You’re retired. You can do anything you want.

She couldn’t help thinking of her dad who withered and died when he retired.

TROUBLESHOOTING IN PARADISE BY PG SMITH 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 112

Here she sat. Doris Carmichael sat at the table glaring at the Chippendale sideboard wondering what was left of her life. “I d-don’t know w-w-what to do, Frank.”

“You’re retired!” Frank said. “You can do anything you want.”

“I know.”

“What’s wrong with you, Dorrie? It seemed like you were adjusting so well.”

“I know.”

She picked up the dinner plates and limped to the kitchen. “W-w-want s-s-some pie? I g-g-got you an apple pie.”

She couldn’t help thinking of her dad who withered and died when he retired. Such a great lawyer. Everyone told her she took after her dad. She had his sense of humor, his gift of argument, his facility with the law. She was the one who who kept the firm on track. But she hadn’t expected to have a stroke just like he did 20 years ago.

“I know you l-l-like apple p-pie,” she said.

“Thanks, Dorrie. Pie is perfect. Listen, you just need a hobby. You’ll work it out.”

Frank was too young to retire but so was she. Fifty-nine. If it weren’t for the stroke she wouldn’t have even slowed down for another 10 years. Now Frank thought she needed a hobby. She didn’t want a stinking hobby!

“Maybe you should join a book club. Now you have time to read.”

Right. She hacked a slice out of the pie. Who did he think he was talking to? Did he even know her at all? After 35 years of marriage?

She limped back into the dining room and slapped the plate on the table in front of him.

“Aren’t you having any?”

“N-n-no. I think I’ll have a d-d-drink.”

“Allow me.” He jumped up and gave her a peck on the cheek. “What’ll it be? Cocktail? Red wine?”

“M-m-maybe a scotch and soda,” she said.

“Coming right up.”

Why was she angry at Frank? It wasn’t his fault she had a stroke. She should blame her dad. He gave her those crappy genes.

“I’m s-sorry to be such a c-crab,” she said.

“I know what’ll cheer you up,” he said. “The Hendersons are having a party. You can go shopping. Buy a new dress.”

“Oh, g-god.” She took a long gulp of the scotch. Should have had it straight. “I’m not g-g-going to the Hendersons.”

“Why not? You love their parties.”

“That w-w-was w-when I could s-still t-t-talk.” Silver-tongued Doris, stuttering like a baby. “I sound like a m-m-moron.”

“Don’t ever say that. A year ago you couldn’t walk or talk. You almost died! You’re a hero, Dorrie.”

“I’m n-n-not g-going to the Henderson’s.”

The next day Doris sat on the deck gazing at the chinaberry tree with a book in her lap and tears in her eyes. What was she going to do with herself? She couldn’t go back to the law firm. Sixty-hour work week? Out of the question. She didn’t even want to see her colleagues or talk to them since the stroke had left her with that horrid stutter.

The phone rang and a no-nonsense voice asked, “Mrs Carmichael? This is Mrs Havelock, the director of Pleasant Oaks Rehab and Long-Term Care Center. I hope you’re well.”

“Thank you.” Why would she get a call from Mrs Havelock? Surely she didn’t personally check on her former residents, but maybe she did.

“Have you been watching the news?”

“N-n-news? Um, n-n-not today.”

“Well, Howard Miller died last night.”

“And it m-made the n-n-news?”

“He was a friend of yours, I heard.”

“Um, I knew him—n-n-not well.”

“I’d like to talk to you. Could you come to my office?”

“I-I suppose I c-could. W-When w-w-would you like me to c-c-come?”

“The sooner the better. It’s quite urgent.”