Thompson Stories to Sleep On

an Anthology
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-0983-0478-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 320 Seiten

A collection of stories written to help the reader ponder life's challenges and feel good. The anthology is meant for perhaps that quiet time in bed before the lights are turned off. Or a quiet time of the day when an escape would help. It's meant for someone wants to just read a complete story in one sitting, unlike a novel. It provides a wide range of topics for one to consider as part of the fabric of our lives as we struggle along.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Thompson, Michael

Leseproben

The Last Play The day was warm for September. There was no wind, and the sun shone brightly. It was a nice change from all the gray skies of late. As Irene Conners, a retired actress, looked out the window of her small apartment at the assisted living facility she now called home, she saw trees whose leaves were starting to turn the colors of fall. The bright yellows, oranges, and reds mixed with the green popped in the sunlight. Irene lived in an apartment at the end of a long hall at the residence. She sat at her small kitchen table with a cup of steaming coffee. She liked it very hot and without cream or sugar—nothing to compromise the true flavor. She had enjoyed black coffee all her life and could not understand how one could order a latte. She refused to drink her coffee when it became tepid, summoning someone to get her a fresh cup. Most of the time, they just nuked it and returned it, unbeknownst to Irene. As she looked out the window, she mused about the big world out there that was once her life. The freedom was what she missed the most—the ability to just do what she wanted, when she wanted, and damned be everyone else. She had had a wonderful life, without a doubt, but now, in the twilight of her years, she had some regrets. Was there ever enough life to be completely fulfilling when it came to this time in one’s life? She thought not, and she was no different from most people. Yes, she had graced the stage with her acting acumen unparalleled by most actresses. She disliked the new fashion of calling female actresses actors. She was an actress! Her reviews were ecstatic early on and for a long time. But then life, as it always happens, came along, and others garnered the attention and demand of theatergoers. Irene began to realize her time was running out. And she never pursued anything else, save for one special interest. Now, she sat by the window most days, with her cup of coffee, and mused about the times gone by that still meant so much to her. Irene was once a stage actress of some renown and never made the transition to other forms of entertainment. For her, the thrill of the stage fed her inner spirit, and her acting came as naturally as moving about the room at home. She felt a thrill as the curtain went up; a live performance made her feel alive. She had once been referred to as one of the grande dames of theater, but that was twenty years ago, and she was now all but forgotten. Needless to say, this had been a sore spot for Irene for a while, but time has a way of smoothing the ripples in our lives, and Irene moved on. Now she was a matronly lady of eighty-two with her formerly blond, now gray, tightly curled hair still intact. There was a slight quiver in her hands, but not enough to impede her lifestyle. Her skin was flawless, thanks to years and years of makeup and moisturizers to protect it from the harsh lighting of the stage. She moved slowly these days thanks to a bit of arthritis in her back but still maintained an erect posture, second nature in the theater. The path to this final stage of her life was one of necessity and was mutually decided upon by her and those who cared for her. The more it was discussed, the more she began to see the writing on the wall. It was just too difficult to continue living by herself. And even Irene saw the wisdom of the upcoming move. So, with many regrets and the assistance of her nephew, she sold her house and stored most of her possessions, unable to part with them. It was a chaotic time in her life with too many decisions to be made for someone of her age. Some were made in error simply for the necessity of getting through it all. And with a pickup truck loaded with her belongings, she arrived at her new home in the spring of that year, carrying many regrets and resenting life in general. Those early months were trying for everyone involved. Irene could make it difficult for the most hardened of employees, and no one was immune from her wrath when things didn’t go the way she wanted them to go. Her complaints to the facility’s administrator were loudly delivered for all to hear while she sat calmly and listened and then tried to figure out how to solve the impossible. The nurses were not immune to Irene’s moods. They tried to ensure that her meds were dispensed and taken by this noncompliant patient, and at times, the documentation simply indicated the patient refused the medication. Her doctor tried not to visit often but did so when Irene demanded it. There was always a lot of discussion about why things were the way they were. Irene wanted answers, but even more, she wanted improvement in her condition of old age. Unfortunately, sometimes doctors just couldn’t make old age go away, even for a famous actress of the theater. After a few months, things began to settle down to a dull roar with Irene. Part of it was that the staff began to anticipate her needs and her acerbic responses. Part of it was that Irene was wearing down and getting used to the new order of life. The visits to the administrator dwindled, her compliance with the nursing staff regarding her meds improved, and her volatility muted somewhat. But Irene also found she retreated more to her little apartment, rarely venturing out into the facility. She took her meals there, delivered by her certified nursing assistant. She sat in her room while housekeeping cleaned up or changed the linens. Her only trip outside her room might be to the garden area on nice days to sit in the sun and read a book. Rarely did visitors pay a call, and when they did, she rarely accepted them. Her only regular visitor, if you could call him that, was her nephew, Jonathan. Jonathan was the executor of her estate, and he not only kept the financials of her life straight but managed her holdings and royalties—what little there were. His usual practice was to come once a month for lunch and to report on how things were going. Truth be told, Irene couldn’t care less how things were going. Finances didn’t matter to her considering where she lived and where she was in her life. What she craved was the interaction with her nephew, her brother’s (God rest his soul) son. He brought news of the theater world that always sparked her interest. She wanted to know how the old-timers were doing and where they were. And her old business partners—what were they doing? Jonathan was a family man, too, so he talked about his children and what they were doing. Rarely did they visit their great aunt who had achieved so much. In a way, she pitied them, but she held Jonathan and his wife responsible. They should have brought them by periodically so she could tell them tales of playing the big theaters of Broadway. Sometimes her room felt like a prison. Although it was one of the biggest apartments in the facility, it was nowhere near to what she was accustomed. Her king-size bed filled most of her bedroom, making it a challenge to get the wheelchair close to the bed. After a while, her nephew appeared with a shiny new, slim wheelchair with a red seat, and it fit her slim figure perfectly, making it easier to access the bed. Around the apartment, she did well with a cane, but she was not up to walking any distance. Every other day, someone from physical therapy would stop in and encourage her to walk with them. She rarely did so. On her nightstand, she had a picture of herself taken from one of her many plays on Broadway—forty years ago, perhaps. At times, she would look at it and wonder, Who is that woman? Her living room consisted of a loveseat and two chairs facing it with a table between them. To one side of the room was a large brown chest with a flip-top lid. In it were her most prized possessions, which she would periodically go through to cheer herself up. There was no television, something Irene preferred not to watch. She felt that the acting, with all its swearing and histrionics, was not acting at all. How many takes did they do to just get one scene right? In the theater, there was only one—a live one with no going back to redo a scene. You had to be spot-on each night. So, television was a no-no for Irene. If she wanted to see something special, she could always go down to the community room and watch it there. Unfortunately, there was always a group of old farts who couldn’t stop talking instead of just listening. One time, as she watched the Tonys, the old guy next to her fell asleep and snored so loudly, Irene left in a huff. After that, she decided it was best to stay in her room and away from those “other” people. At times like this, she thought, This is no place for me. I don’t belong here. I want out. The living room provided her with a great view of the outside world. The window to the garden area was fairly large, and in good weather, the right side of the window could be unlocked and slid to the left, allowing a breeze to filter in and freshen the stale air. Irene would sit for hours then, looking out and hearing the sounds of life. She had Jonathan put up a birdfeeder just outside to attract the birds, but after a few days, the seed was gone, and so were the birds. Sometimes she could get one of the staff to go out the back door and around to her window to refill it, but most of the time she waited for Jonathan to come. The other part of her little residence included a small kitchen area that was the pride of Irene’s life. Why? Because it meant independence! She could get things from her small fridge to snack on (her meals were always delivered, so there was no need for cooking), she could have a cup of tea in the afternoon by herself, and she could microwave a bag of popcorn at night, one of her few vices! Next to her bedroom was her bathroom. It...