by Leslie Gould
It was past the kids’ lunchtime when they finally reached the lake.
Three college students were stretched out on blankets with unopened books by their sides.
Jill laughed when she saw the young women. “I used to go to the beach all the time in college, but I was smart enough not to take my books,” she said.
Audrey ran up to the oak tree with the split trunk and stood in the center of it. “Andrew is going to be so jealous that we went to the lake today,” she announced to everyone. “I can’t wait to tell him.”
Liam and Hudson climbed on top of the picnic table where Jill had stopped.
“Get off,” Caye commanded, pulling the blue checked plastic cloth off the stroller hood. They jumped. She watched in relief as Liam landed on his feet; she flung the cloth over the table. A crow swooped down and landed on the plastic.
“Shoo!” she shouted.
After lunch Audrey and Hudson started toward the water. “Life jackets,” Caye called after them. She’d dug them out of Jill’s garage before they’d left. She pulled the plastic garbage bag out of the picnic basket and wrapped it around Liam’s arm, tucking the bag under his cast. Then she fastened each jacket securely.
Caye carried Simon and the blanket, and Jill carried the diaper bag as they walked down with the kids to the lake.
Jill was quiet.
Caye felt sad. It was too easy to compare this day at the lake to so many others in the past. She was tired of this waiting and wondering. Just make her better, God. We know you’re going to do it. Just do it now.
Scrubby oak trees grew in the grass above the beach area. Parasitic mistletoe, nearly hidden by the new leaves, hung high in the branches. Crows flew up from the treetops, cawing at each other, at Caye and Jill and the kids. No, at Jill. Caye felt as though everything was directed toward Jill. Nature, people’s thoughts, gravity, the rotation of the earth. Some collective energy was building, growing, focusing on Jill.
Under other circumstances, Caye would have been jealous of this force, this cosmic attention on her friend. Under the present circumstances she felt comforted, hopeful—but impatient.
Caye looked out across the lake to the hills covered with trees and shades of green. The reflection of the hills rippled in the water.
Jill spread the blanket on the sand and sat down cross-legged. She wore baggy short overalls and black leather clogs. Her sunglasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them up and held her finger against the bridge for a long moment.
“What do you want to do for Liam’s birthday?” Caye asked, sitting down beside her and letting Simon crawl on the blanket.
Jill smiled. “What day is today?”
“The twenty-third,” Caye answered.
They were silent for a moment.
“A simple birthday at the park would be nice,” Jill finally said. “How about at Railroad Park?”
“I could make a train cake.”
“Perfect,” Jill said.
The books and articles she’d been reading puzzled Caye. Jill didn’t fit the cancer model. She wasn’t a victim. She wasn’t a worrier. She didn’t internalize. She wasn’t passive. She hadn’t had a tragedy in the last year. Her life wasn’t perfect—but it was closer to perfect than anyone Caye knew. Caye was sure that Jill was determined enough to beat the cancer. One of the books she read insisted that love was the most effective element of healing. Jill was loved. Not perfectly, of course, except by God. But she was loved. And she loved.
At the water’s edge, Hudson splashed Audrey. Then they both splashed Liam. The plastic bag over his cast bothered Caye.
“Let’s walk to the boat dock,” she called out, her anxiety rising.
“I’ll stay with Simon,” Jill said.
“Are you sure?” Caye asked, knowing Jill shouldn’t lift the baby. What if he crawled away from her?
Jill frowned. “I can take care of him, Caye. Really.”
She’s annoyed with me. Caye stood and watched the kids run ahead along the shore. She kicked at a rock with her sandal and then started walking quickly to catch up with them.
“Stop at the boat ramp!” she yelled to the kids.
She took Liam’s hand as they walked out on the floating metal pier. His arm stuck out nearly straight from the life jacket. Walking the dock was the kids’ favorite thing to do at the lake. In another couple of years, they’d all want to go on the water slide at the entrance to the park instead.
Liam stomped his feet on the metal grating, then looked up at Caye and smiled.
When they reached the end of the ramp, Caye glanced toward the beach. Jill was waving at them. She looked distressed.
Caye dropped Liam’s hand to shade her eyes and get a better look at Jill. Liam jumped on the metal grating. Audrey stepped forward. Liam jumped again. The two collided. Caye sensed that Liam was falling backward. She reached and snatched him by his good arm, then turned her head to see Audrey falling sideways, her arm extended toward Caye, her mouth wide open in a shocked, desperate expression, her braids flying out in both directions. At least she has on her life jacket. Caye stretched for her daughter, knowing she couldn’t reach Audrey’s flailing hand.
Is that the difference between Jill and me? Audrey went over in a long, slow moment. Caye took the two steps to the edge of the boat ramp, dragging Liam with her. Jill would have miraculously grabbed Audrey’s hand but not enforced the life jacket. I missed the hand but made her wear the life jacket.
Audrey splashed.
Caye fell to her knees and reached into the cold water, still holding on to Liam.
“You’re okay,” Caye said before Audrey could scream.
“I am not,” she sputtered. “You didn’t catch me.”
Caye grabbed the back of Audrey’s life jacket and yanked her onto the pier.
“You saved Liam,” Audrey sputtered, collapsing in a heap, “and left me to drown.”
Caye put Liam’s hand in Hudson’s and picked Audrey up and hugged her. She felt the cold water soak through her T-shirt.
“Let’s go get a towel.”
Jill gasped as Audrey went over. In a second, Caye had her on the pier, but Jill felt shaky. If she were well, she would have been with them.
The pain stabbed at her again. It came on so quickly. Sharp, jagged, hard-to-breathe jabs. She’d taken her pain medication before they left but hadn’t brought any with her.
Simon began to fuss. She pulled his bottle out of the bag. He grabbed it before she could put it in his mouth and tipped his head back.
Another stab of pain.
Tears were streaming down Jill’s face by the time the others reached the blanket.
“Audrey’s okay. Really,” Caye said. Jill nodded. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t bring my pain medicine. I took a pill right before we left. I thought I’d be okay. I’m sorry.”
In the car Jill couldn’t get comfortable. She squirmed and wiggled. She took off her sunglasses and put them on the dashboard; then she unbuckled her seat belt and lay on her side.
“Should I take you to the hospital?” Caye asked.
“No. I’ll be better as soon as I get a pill.”
“This is really déjà,” Caye said.
“How so?”
“I was thinking of when Audrey was born.”
“But you got a baby out of it,” Jill said. And then she began to cry again.
“I’m sorry,” Caye said, patting her friend’s head.
“So sorry.” Jill didn’t answer. Her head was pressed against the seat and Caye’s leg. Her hands pressed against her belly.
Caye left Jill’s house with just enough time to get Andrew home before his baseball game.
She was relieved to go. Audrey falling in the lake, Jill’s painful ride home—it was all wearing Caye down.
“Get your uniform,” she said to Andrew as they walked in the d
oor. “And hurry.”
“Mom,” Andrew called out from his room, “there’s something wrong with Abra.”
The cat was on Andrew’s bed, moaning softly.
Great. When will I have time to take the cat to the vet? Doesn’t Abra know how busy I am right now? She sat down on the bed and looked into Abra’s eyes. The cat turned her head away. The calico was definitely sick. She howled as Caye picked her up.
Nathan stood in the doorway, baseball cap in hand.
“What’s wrong?”
Caye looked up. “You’re home early.”
“No practice. The eighth graders are on their class trip. I thought I’d take Andrew to his game. What’s wrong with the cat?” he asked again.
“She’s sick.”
“Should we take her to the vet?”
“No,” Caye said. Abra was probably dying. There was no use even calling the vet. She had noticed over the last couple of weeks that Abra was skinny and her fur was matted. But honestly, Caye had been so busy she hadn’t put much thought into the cat. Now Caye could feel Abra’s hipbones and spine as she held her.
It was better this way. Abra was thirteen—an old lady for a cat.
Caye grabbed a towel from the hall closet and wrapped Abra in it. She walked into the living room and sat in her rocker.
“Audrey, would you go get me the kitty’s brush?” Caye asked.
She sat and combed Abra while the cat purred. Stickers and leaves were caught in the white fur under her belly. “When did you stop washing yourself?” Caye chided.
“We went to the lake today, Daddy,” Audrey said.
“Really?”
“I fell in the lake. Off the boat ramp.”
Nathan shot Caye a look. Caye mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.”
“It’s not fair that they went to the lake. They shouldn’t do that when I’m in school,” Andrew whined as he walked into the living room with his baseball uniform on, socks and cleats in his hands.
“How did you fall in the lake?” Nathan asked.
“Mama grabbed Liam, and I fell in.”
Nathan looked at Caye with raised eyebrows.
“Why don’t you take Audrey to the game too? I’ll stay here with Abra,” Caye said.
Caye rocked Abra. Cancer. She probably has cancer.
Caye had rescued Abra from the ranch right after she’d graduated from college, the year before she married Nathan. It was one of the few impulsive decisions Caye had made.
“That cat’s nothing but trouble,” her dad had said. “She’s the runt of the litter. If you take her, you’ll have a hard time getting an apartment. She’s not worth it.”
Caye knew Abra wouldn’t last on the ranch. The kitten’s mother kept dragging her away from the rest of the litter. Caye took the kitten into the ranch house and started feeding her milk with an eyedropper. She sneaked the cat into her first apartment, changing the cat box every day so the manager wouldn’t suspect she was breaking the rules. When they married, Nathan insisted that they find a place that allowed pets even though it cost another hundred dollars a month.
Abra had been her baby for six years, until she had Andrew. Now, just as the cat was finally growing fond of the children—well, Andrew anyway—she was dying.
Caye had seen the dying process on the ranch with cows, dogs, and cats. Her dad would have taken Abra behind the barn by now. “No use prolonging it,” he would have said.
She stroked the cat’s face, running her finger along the half-orange, half-brown nose, down to the dry tip.
The cat moaned again. Caye put her on the floor and went to the basement to retrieve a cardboard box. She lined it with old white towels and put Abra in it while she fixed beans and rice with sausage for dinner. She ate, left the food on the counter for the rest of the family, then settled back in the chair with her cat.
“Dinner’s in the kitchen,” she told Nathan and the kids as they came in the house. Andrew went straight to his room.
“I wouldn’t let him take a LEGO cowboy out to right field,” Nathan explained.
Before the kids went to bed, Caye had each of them say good-bye to Abra. “She might be dead in the morning,” Caye explained. Both of them frowned as they patted Abra. “Thanks for being our cat,” Andrew said.
“Thanks,” Audrey echoed.
It felt good to hold Abra, all wrapped up like a baby. The rocking motion soothed Caye. Abra, old friend. The tears started slowly. One escaped, then another.
Abra was dying. Jill was sick.
She wanted to call Jill and tell her about Abra, but the cat’s dying seemed insignificant compared to what Jill was facing. Caye felt so alone.
“When are you coming to bed?” Nathan asked, standing in the hallway in his boxers.
“Soon,” Caye answered. She sat and cried, let her emotions work their way up. Abra was an excuse for what had been sitting in her gut, twisting up her insides. She cried for Jill, for the surgery, for the cancer. She cried about Marion and about Rob’s attraction to the woman in North Carolina. She cried about Liam’s broken arm and Audrey falling in the lake and Jill’s horrible pain. She cried about Joya and Thomas and the Fellowship. She cried about Abra.
At 11:30 she put the cat in the box and went to bed. At 3:15 she tiptoed down the stairs and checked on Abra. She was still breathing.
At 6:30 she woke. Nathan wasn’t in bed.
She had the usual horrible sinking feeling that she woke to every morning. Jill, she thought. And Abra.
Abra. She hurried downstairs. The box was gone. The back door was open.
She rushed outside.
Nathan was next to the maple tree, digging a hole. Beside him was the box.
“What are you doing?” she yelled.
“She’s dead.”
“I need to see her,” Caye said. “The kids need to see her.”
Nathan gave Caye an exasperated look. “And I need to get to work.”
“I never asked you to bury her,” Caye retorted, walking across the cold grass in her bare feet, her nightshirt riding against her thighs.
She lifted the box and headed back to the house. Abra was stiff. Her eyes were closed. Her hipbones were visible through her fur. I should feel guilty that I didn’t take better care of her these last few weeks. But I won’t. I won’t feel guilty.
She woke the children. “Come see Abra before Daddy buries her,” she whispered into their ears. They padded out into the kitchen.
“Dead,” Audrey said. “All dead. When can we get a kitty?”
Caye ignored her question. Audrey headed into the living room to see what was on TV.
“Sorry,” Andrew said and went back into his room.
Caye took the box back outside. Nathan had finished the hole. “She’s better off,” Nathan said.
“It’s still hard,” she said, pulling Abra out of the box and wrapping her in the towels. Gently she lowered her into the hole and took the shovel from Nathan and covered the towel with dirt.
When she finished, she sat in the living room and stared stupidly at a television news show.
She heard Nathan shaving, making coffee, sitting at the table to eat his cereal.
“Shouldn’t you guys be getting ready?” he asked before heading out the door.
Caye teared up. She didn’t want to get ready. She wanted to stay home. She didn’t want to move. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“No, I’m not okay.”
“What do you want me to do?” He had that frustrated tone in his voice again.
“Nothing. Go to work.”
She realized, as she heard his old Volvo sedan drive away, that he hadn’t kissed her good-bye.
24
“How are you doing?” Dr. Scott asked Jill.
Rob spun back and forth on the swivel chair and stared at the doctor.
“I let my pain meds go too long the
other day,” Jill said. “I thought I was dying.” The doctor nodded. “I won’t do that again.”
“Any side effects from the chemo?”
“I haven’t been too nauseous. Not any more than before I started chemo. The antinausea meds seem to be working.”
Dr. Scott asked about the boys. “Do you feel like you need more support? A social worker to arrange home health? Other services?”
Jill looked at Rob. He shrugged.
“No,” she said, “I think were okay.”
“Any questions?”
“When will we get the results of the CAT scan?” Rob asked. The test had been done before the radiation treatment.
You know that, Rob. Jill turned from her husband toward the doctor. The radiologist had told them just an hour ago.
“Tomorrow,” the doctor answered.
“What’s the consensus on the blood tests?” Rob asked.
“So far the levels are holding steady.”
“What about the other stuff—the supplements, the visualization? Do you think that helps?”
“Yes. And I think that having faith Jill will get well is as important as the chemo and radiation.”
“I think we have that,” Rob said. “It’s just frustrating. I feel so helpless.”
The doctor nodded. “That’s very common for spouses.” He smiled. “Especially husbands.”
He turned to Jill. “Are you able to do things you enjoy?”
“I was thinking about working in the garden a little today.”
“What else do you like to do?”
“Paint.” She’d been longing to paint. She just hadn’t had the energy to get started.
“I’ll set up your drafting table in the living room,” Rob said.
“How about the two of you?” Dr. Scott asked. “Have you been able to carve out time for yourselves? Go out to dinner? Go for a drive?”
“Not really,” Jill answered.
“You should. This is stressful on a marriage,” the doctor said. “It’s also a good idea to plan things to look forward to. A short trip. An outing. That sort of thing.”
On the way home, Jill imagined the radiation bouncing around the tumor, zapping the tissue, breaking it into pieces that floated away like escaping balloons.
