same time, a second snowball hit Jenna on the arm. This one also exploded nicely.
The kids yelled, “Hey!” and turned as one unit to see Pete and me, both grinning, both with our hands cocked back with fresh ammunition.
“Snowball fight!” Jenna shouted, and the game was on.
It ended as snowball fights tend to, with someone getting a big, fat, hard snowball in the face. This time that someone was me.
“Ooof!” I stumbled back, trying to wipe the icy white stuff from my face.
“Sorry, Mom!” Jenna called. “Are you okay?”
“She’s fine,” Pete said. He stepped close and brushed the snow from my shoulders, my hair, my neck, my face.
“That stuff’s cold.” I smiled. “Did you get it all?”
“Almost,” he said, then leaned in close.
His lips were soft and gentle and warm, warmer than I would have thought possible on such a chill night, but then everything about Pete was warm. His voice warmed me, his laughter warmed me, and his smile did nice warm things to my insides, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that his kiss would warm me down to my toes. Down to, and including, my toes, my toenails . . .
“FWEEEEE!”
And so, it was while kissing Pete Peterson in front of my children for the first time that I learned Jenna knew how to make an earsplitting whistle.
Like mother, like daughter.
• • •
On Monday morning Lois, Yvonne, and I were debating the pros and cons of having a midwinter sale when the front doorbells jingled and Gus walked in.
“Chief,” Lois said, clicking her heels together and saluting him.
“At ease, men,” Gus said. “Beth, do you have a minute?”
“Men?” Lois demanded. “Do I look like a men?”
She did not. Today’s chosen ensemble was black pants, black sweater, black shoes, and pink socks with pink sequins. She claimed to be starting a new fashion trend, but I suspected she just wanted an excuse to wear the pink socks her granddaughter had given her for Christmas. The only thing Lois had written on her Christmas gift list was “something pink.” Most of her large family had ignored the request, but a few had humored her.
Gus and I ignored her question and headed back to my office. He closed the door behind us and we sat. Or rather, I sat and Gus perched on the front edge of the guest chair. Since the chair had arms, and since he was in uniform and wearing his crowded utility belt, there wasn’t enough room for all of him to fit between the wooden arms.
“It’s about Cookie, isn’t it?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’ve had a preliminary report from the medical examiner and we have cause of death.”
There suddenly wasn’t enough air in the room. I wanted to rush out of my office and run outside, wanted to breathe deep of the cold, clean January air, wanted to look up into a blue sky spotty with clouds and suck in deep breaths that would wash me clean.
But instead of doing that, I asked, “What was it?”
“An overdose of acetaminophen.”
“An . . . overdose?” No. It couldn’t be true. I didn’t want to know this, not one tiny little bit. “You don’t mean . . .” I couldn’t say the word “suicide” out loud. Didn’t want to let the possibility loose into the room, where it could grow strong enough to escape and get out into the world.
But Gus was shaking his head. “It’s actually not that hard to OD on acetaminophen. Tylenol, most people know it by, but it’s in a lot of other medications and the lethal dosage is surprisingly low. Cookie had a number of other meds she was taking that included acetaminophen, and if she had a bad headache and had taken a few pills . . . well . . .” He sighed and went on to describe the symptoms of an overdose of acetaminophen.
As he talked about the three phases, about the nausea that can accompany the first phase, about the second phase that starts twenty-four to seventy-two hours after the overdose, the phase that indicates increasing liver damage,
The kids yelled, “Hey!” and turned as one unit to see Pete and me, both grinning, both with our hands cocked back with fresh ammunition.
“Snowball fight!” Jenna shouted, and the game was on.
It ended as snowball fights tend to, with someone getting a big, fat, hard snowball in the face. This time that someone was me.
“Ooof!” I stumbled back, trying to wipe the icy white stuff from my face.
“Sorry, Mom!” Jenna called. “Are you okay?”
“She’s fine,” Pete said. He stepped close and brushed the snow from my shoulders, my hair, my neck, my face.
“That stuff’s cold.” I smiled. “Did you get it all?”
“Almost,” he said, then leaned in close.
His lips were soft and gentle and warm, warmer than I would have thought possible on such a chill night, but then everything about Pete was warm. His voice warmed me, his laughter warmed me, and his smile did nice warm things to my insides, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that his kiss would warm me down to my toes. Down to, and including, my toes, my toenails . . .
“FWEEEEE!”
And so, it was while kissing Pete Peterson in front of my children for the first time that I learned Jenna knew how to make an earsplitting whistle.
Like mother, like daughter.
• • •
On Monday morning Lois, Yvonne, and I were debating the pros and cons of having a midwinter sale when the front doorbells jingled and Gus walked in.
“Chief,” Lois said, clicking her heels together and saluting him.
“At ease, men,” Gus said. “Beth, do you have a minute?”
“Men?” Lois demanded. “Do I look like a men?”
She did not. Today’s chosen ensemble was black pants, black sweater, black shoes, and pink socks with pink sequins. She claimed to be starting a new fashion trend, but I suspected she just wanted an excuse to wear the pink socks her granddaughter had given her for Christmas. The only thing Lois had written on her Christmas gift list was “something pink.” Most of her large family had ignored the request, but a few had humored her.
Gus and I ignored her question and headed back to my office. He closed the door behind us and we sat. Or rather, I sat and Gus perched on the front edge of the guest chair. Since the chair had arms, and since he was in uniform and wearing his crowded utility belt, there wasn’t enough room for all of him to fit between the wooden arms.
“It’s about Cookie, isn’t it?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’ve had a preliminary report from the medical examiner and we have cause of death.”
There suddenly wasn’t enough air in the room. I wanted to rush out of my office and run outside, wanted to breathe deep of the cold, clean January air, wanted to look up into a blue sky spotty with clouds and suck in deep breaths that would wash me clean.
But instead of doing that, I asked, “What was it?”
“An overdose of acetaminophen.”
“An . . . overdose?” No. It couldn’t be true. I didn’t want to know this, not one tiny little bit. “You don’t mean . . .” I couldn’t say the word “suicide” out loud. Didn’t want to let the possibility loose into the room, where it could grow strong enough to escape and get out into the world.
But Gus was shaking his head. “It’s actually not that hard to OD on acetaminophen. Tylenol, most people know it by, but it’s in a lot of other medications and the lethal dosage is surprisingly low. Cookie had a number of other meds she was taking that included acetaminophen, and if she had a bad headache and had taken a few pills . . . well . . .” He sighed and went on to describe the symptoms of an overdose of acetaminophen.
As he talked about the three phases, about the nausea that can accompany the first phase, about the second phase that starts twenty-four to seventy-two hours after the overdose, the phase that indicates increasing liver damage,
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