perfectly still, Isabel listened for noise … nobody in the shower, nobody running water in the bathroom, no sound of life in the kitchen or elsewhere in the little townhouse. She threw back the covers and padded down the hallway to the front door. Tray’s shoes were gone.
Well, that was an unceremonious departure, she thought with a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to a lazy morning together, but maybe this was for the best. She barely knew him; perhaps it would just be uncomfortable having to deal with him in the cold light of day. Opening the front door, she scooped up the weekend paper. On her way back to bed, she swung by the kitchen, grabbed some orange juice and made herself a toasted bagel with cream cheese.
With all the pillows nicely plumped behind her, Isabel settled back into bed with the paper and her morning breakfast tray. And that was the position she found herself in when she woke again a couple of hours later to the shrill ring of the telephone.
Nine o’clock. Too early for good news, she decided, and let the machine pick up. Sure enough, it was a telemarketer. She’d like to have their home phone numbers so she could call them early Saturday morning.
Carefully, she lifted the tray from her lap and set it on the floor. The bagel was cold and no longer looked appealing. The pulp in the juice had settled to the bottom of the glass. Isabel rolled over onto the far side of the bed and gazed at herself in the mirror. She was pretty. She knew that. All her life she’d been told she was cute by her family, by her friends, by the boys in school. Even in grade school she was one of the most popular girls. Always one of the girls that the boys developed crushes on.
She cringed, remembering how her family had tried to push her into social situations. She’d been busy with school work, and not as out-going as her family wanted. She loved to read and spent Saturday afternoons in the library looking for new authors. She moved quickly through the Nancy Drew books and onto the entire series of the Hardy Boys. Then, by grade five, she was reading Agatha Christie, Edgar Allan Poe and biographies of dead politicians. She preferred to study when her friends were going to skating parties.
In junior high, in spite of her teachers insisting she was well adjusted, just studious – in their eyes a perfect student - her family had insisted that she see the school psychologist. Isabel had spent several afternoons in Dr. Grundle’s office playing chess and word puzzles. Who is smarter, the ox or the fox? Who is stronger, the ox or the fox? There was never a right answer, and yet there was never a wrong answer. Isabel’s mind was seduced by the mind games and she quickly realized psychology held the key to understanding other people. She knew, from that time on, that she would grow up to be a psychologist.
Once she had a career goal, her parents were even more frustrated in their attempts to get her to go out more with her friends. She spent hours digging through old text books, reading biographies of Freud and Jung and showing people ink blots so she could ‘diagnose’ their personalities.
It was her grandmother who came to her rescue. Her father’s mother was a cantankerous old bird, known in the family for her quick and dry wit. She could pick the skin off you at twenty yards and have the entire room in stitches while she did it. She was not intentionally unkind, just sharp as a whip and oblivious to society’s dictates for acceptance. She convinced Isabel’s parents that if the girl had a passion, she should be encouraged to follow it. Boys would come, parties would come. Most people, her grandmother had emphasized, looking pointedly at her son, spent their whole lives in dead end jobs trying to figure out what they wanted to be when they grew up. Isabel was lucky to know what she wanted, so they should let her be.
That had been a turning point for Isabel. She wondered if Tray had had a
Well, that was an unceremonious departure, she thought with a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to a lazy morning together, but maybe this was for the best. She barely knew him; perhaps it would just be uncomfortable having to deal with him in the cold light of day. Opening the front door, she scooped up the weekend paper. On her way back to bed, she swung by the kitchen, grabbed some orange juice and made herself a toasted bagel with cream cheese.
With all the pillows nicely plumped behind her, Isabel settled back into bed with the paper and her morning breakfast tray. And that was the position she found herself in when she woke again a couple of hours later to the shrill ring of the telephone.
Nine o’clock. Too early for good news, she decided, and let the machine pick up. Sure enough, it was a telemarketer. She’d like to have their home phone numbers so she could call them early Saturday morning.
Carefully, she lifted the tray from her lap and set it on the floor. The bagel was cold and no longer looked appealing. The pulp in the juice had settled to the bottom of the glass. Isabel rolled over onto the far side of the bed and gazed at herself in the mirror. She was pretty. She knew that. All her life she’d been told she was cute by her family, by her friends, by the boys in school. Even in grade school she was one of the most popular girls. Always one of the girls that the boys developed crushes on.
She cringed, remembering how her family had tried to push her into social situations. She’d been busy with school work, and not as out-going as her family wanted. She loved to read and spent Saturday afternoons in the library looking for new authors. She moved quickly through the Nancy Drew books and onto the entire series of the Hardy Boys. Then, by grade five, she was reading Agatha Christie, Edgar Allan Poe and biographies of dead politicians. She preferred to study when her friends were going to skating parties.
In junior high, in spite of her teachers insisting she was well adjusted, just studious – in their eyes a perfect student - her family had insisted that she see the school psychologist. Isabel had spent several afternoons in Dr. Grundle’s office playing chess and word puzzles. Who is smarter, the ox or the fox? Who is stronger, the ox or the fox? There was never a right answer, and yet there was never a wrong answer. Isabel’s mind was seduced by the mind games and she quickly realized psychology held the key to understanding other people. She knew, from that time on, that she would grow up to be a psychologist.
Once she had a career goal, her parents were even more frustrated in their attempts to get her to go out more with her friends. She spent hours digging through old text books, reading biographies of Freud and Jung and showing people ink blots so she could ‘diagnose’ their personalities.
It was her grandmother who came to her rescue. Her father’s mother was a cantankerous old bird, known in the family for her quick and dry wit. She could pick the skin off you at twenty yards and have the entire room in stitches while she did it. She was not intentionally unkind, just sharp as a whip and oblivious to society’s dictates for acceptance. She convinced Isabel’s parents that if the girl had a passion, she should be encouraged to follow it. Boys would come, parties would come. Most people, her grandmother had emphasized, looking pointedly at her son, spent their whole lives in dead end jobs trying to figure out what they wanted to be when they grew up. Isabel was lucky to know what she wanted, so they should let her be.
That had been a turning point for Isabel. She wondered if Tray had had a
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