The next morning, Mother and I had same-time appointments at the mental health clinic with our respective doctors (hers, a psychiatrist; mine, a psychologist), and at a little before ten, I pulled my new used burgundy Buick into the snow-plowed parking lot. I had recently bought the “gently dented” car from Mrs. Hetzler—a friend of Mother’s in her Red-Hatted League mystery-reading club—who had shrunk so much over the years that the little woman could no longer see over the steering wheel without sitting on a Chicago phone book. Whenever I enter the waiting room of the clinic and see all of the other patients in need of mental care, I’m reminded of a story Pastor Tutor shared in a sermon one Sunday—you know how it goes…about the room filled with looming crosses to bear, and you go, “I’ll take that little one over there.” And God goes, “That’s the one you came in with.” And you go, “Oh.” After stomping the white stuff from our boots, Mother and I checked in with the receptionist, then hung up our twin raccoon coats.
What do You think about Antiques Flee Market (2008)?
