My parent’s home is
beautiful. It is open, colorful,
tastefully decorated, and has a youthful feel.
Freshly cut flowers are a common sight downstairs, where my mom and dad
spend most of their time. Upstairs are
three guest bedrooms that have not gotten the same attention as the
downstairs. These rooms are used only in
July, August and Thanksgiving, when me and my sisters (and our families) visit.
While we generally are good
guests, my sisters and I have all complained in recent years about the quality
of our sleep when visiting. Not that we
mean to be ungrateful, but the mattresses have been deteriorating for
years.
My first night here is
miserable. My mattress literally
squeaks, and its dips and valleys awake me at every turn. The next morning my mom asks, “How did you
sleep?” “You have to get a new mattress,” I
respond. To my astonishment, my mom immediately agrees.
I spend the next few hours
researching. It is overwhelming and
unproductive. Prices start low and go as
high as $59,750 (for the Vividus by Hastens).
There is just too much uninteresting information about coils and latex
and memory foam to keep me focused on the research.
My sister Jean arrives
around five, and by six we are on our way to Hyannis to Bernie and Phyl’s, a
local furniture store with ads featuring Bernie and Phyl. Despite their “Hi, I’m Bernie and I’m Phyl” folksy ads, the store is nice, and our sales girl, Melissa,
is knowledgeable and helpful. My sister
and I try out several mattresses. We lie
next to each other and mimic sleeping. We feel compelled to tell Melissa we are
not a couple. She doesn’t
care.
Miraculously, my sister and
I choose the same mattress as our first choice.
It’s hotel-level quality, firm but not hard.
We call my mother and tell
her we want two. Another miracle. Without any argument at all, she says okay.
The mattresses and box
springs are being delivered tomorrow. We ask if they can be delivered
tonight but unfortunately that miracle
cannot be fulfilled.
