Free Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover by Ann B. Ross

“Miss Julia?”
    â€œYes, thank you for taking my call. I am worried sick, Dr. Hargrove. What happened to Sam? Is he going to be all right?”
    â€œWell, right now, I don’t know what happened. That’s why I called Dr. Allen. It could’ve been nothing—indigestion, as Sam thought, or an early indication that something else is going on.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œUlcers are a possibility, but most likely it’s an inflamed gallbladder. We’ll run some tests and have a better idea when the results come in. But he needs to get to the hospital so we can get started.”
    â€œI understand, but I don’t know why you didn’t keep him there when you had him.”
    â€œWell, you know Sam.” Dr. Hargrove chuckled, which under the circumstances I didn’t appreciate. “It’s hard to keep a good man down.”
    I didn’t see any humor in the situation, nor did I think that platitudes were a bit of help. “That’s all well and good, but what do you think? Is he going to be all right?”
    â€œIt’s like this, Miss Julia: he seemed fine after a little while—his blood pressure and heart rate were normal, and he had no fever. But it’s only sensible to do some tests as a precautionary measure. You know, at his age . . .”
    There it was again:
at his age,
or as had been said to me so many times,
at your age,
and I was sick and tired of it. Why did one’s age have to qualify everything? And have you noticed that you can’t turn around nowadays without someone asking for your date of birth? It doesn’t matter where you are—in a doctor’s office, a lawyer’s office, a bank, or a place of business—some little twit a third of your age thinks it her right to demand your birth date. At least, though, they’ve stopped asking how old you are, having discovered that if they’re rude enough to ask for a specific number they’re likely to get a nonspecific and ever-changing answer. I finally figured out that they’re using your birth date to identify you instead of your Social Security number. Which doesn’t make a lick of sense because there’s only one Social Security number to a person, yet there must be hundreds, even thousands, of people who have the same date of birth. They’d be better off if they required something like fingerprints that can’t be duplicated or stolen, which, come to think of it, will probably be the next step.
    Only partially reassured by Dr. Hargrove, I decided to focus on the surgeon—when I could catch him—who would know more than Dr. Hargrove anyway. I took the portable phone to Sam, swinging through the library on my way, to pick up his address book.
    â€œNow,” I said, retaking my seat on the ottoman, “who do you have to call?”
    â€œI need my calendar,” Sam said, beginning to rise. “It’s in the library.”
    â€œNo, don’t get up. I’ll get it.” And back to the library I went for his calendar.
    â€œWell, actually,” Sam said, pulling a folded page from his coat pocket, “I’d better enter these events on the calendar first. Then we can decide who to ask to go in my place.”
    â€œWhy can’t you just reschedule them?”
    â€œI don’t think I can—the next few weeks are booked solid. And if somebody doesn’t show up for some of these events, why, the party’s likely to think they have another Frank Sawyer on their hands.”
    â€œMaybe his knees are well enough to take over for you,” Isuggested, wondering if Sam should be doing any campaigning at all. And wondering also if the episode he’d had was a sign that the Lord wanted Sam out of politics. Having Trixie on our hands could be another sign, as well. I was becoming less and less enamored of Sam as a potential senator—not that I’d been all that enthusiastic in the first