft, how I believe so hard for so long. Then we would be able to overcome everything, and now I would have to admit that we could not how wrenching it is when the question do you want to ask is, Why don't you want me? But you cannot ask it. And yet do not ask to talk about anything else. David, he said again. This time he did not look up Chapter one. I dress to bring in the morning paper. The new me. I once read that Martha Stewart never wears a bathroom. Not that I like more. The Stewart. Nobody likes Martha Stewart. I don't think even more of the story like Martha Stewart. It actually makes me like her, but anyway, maybe she's on to something. You get up, you make your bed right away, you shower dress ready. Armed fire. I go into the kitchen to make a strong part of coffee. To start Travis's breakfast, French toast will have today made from scratch. Cut diagonally one piece lying or flee over the other and, well, he syrup. Serve it in the tiny Florida jury once took from a room service tray. I'll cut the butter pads into the shape of something. A whale, maybe. Like swales for Corvette. That doesn't work. I'll make better girls. Potato peeler. I lay out a blue linen placemat at the head of the dining room table. Smooth it with the flat of my hands heading. Imagine cloth napkin bolt through a Witten ring wedding give. I sent her a plate. My out a silver were then step back to regard my arrangement. I think Travis will appreciate this. My head hurts. My head hurts. My heart hurts. My heart hurts. I stand still for a moment, just dangerous. So I go back into the kitchen, pull a dusty Weinglass wedding gift down from the high covered above the refrigerator. wash it and bring it into the dining room to center directly over the night. Then I go back in the kitchen and select three oranges from the fruit bowl. I'll squeeze them for juice just before he takes a seat. Actually, Travis doesn't like French or fresh oranges, but it's just got to get used to elegance because that's the way it's going to be from now on. Starting today. Well, starting last night, but Travis was asleep when the Revolution started. I went to Bloomingdale's and charged a few things last night. That was a start. When I got home, Travis had gone to bed. I stand straighter, taking a deep breath. This is the first day, every day, because after this will be easier. Later, when I think of Travis sleeping, the thought will not pick up my stomach in its hands and twisted All right. Better. Whole shape doesn't work, and nor does the Corvette. But the cut butter girls do more or less. I made them carefully over ice chips in a small bold and bring them out to the dining room and place them to the right of his spoon. So where they go There must be some incredibly expensive Martha Stewart book on table settings later, I don't really feel like driving. Perhaps all will take the limo tomorrow. This house. I understand your divorce. I'll say You seem to be doing all right. Back in the kitchen, I go down another cup of coffee. Mm. Eggs, eggs and milk and a blue and yellow bowl. The time he shop in Paris are long week long vacation. There I stood at the window one morning after I had gotten up in camp behind me. Put his arms around my middle, his lips, the bag, my neck. I had a touch of vanilla in Sprinkle of sugar. I put a frying pan in STO but his lips to the back of my neck and we went back to bed. I lay out two slices bread on the cutting board. These hands the ends of my restroom of the crust. I'm not sure why. Oh, I know. Why is your heart is it down at the table? Stand up. Sit down. Concentrate on my breathing. That's supposed to help. Actually, it does not. I check my watch. Good. Only five more minutes. I take off my brand. I go upstairs to my bathroom. I brush my teeth again. Put in my contacts. Call my hair. Apply eyeliner, mascara and a tasteful shade of red lipstick. A street mechanic of my new sweater. It's right to Kashmir. I do have a little joy. Also knew behind my years and on my wrist. Then I stand still. Regard myself as objectively as possible in the mirror. Well, college is fine. Okay, circles under the eyes. Big deal. The main thing is, what a wonderful change for Travis. Instead of him saying me and my usual bathroom with permanent X stain on the left lapel. I am nicely dressed, made up and ready to go. Everything will be different. Starting today, everything will be better. I go into Travis's room. Yes, mess. Lee, asleep, covers frakked around one leg. Pajama top hiked high on his back, pillows at all angles, his arm hanging over one side of the bed. Travis, I say softly, raising a shape At seven o'clock, I sit down beside him and rub his back. Travis, I am Ah, he says sleep Lee, joining over quickly, eyes wide. What stinks. He put his hand over his nose. I stand step back perfume. It's Listen, get dressed and come down for breakfast, Okay? I'm making French toes. No reaction. I mean, not frozen kind from scratch. These Travis, he sits up, rubs his head two blond cowlick, stick up like devil horns. He's wearing one of David's T shirts with his own pajama bottoms, the bottoms air to sure for him. I see now. Well, no problem. Today I will replace him. Maybe Ralph Lauren makes pajama bottoms for kids. Someone's wanna grab Travis Jones again hugely scratches his stomach. I look away despairing of this too manly movement. It seems so recent that I had to step around imaginative arrangements of Legos, jagged backed dinosaurs, secret space stations, tools for surgery to wake him up. Now he hides a well thumbed issue of Playboy under his bed. One day, when Travis was at school, I inspected Miss August thoroughly. I felt like putting in in a note for the next time you looked at her. Dear Travis, please be advised that this is not a real woman. These air bought boobs and pubic hair looks nothing like this in its natural state. This woman needs to find her life's work and not spend all of her time in front of a mirror. If you went out with her, you would soon be disappointed, signed a caring friend.