Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  Then to my surprise, he brushed his lips against mine and let them linger, a gentle but insistent kiss. And I felt . . . nothing. No tingling, no pounding heart. No response at all. Marvin hadn’t been Dusty and Tim wasn’t even Marvin.

  “I hate to leave you,” Tim murmured into the space above my ear. “I didn’t think I’d ever be interested in another woman after Carolyn but, well, you’re special.”

  Embarrassed, I pulled away and looked around to see whether anyone was watching. “Tim, there’s something you should know.”

  “Okay.” His expression was wary.

  “I don’t really like basketball.”

  The smile started in his eyes and spread across his face. “I suspected that when Esther told me about the six-point baskets. But you were close.”

  Another quick hug and he pulled away and stepped into the elevator with a wave and an “I’ll call you.” I watched the metal door close between us, feeling I’d lost something.

  Thirty-Six

  By the time I got back to Andy’s room, she was practically jumping out of bed with uncharacteristic interest. “Well? What did Bob want?”

  “Bob didn’t want anything. He just got in the elevator and left.”

  “Jane! Tell me.”

  “It really wasn’t that big a deal. Tim was waiting in the hall. He said he needed to see me before he left.”

  “That’s it? Bob’s big mystery?” Andy slumped back and closed her eyes, curiosity satisfied.

  “Yeah, like passing notes in middle school, wasn’t it? See, Tim and I kind of had words the last time we talked and he didn’t want to leave things that way so he came to, well, say goodbye. And then he . . .”

  But before I could continue, Florence breezed in, red-cheeked and smelling of fresh air. She handed me the peace lily she was carrying and peeled off her coat to reveal today’s outfit—a short leather skirt topped by a tight plum sweater with coordinating earrings and numerous metal bangles. I hadn’t realized there were so many shades of purple. The left ring finger remained available—just in case. Andy and I stared at her in amazement. “Wow, Florence, that’s some outfit,” I finally managed.

  She struck a pose. “You like it? Hot, isn’t it?” Actually, I was thinking drafty. “’Just because we’re not young any more doesn’t mean we have to be old.’ I read that in one of those women’s magazines—Good Housekeeping maybe . . . that or Cosmo.” She pointed to the plant. “From the Neighborhood Club,” she told Andy. “They’re thinking of you. And here . . .” She set the January issue of Movie World on the bed. “I haven’t finished the article on Al Pacino yet so when you’re done . . .?”

  Andy picked up the magazine, probably the first tabloid she’d touched since she was thirteen. “Tell you what, Florence, why don’t you hang onto it until I feel well enough to read again?”

  Florence said that was a wonderful idea and forged into a rehash of storm news and local items of interest. Eventually, she stopped for breath.

  “Goodness, Florence, you know everyone in town,” I said. “But then, you’re a Cherry Glen native.”

  She blinked and waved away the thought. “Native? Heavens no. I didn’t move to Cherry Glen until I was three. It’s not like I’ve lived there all my life.”

  I had no answer to that. After about fifteen seconds of dead quiet, Florence continued her litany of Cherry Glen’s dead, dying, and diagnosed. The bank robber’s suicide didn’t come up, although she threw me some inquiring looks. The Neighborhood Club meeting was a big topic. “Andy, your sister is amazing,” she said. “The women are so excited about starting a story hour, especially since it will, you know, help their husbands’ businesses. Jane here gave us all kinds of ideas. We wouldn’t have done anything but read the kids some books. No one would ever have, you know, thought of including cookies or crayons. She really knows a lot about children.” She smiled with obvious pride. “I’m getting a lot of compliments for finding, you know, a genuine child authority.”

  “Oh, Florence, I’m not . . . I didn’t do anything special,” I said, waiting for Andy to laugh out loud.

  “You did too. And I know the story hour’s going to be a huge success. It’s the best thing to happen in Cherry Glen since the football team won the conference in 1978.”

  While Florence prattled on, occasionally looking up to make sure she had our attention, Andy and I stole frequent glances at the clock. The surgery schedule claimed Andy was down for ten. Apparently the doctor didn’t read the surgery schedule because it was after noon before the OR transporters wheeled Andy away with the explanation, “Doctor was delayed.” I trotted alongside the cart, trying to help with comments such as “don’t worry” and “everything will be all right.” Florence trailed behind—but stayed within earshot. The transporters stopped in front of double doors labeled Authorized Personnel Only and told me this was as far as I could go. I released Andy’s hand and said, “Come back soon.”

  Around the corner in the waiting room, a toothy, blonde in a red volunteer jacket wrote down my name and Andy’s. “I’ll be sitting right over there,” I said, pointing, “in case you need me.”

  She smiled. “It’s going to be a while, probably two or three hours. Why don’t you run down to the cafeteria for some lunch?”

  I hated to leave and couldn’t imagine swallowing even chocolate but Florence tugged me toward the elevator, murmuring something about keeping up our strength.

  Getting food with Florence was never a simple task. We picked up salads, pasta for me and iceberg lettuce with a pale pink tomato wedge for Florence. She lingered in front of the dessert case, noisy wrists ready for action. “It’s so hard to choose,” she said. “You know what wonderful cooks those nuns are.” I hadn’t seen a nun since we’d been here and thought the only one in the kitchen would be Sister Sara Lee. Florence finally decided on the banana walnut layer cake with cream cheese frosting. I grabbed a piece of lemon pie and we carried the trays to our usual table. After a few bites of soggy leaves, I tried the pie. It was frozen in the middle. Everything in this state was frozen.

  Florence asked whether I’d told Andy about Leland and seemed disappointed when I said she’d taken the news calmly. She didn’t need to know about the tears that Andy didn’t know I knew about.

  I steered the conversation away from Elizabeth Stone, feeling smug about having information Florence didn’t. “How’d the dinner with Bart go?” I asked.

  “You mean Burt?”

  “Burt, right. How was it?”

  “Oh, you know, fine.” Florence twisted one of her rings, the amethyst that covered two knuckles.

  “Did he like the steak?”

  “Not exactly. He doesn’t eat meat.”

  “Oh. Good thing you had other stuff.”

  “Yeah, well, he can’t digest lettuce and he never eats sweets.”

  “What about potatoes?”

  Florence brightened. “He liked the baked potato. We split one.” I watched her scrape the last of the frosting off her plate and thought she and Burt didn’t have much of a future. “But I did what you said, took the leftovers to Earl. He ate everything.” Good old Earl. His prospects were looking better.

  Florence pushed her empty plate aside to make room for her elbows. “Jane, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” I said, my mind racing through the possibilities. Something about Tim? Andy? Leland and Andy?

  “Um.” Florence stared at her plate and whispered, “It’s about sex.”

  I sat up straight and scooted my chair back from the table. The only person’s sex life I cared about was mine, and I didn’t want to talk about it, not even to Thelma, certainly not to Florence.

  Florence began wrapping a paper napkin around her water glass. A full minute passed before she spoke. “It’s just, well, no one’s, you know . . . this body used to look a lot better.” She hesitated, obvious
ly bracing herself for the confession. “I have an appendix scar from when I was four years old. But it’s not very big. Doc Sullivan did a good job. He and his brothers practiced, you know, together and two were always off on what they called toots but one stayed behind to treat patients so I was lucky.”

  I exhaled and let my shoulders relax. “An appendix scar doesn’t seem like a big problem,” I said.

  Gathering the napkin scraps into a tiny mound, Florence drew a long breath and plunged on. “Well, what I was wondering was, should I tell Earl about my mastectomy?”

  My back stiffened and the words came out in a small yelp. “Your what? You had a mastectomy? I had no idea.”

  Florence seemed pleased. “You can’t tell, can you? I have a process. The insurance paid for it.”

  “A prosthesis?”

  “That’s what I said. It’s a fake boob. What about telling Earl? Of course, he might already know—everyone in town does—but he might have, you know, forgotten. Do you think it’ll matter?”

  I pictured Earl and Florence in a deep discussion about her breasts and suggested she postpone breaking the news to him.

  Just as I was about to ask where one could buy an engagement ring in Cherry Glen, Florence waved at someone behind me. “My ride’s here. Gotta go.” I turned and saw a woman half Florence’s size motioning from the front of the cafeteria. “That’s Marie Kirk. She had to come down for her bookie’s mother’s funeral and I said I‘d ride along so I could bring the plant.”

  I said goodbye to Florence and hurried back to the room where the waiting began. It consisted of several alcoves, A through H. Each had linked chairs with bright yellow plastic seats along three walls and a game table in the center. The coffee was weak but free. Water was a dollar. People milled around or sat watching TV. Some were busy reading magazines. One woman played solitaire with a deck of Snoopy cards. Everyone looked as tense as I felt.

  Too restless to sit, I wandered through the alcoves, making several stops at the volunteer’s desk. Each time she assured me they’d let me know as soon as there was anything to know. Once I found myself standing in front of vending machines that hummed with choices. Wine wasn’t one of them.

  In time I settled into a vacant corner of Alcove A and eavesdropped on weather stories. Television and the newspaper covered almost nothing else. We’d had fourteen inches of new snow—worst storm in twenty years. I was tired of being on the cutting edge of record breaking.

  The nurse who appeared regularly with a clipboard and updates was a godsend. She remembered each family and knew how scared we were. From time to time God himself, surgical mask dangling, came out with official word. The waiting family then dissolved into smiles and left. Another life saved, another satisfied customer. The nurse escorted other families out to talk with the doctor somewhere else, and we never saw them again. I didn’t want to be one of those.

  I’d brought a John Sandford mystery but serial killing didn’t hold my attention. Neither did the televised stock market report. An overweight woman with a flat face and hose rolled around her ankles sat down across from me and pulled her needlework out of a pink canvas bag. “Reading won’t last, honey. Get you a pillowcase and start embroidering. It don’t matter if you ain’t any good. Just keep at it and you’ll get better.” Her name was Paulette and she was eighty-seven. Her husband had died of a heart attack at fifty-one when they were going to amputate his arm. “Caught it in a machine in the pork processing plant. He had diabetes so all the bones in his hand was broken and then the metal plate rusted and he got cancer from that and died of a heart attack.”

  I looked around for someone to claim Paulette. “Are you here alone?”

  “Oh no, I came with my daughter. Her son’s having his appendix out. I hate being by myself. After Ralph died, I sat in the car so I wouldn’t be in the house alone.”

  I was wondering how long appendectomies lasted when a middle-aged woman with an anxious expression collected Paulette, assuring her the surgery had gone well.

  Since reading still didn’t appeal to me and my last embroidery project had been a Girl Scout sampler, I wandered over to the Snoopy cards lady. She looked to be in her forties with brown hair pulled back from her face. “Hi,” I said, waiting for her to notice the red three that would play on the black four. “Pretty smart of you to bring a deck of cards.”

  She didn’t look up. “Experience. This is my third time here this year.”

  My mind shot to JoAnn. Would I be sitting in a room waiting for her to come out of surgery? I made a mental note to take cards. “Family member?” I asked.

  Her lower lip trembled. “My son broke his leg.”

  I made sympathetic noises. “Kids. They do seem to have accidents, don’t they?”

  She looked at me for the first time. Her glasses magnified her eyes, and the expression in them froze the platitudes on my lips. “His leg was crushed. He might lose it.” She told me about the accident, abandoning the card game as the story progressed. Brian was sixteen, loved to play soccer, baseball, about any sport. “It happened two days before Thanksgiving,” she said. “He was riding his ATV down our lane when it hit a rut and tipped over. He knew he was hurt bad—the bone was sticking out of his leg—so he called me at Casey’s. That’s where I work. I dialed 911 and they said to tell him to stay put till help arrived. By the time I found someone to finish my shift and got home, the ambulance had already taken him to the hospital.” She sniffled and blew her nose before continuing. “The leg got infected, didn’t heal. Now he’s back in the operating room.” She motioned toward the table. “His sister isn’t old enough to be here but she thought her Snoopy cards would help pass the time.”

  I murmured what I hoped were comforting words. You’d think I’d be getting better at them. Then I told her about Andy, trying to downplay it—probably not malignant, everything would be fine—wanting to believe a positive attitude would help. The woman’s spirits seemed a little brighter by the time her sister-in-law, armed with Bible verses and advice on living with dismemberment, arrived to provide moral support in the hour of need—her exact words.

  After the third time she used the word crippled, I found another cubbyhole. The people there, an older lady and her three daughters, were making noisy jokes about Dad’s angioplasty. He’d had several, no big deal. They tried to include me but I held the book in front of my face and continued worrying.

  They were trying to remember the name of the absent daughter’s fourth husband when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Hi, Jane. How’s it going? Any word yet?”

  “Bob! I thought you’d left.”

  He shook his head and sat on the edge of the seat next to me. “Took Dad to the airport but the girls wasn’t ready when I got back so thought I’d check on Andy.”

  “She’s in surgery now but we haven’t heard anything yet. Another hour maybe. You’re taking Tiffany and the baby to her place?”

  “Yep. Her parents is coming to take care of her. Esther called them. Women do stuff like that—butt in.” Although he frowned, I knew he was pleased.

  “Great.” We both stared at the floor while the clock on the wall behind us ticked off several minutes. I overheard a woman nearby say her granddaughter planned to name the new baby Thelma. Why would anyone saddle a child with that name? I struggled to control myself and managed to think of something else to say. “Bet Win’s glad his sister’s back.”

  “Yep.”

  Another pause while we studied the floor as though it contained something interesting. At last, just to make conversation, I asked, “So your dad went home?”

  “Yep, but he’ll be back in April for Win’s play. He has the lead. Did you know that? And he’s only a freshman.” My turn to nod as Bob leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “Just because he wears makeup on stage don’t mean he’s a sissy.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.”

  “I
don’t know a whole lot about this kinda thing but I hear he’s pretty good. Just needs a little discipline. Has to quit missing practices.” Fixing his gaze on his shoes, he added, “Know what? My dad said he was in a couple of plays in high school—even had the lead once. Never told me that before.” After a small silence he said, “He really likes you.”

  I tried not to look embarrassed, which is hard to do when your face is red. “Your dad?”

  Bob looked startled. “Well, I meant Win but I guess Dad likes you too.” My face grew redder as he checked his watch. “Time to go. Girls oughta be ready. Let me know about Andy.” I promised to call him although we both knew Florence would have the word spread around town before I could pick up the phone.

  After he left I reviewed our talk, especially the part about his father, and realized that since Elizabeth’s return Bob had been downright chatty, complete sentences bursting out in a great splash of verbiage. It was as though he’d been saving up words his whole life. I smiled a little. Things were looking up for Bob and his family—but what about mine? I sighed. Tim seemed interested. Was I? I enjoyed feeling attractive and, yes, desirable.

  Thirty minutes later the nurse brought the message I’d been waiting for: “It’s over. Doctor will be out soon.”

  Please, God, let her be all right. I’ll go to the dentist or volunteer in the homeless shelter or visit Marvin’s brother in the nursing home—or all three.

  Thirty-Seven

  Dr. Wonderful pranced through the door with his nurse trailing behind him. “Cassandra Stendler?” I raised my hand, mouth too dry to speak. “Everything went well. The big tumor was benign. Small ones too. We removed the right half of the thyroid but she won’t miss it.”

  He chuckled at his little joke, shook my hand, and moved away before I could form words. His nurse shot me a sympathetic look and said, “She’s been in the recovery room for a while and is doing fine. It’ll be about an hour before she’s back in her room so you have time to get something to eat if you‘d like.”