“Doesn’t matter,” she said when I asked. I sped right through it, as it is a short book that draws you into the story of Lucy, her childhood and adult life. To begin with, it was a simple story: I had gone into the hospital to have my appendix out. Knitting this powerful narrative together is the brilliant storytelling voice of Lucy herself: keenly observant, deeply human, and truly unforgettable. He had told me when we met that he hated hospitals—his father had died in one when he was fourteen—and I saw now that he meant this. During the day, the building’s beauty receded, and gradually it became simply one more large structure against a blue sky, and all the city’s buildings seemed remote, silent, far away. It was May, and then June, and I remember how I would stand and look out the window at the sidewalk below and watch the young women — my age — in their spring clothes, out on their lunch breaks; I could see their heads moving in conversation, their blouses rippling in the breeze. Her bestselling novels, including Olive Kitteridge and The Burgess Boys, have illuminated our most tender relationships. My husband, naturally, was busy running the household and also busy with his job, and he didn’t often have a chance to visit me. Her mother, to whom she hasn’t spoken for many years, comes to see her. “They’re amazing,” I said. My husband could not stand it—he could not stand visiting me there, is what I mean—and he had me moved to a single room. Whenever a nurse came to take my temperature, I tried to get her to stay for a few minutes, but the nurses were busy, they could not just hang around talking. It was May, and then June, and I remember how I would stand and look out the window at the sidewalk below and watch the young women—my age—in their spring clothes, out on their lunch breaks; I could see their heads moving in conversation, their blouses rippling in the breeze. Her voice sounded shy but urgent. I was grateful not to hear that poor woman crying out, but had anyone known the extent of my loneliness I would have been embarrassed. The nurses offered to bring her a cot, but she shook her head. Copyright © 2015-2016 Free Books Online™. I had not seen my mother for years, and I kept staring at her; I could not figure out why she looked so different. Contact us -- [email protected], Rush Too Far (Rosemary Beach #4) read online, The Hunger Games (The Hunger Games #1) read online, Breakable (Contours of the Heart #2) read online, Forever Too Far (Rosemary Beach #3) read online, Catching Fire (The Hunger Games #2) read online, Fallen Too Far (Rosemary Beach #1) read online, The Darkest Seduction (Lords of the Underwo read online, Mockingjay (The Hunger Games #3) read online, Easy (Contours of the Heart #1) read online, Never Too Far (Rosemary Beach #2) read online. About three weeks after I was admitted, I turned my eyes from the window late one afternoon and found my mother sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed. Mommy, look at the dress of my fairy princess!” They said very little, the younger one especially seemed unable to speak, and when I put my arms around her, I saw her lower lip thrust out and her chin tremble; she was a tiny thing, trying so hard to be brave. But until then I was in a very strange state—a literally feverish waiting—and I really agonized. A new book by Pulitzer Prize winner Elizabeth Strout is cause for celebration. There was a time, and it was many years ago now, when I had to stay in a hospital for almost nine weeks. A new book by Pulitzer Prize winner Elizabeth Strout is cause for celebration. I thought how when I got out of the hospital I would never again walk down the sidewalk without giving thanks for being one of those people, and for many years I did that — I would remember the view from the hospital window and be glad for the sidewalk I was walking on. This was in New York City, and at night a view of the Chrysler Building, with its geometric brilliance of lights, was directly visible from my bed. When my doctor, to whom I felt a deep attachment—he was a jowly-faced Jewish man who wore such a gentle sadness on his shoulders, whose grandparents and three aunts, I heard him tell a nurse, had been killed in the camps, and who had a wife and four grown children here in New York City—this lovely man, I think, felt sorry for me, and saw to it that my girls—they were five and six—could visit me if they had no illnesses. There was a time, and it was many years ago now, when I had to stay in a hospital for almost nine weeks. My Name Is Lucy Barton A Novel (Book) : Strout, Elizabeth : "Lucy Barton is recovering slowly from what should have been a simple operation. Also available in hardcover, ebook, and audiobook formats.

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