Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  And they were gone, on to the next worried family. My fifteen seconds were up. Did I hear right? Benign! Sure, I knew what that meant but one word couldn’t begin to erase the worry I’d accumulated. I wanted to hear not malignant, not cancer. I sat there, silence roaring around my head, not trusting my knees to support me. Maybe I’d misunderstood. What if the doctor had said not benign? I didn’t move until the angioplasty wife said, “That’s good news, sweetie.”

  I nodded. “Yes, it is.” Finally it began to sink in. Yes, it was good news. Great news. I stood and my knees held firm. “Thanks. I hope you have good news too.”

  She shrugged. “Always has been before.”

  I decided to celebrate, which meant a trip to someplace special, in this case the hospital cafeteria. Maybe the lemon pie had thawed by now. I’d just punched the Down button for the elevator when they wheeled Andy out. She looked awful—groggy, with a big bandage on her neck—but cancer free. I wedged myself into the service elevator and followed the cart to her room. “Did they tell you it’s not cancer?” I asked her.

  She started to cry. “Yes. I’ve been so scared.”

  I grabbed her hand. “Me too.”

  Once the nurses had her settled with IV dripping and vital signs checked, I sat down beside the bed. “Oh, too bad,” I said. “They sewed the same head back on.” She gave me a weak smile.

  As soon as she fell asleep, I went to the cafeteria for pie, which had progressed from frozen to mushy. Andy’s eyes were closed when I returned but the noise I made pulling up a chair woke her. She wasn’t talking much but the smile on her face transcended words. Trying to look over my shoulder without moving her head, she mumbled, “Florence isn’t with you, is she?” I shook my head. “Good. I’m not up to her yet.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, Florence is a lot to handle even when you’re feeling strong.” As I spoke, my hand brushed against an envelope on the table. “Here,” I said, handing it to Andy. “Speaking of Florence, this is from her, bless her heart.”

  With a little help from me, Andy managed to slide out a small pamphlet: Coping with Dying. I snatched it out of her hand, hoping the title hadn’t penetrated the narcotic haze.

  “Florence, the Positive Thinker. I’m sure she meant well,” I said, forcing a laugh. I couldn’t be mad at anyone right now, and maybe Andy’s pain meds would keep her from being upset. To distract her I asked how she felt. “Is your throat sore?”

  “No. Doctor said I’d be able to talk right away but it might be a while before I got my singing voice back.”

  “Now, there’s a loss.” Another little laugh. At this point, everything sounded funny. “I’m going to leave now so you can get some rest,” I said, patting her arm.

  “No, stay.” Quite a switch from before surgery. Andy’s voice sounded strong, considering. After a few minutes, she said, “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I’ve caused all this worry and it was no big deal.”

  “Oh, Andy, the best part is it was no big deal.”

  At the end of visiting hours, I kissed her goodbye and she clung to my hand. We’d both been more afraid of cancer than we’d admitted—even to ourselves.

  Thirty-Eight

  When I got to the hospital the next morning, Andy was sipping broth and eyeing the row of neon-red gelatin cups lined up on her tray.

  “How do you feel?” I asked as I took off my coat. “Throat hurt? Head ache?”

  “No, nothing hurts. I’m just tired.” I brushed her hair back from her face and she didn’t swat me. Apparently she was really tired. I updated her on Cherry Glen activities a la Florence, and we talked about the Stones. I didn’t want to discuss Tim’s kiss and, to my relief, Andy didn’t ask me to finish telling about yesterday.

  “I sure hope Elizabeth hangs on for two months and finishes school,” I said.

  “Me too but we’ll see. She likes to have things her own way, you know. Education’s really important to Bob and I hope for his sake she graduates. He dropped out of high school after a shoulder injury kept him from playing football and he’s always regretted it.” Andy pushed the tray aside.

  “I wondered about that,” I said. “Tim’s a college graduate and Bob’s English is, well, short on plural verbs.”

  Andy smiled. “Yeah. It bothers him. By the way, no one knows about the high school thing except me so don’t say anything—especially to Florence.”

  “Why not? You don’t think Florence can keep a secret?”

  We both laughed and I decided she was well enough for the news about JoAnn—heart attack, car accident, second heart attack, angioplasty. Andy shook her head. “Poor Jane. You’ve had to worry about her on top of me. I didn’t know you were so strong.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Well, I’m really proud of you. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through this without you.”

  “Aw shucks, ma’am, don’t forget I’m a noted child authority and can merge.”

  “That too,” Andy said with a small chuckle. “You know, when you first came I was worried about you. You seemed so . . . well, ditzy. But then I realized that was your response to stress—your way of keeping a stiff upper lip.”

  “Ditzy? Me? Well, you have to admit it’s pretty upsetting to hear your favorite sister is having cancer surgery.”

  We both managed smiles, brief ones.

  Andy drew in a shallow breath. “You‘re probably anxious to get back to California.”

  “Well, yes, I need to rescue Thelma from that dimwitted Marilyn person. Did you know elderly cats need mental stimulation to prevent dementia? I don’t see that woman playing word games with Thelma. And it’s about time I let JoAnn lean on me for a change.” I tried to picture myself driving JoAnn along California freeways but the image wouldn’t come into focus. “You don’t need me any longer and I have lots to do—plants to water, a car to replace, Thelma’s annual physical.”

  “Jane, I’ll always need you.”

  I waved aside her protest. “Don’t be silly. You’ll be well soon and wanting to get back to normal. Once we get you settled, I’ll leave, maybe in a week. We’ll just take it as it comes.”

  Andy’s smile was wobbly. “I know but it’s just . . . we’re together so seldom and this time wasn’t as much fun as usual. I wish we didn’t live so far apart.”

  My smile matched hers. “Me too,” I said, turning my head so she wouldn’t see the tears.

  On Wednesday they replaced Andy’s bandages with Steri-Strips and discharged her with instructions to take it easy for a week or so. Total recovery shouldn’t take more than a month. She’d have a scar but most necklines would cover it.

  Andy grimaced when she looked in the bathroom mirror. “I felt better until I saw how I look. Don’t you dare make Frankenstein jokes.”

  We checked her out of the hospital and I drove us to Cherry Glen with complete confidence. Okay, semi-complete. The irony of Andy’s surviving surgery and then having to depend on my driving crossed my mind.

  Once I had Andy comfortable in her own bed, I called Marilyn, who said JoAnn was starting cardiac rehabilitation and did Thelma always refuse to eat generic cat food? I arranged for Esther to come in every day for at least two weeks, and I left a message for Chris telling her about Andy.

  Almost time to go home. But before that, I had one more thing to do.

  By Sunday I thought Andy could stay by herself for a day, with Esther on call of course, and asked to borrow the car.

  “Sure,” she said. “Take the picture with you.”

  “What picture?”

  “The one I’ve been painting. Mrs. Laine will appreciate it more than the hospital.”

  “How did you . . . ?” Andy’s look answered my question and I felt the need to explain. “Mrs. Laine’s all I have left of Dusty,” I said, “and she might be go
ne before I get back to Iowa.”

  Andy handed me the picture and the keys to her car.

  A perky young aide with blond hair dyed black read over my shoulder as I signed the visitor log. “Mrs. Laine, huh? Man, she’s sure been having the company lately. First her nephew and now you.” There was the nephew again.

  Dusty’s mother was propped up in bed, even thinner than she’d been on my last visit. Her eyes opened when I said hello but I wasn’t sure she recognized me.

  After an off-balance hug, I hoisted the package up beside her. “Andy sent you something,” I said.

  “Oh, a present!” She stretched her hands toward it and started picking at a corner.

  “Here, let me help you.” I tore off the brown wrapping paper and tilted the painting for her to see. It showed two young girls standing beside a flower garden. The smaller, chubby one held a cat that the bigger girl was looking at warily. At the edge of the picture stood a boy watching them from behind a row of lilac bushes.

  Mrs. Laine’s face lit up. “It’s Janie and Andy,” she said, “you and your sister. And that cat, Mrs. Nusbaum you called her. My, you loved that kitty. You insisted she must be married because she had babies.”

  I remembered Mrs. Nusbaum, especially the way she defended her kittens from two excited children. Thelma reminded me of her. Not the motherly part, of course.

  Mrs. Laine gave a squeaky little laugh. “And look, there’s my Duane by the fence.” Her voice was a bare whisper. I set the picture aside and told her to rest for a few minutes. Her eyes fluttered shut.

  She was right. Looking at the picture was like standing in our backyard again. Andy didn’t usually paint people, especially real ones.

  I was running my finger over the boy when I heard a voice: “Bet you didn’t know I spied on you from those bushes.”

  I stiffened but didn’t look behind me. All my nerve ends tingled.

  “Hello, Dusty,” I said.

  Thirty-Nine

  “Hi, kid.”

  Dusty! My Dusty! Barely breathing, mouth dry, I turned toward him. My mind knew he was no longer eighteen but my heart expected the boy in my dreams. My heart didn’t know a darned thing. His voice hadn’t changed but the rest of him looked . . . well, not eighteen. Lines weathered his face, and he was too thin and Yul Brynner bald. But eyes don’t change, and his were the same liquid blue, the color of the ocean or sky.

  “I was hoping you’d come before I had to leave,” he said. He stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked in his front jeans pockets, wearing cowboy boots and a blue-and-gray-checked cotton shirt that hung loosely on his shoulders.

  “Nice shirt,” I said. “From high school?” Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Forty years of envisioning this moment and that was the best I could come up with?

  Dusty glanced down as though to see what he was wearing. “Probably,” he said. “Found a lot of my old stuff when I cleaned out Mother’s house.”

  This wasn’t the way I’d imagined our reunion. In my daydream, my big, strong Dusty came back to sweep me off my feet and carry me away on a black Arabian stallion. Presumably we lived happily ever after, but I never got beyond the sweeping and carrying. He’d had amnesia or been imprisoned in a foreign country but had never stopped fighting to get back to me. Marvin had been a problem. I hadn’t wanted him dead or hurt so mostly I pretended he didn’t exist. The scenario always took place in public where people could be impressed. At no time had it occurred in a nursing home.

  Dusty walked over to the bed and gazed down at his mother. My stomach did a little flip when he stood next to me. “She’s asleep,” I said.

  “She does that a lot.” He coughed. “It’s good to see you, kid. Long time.”

  I gave his mother a significant look and said, “Maybe we should . . .”

  He shook his head. “We won’t bother her. The medicine knocks her out. She has colon cancer, you know.”

  “Oh. No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Things are what they are.”

  Neither of us said anything for an awkward beat. “You look . . .” I dodged the word thinner just in time. No sense bringing up weight. “Older,” I said lamely.

  Dusty’s lips twitched. “Forty years does that to you.”

  My mind couldn’t come up with a single intelligent word. Being ill at ease hadn’t been part of my dream. Finally I asked, “Want some coffee? The nurse said there’s a kitchenette down the hall.”

  “Sure.” He held out his arms. “Come here, kid.”

  I stood, my heart pounding, and we hugged clumsily—two old friends, at least one of them pretty self-conscious. He felt bony. “No one but you ever called me kid,” I said.

  “Good.”

  When I returned, he’d moved a chair close to mine. “One cream, two sugars,” I said, handing him a thick, white mug.

  He still had the little-boy grin that had captured my soul. “And you drink yours black,” he said. I didn’t want to tell him I’d started adding cream because of midnight heartburn.

  We sipped quietly, our looks skipping around the room and occasionally landing on each other. He still had the broad shoulders and long, slender hands I remembered so well. To break the silence, I told him about my cat and the daughter I rarely saw and the sister who didn’t have cancer. I paused but Dusty didn’t seem to realize it was his turn to speak. I prattled on about JoAnn, bridge partners, the people I’d met in Cherry Glen—Bob, Esther, Florence. I skipped over Bob’s father. A cart rattled down the hall, causing Mrs. Laine to stir briefly, and I closed the door.

  “You talk as much as ever,” Dusty said.

  That was my signal to stop chattering but my tongue kept going. “And I’m a noted child authority and can merge.” At his puzzled look, I added a detailed explanation of Andy’s surgery and the Neighborhood Club talk.

  He laughed. “My little Janie is all grown up. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d take care of Andy instead of the other way around.”

  In the middle of my contented glow, I startled myself by blurting, “I thought you were dead.”

  Dusty coughed again. “No, you didn’t.”

  My questions tumbled out. “Why did you tell your mother you’re her nephew? Why’d you stay away? Why didn’t you call me?” I had more whys than a two-year-old.

  Dusty stared out the window, possibly looking for someone holding up cue cards. “I didn’t plan any of it, okay?” he said. “The car going into the river was an accident. I hit my head, don’t know how I got out of the water. Some people from Minnesota picked me up hitchhiking and I stayed at their fishing camp until I felt better, a few weeks.” He sat hunched over slightly, hands resting on his knees. “By the time I was ready to go home, everyone thought I was dead and it was just easier to go along with it.” He drank the last of his coffee and set the cup on the table. “The longer the charade went on, the harder it was to change things.”

  “But what about your plans? College? Sports?” Inside I was screaming, What about ME? “You never got to be a coach?”

  He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “No big deal. That was just something I thought I wanted when I was a kid, but life is full of surprises. Things happen and you adapt.”

  Was abandoning his high school love just another adaptation? “What did you do?”

  “Joined the army.”

  “How could you without ID?”

  He looked startled by the question, obviously unaware of the number of spy novels I’d read. “I had ID,” he said. “Driver’s license, social security number, the usual. I wasn’t hiding. No one was looking for me. I used my first name instead of Duane.”

  “Richard,” I said, my eyes fixed on his face as if I had to read his thoughts.

  “Yeah. Not many people knew that.” His grin flared again.

  An idea struck me. “And you went by Rick.”<
br />
  “I knew you’d figure that out.” As kids, our movie had been Casablanca. We’d spent hours quoting lines, Dusty a taller Bogart and me a shorter Bergman—among other differences.

  I laughed. “Rick Laine instead of Rick Blaine. Perfect. Did you have a gin joint in Morocco?”

  “Not quite, but I did live in the Mideast off and on. After the army, I worked for the government, traveled a little. You get my postcards?”

  I nodded. “Did you send them to anyone else? Your folks?”

  “No. Felt bad about Mother but I didn’t want my dad to know. By the time he died, she was so frail I didn’t dare risk upsetting her by coming back to life.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s just not right. You let that poor woman think her only child was dead all these years and, even now, you’re pretending to be her nephew. You have to tell her who you are.”

  Irritation crossed his face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to leave soon, and it’ll be harder on her if I come back to life and then disappear again. She’s too weak to for such a shock.”

  “Dusty, no one dies of joy.”

  His hurt expression made me wish I could take back the words. Ten minutes into the happy reunion and we were snapping at each other. When would I learn not to blurt out every thought? My fingers felt stiff as I busied myself folding the newspaper on the bedside table. I could sense Dusty watching me.

  He took the paper out of my hands. “Let’s go somewhere else. I want to kiss you.”

  Forty

  We drove the six blocks to his mother’s house separately. Five stop signs, one statue of a Civil War veteran, two right-hand turns, one bridge over the torn up railroad track and there we were in his mother’s driveway. I wasn’t sure how I managed to find the way. It took four tries just to get the key in the ignition.

  “Looks the same,” I said, “only different. Not much left.” The house smelled faintly of candle wax and dust, and I could see one chair and a folding table. I wondered if the bed was still in his room upstairs.