by Mary Campisi
Who would help her navigate this strange and terrifying journey to her demise? Certainly not her daughter, who might treat the news with indifference bathed in concern. That was a hopeful reaction. Christine might not even respond to whatever method of communication Gloria chose to employ: phone, e-mail, letter, text. Technology ruled the world, but conversation was still king, and if Christine didn’t want to talk, the method didn’t matter.
Who was left? There were no aunts, uncles, cousins. No real friends she could share the prognosis with and thereby elicit help, whatever that might be. Gloria had avoided sick and dying people, said they made her uncomfortable and put her in a bad mood. Yes, she’d said on several occasions that she did not have the “caretaker” gene in her DNA. Her friends had laughed and agreed as they sipped their drinks, flashed their diamond-studded hands, and discussed upcoming five-hundred-dollar-a plate social events.
Six months to a year was a long time if one must travel that path alone. What was she to do—sit in a chair and wait for death to claim her? Or medicate with booze and pills as she’d done these past seven days, until one hour slid into the next in a fog of cigarette smoke and drugs? That seemed pathetic and tragic, and Gloria Blacksworth was neither.
But what was she to do, and who would help her? That answer was more important than the number of days she would breathe on this earth. Gloria continued to ruminate over her situation as she fixed her coffee and spread cherry jam over her toast. Whom could she trust? What would she tell them? How much would she pay? Money would factor in; it always did. Want a person to pledge loyalty? Open the checkbook. She’d spent her life in wealth and privilege, as had Charles, and what had it gotten them? In the end, money hadn’t saved them or made them happy. The happiness quotient was the most out of balance because people believed fat portfolios equaled joy. Peace. Oh, they denied such a belief, proclaiming in earnest voices how, Of course money doesn’t bring happiness, and then the snide smile, but damn close. Happiness. What an overused and misunderstood word.
Gloria sat at the kitchen table and bit into her toast. The tartness of the cherry jam made her mouth pucker. For years, this had been her favorite jam, but maybe she should try raspberry or boysenberry. Why not? Why not indeed? She was pondering other jams and where she might purchase them, when a light rap at the back door startled her. She glanced up to find the cook, Elissa Cerdi, waving at her. What on earth was the girl doing here? Gloria stood and made her way to the door, preparing a lecture about unwelcome former employees.
“Mrs. Blacksworth, I was so worried about you.” Elissa stepped inside and offered a hesitant smile. “I know you said my services were no longer required, but you seemed distressed the other day and I’ve been trying to call for three days.” Her eyes grew bright, and her voice dipped. “I started to think something horrible had happened to you.”
If you thought that, you were correct. Something absolutely horrible has happened. Gloria squelched the reprimand she’d prepared for intruding upon her privacy. The girl worried about me. She cared.
“Yes, well, here I am.” She touched her naked face and forced a laugh. “Though had I known I would be receiving a guest, I’d have dressed and made myself presentable.”
The girl’s smile spread. “You look wonderful. I’m so happy you’re okay.”
“I did not say I was okay, but I’ll take the ‘you look wonderful’ compliment.”
No one ever saw her without makeup except for the esthetician who did her monthly facials, and long ago, Charles, when her skin was wrinkle-free and toned. Her current state of undress made her vulnerable, as though the Gloria Blacksworth who demanded and demeaned had washed away with the shower and the terrycloth robe. “Thank you. I appreciate your concern.” Surprisingly, it was the truth. “I made coffee and toast. Would you care for some?”
The girl glanced at the table, then back at Gloria. “No, thank you. Would you like eggs to go with your toast? Easy over, as usual?”
How nice to be cared about. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” She sat at the kitchen table, drank her coffee, and watched the cook move about with casual grace and confidence, cracking eggs, humming lightly, asking now and again if she needed anything. The girl really did seem to care and in Gloria’s experience, concern without expectation of monetary benefit, was a rarity. It wasn’t until she’d eaten her eggs and had a second cup of coffee that she realized this girl could help her. “Elissa?”
The girl turned from the sink where she’d been washing dishes. “Yes, Mrs. Blacksworth?”
“Come sit.” Gloria patted the table. “I have something I wish to discuss.”
Elissa dried her hands on the dishtowel and made her way to the table. She sat next to Gloria and folded her hands in her lap. “Yes?”
When complete participation is desired, there was only one way to obtain it: Tell the truth.
“I’m dying.” The words fell out in a rush of air and anxiety. It was one thing to keep the truth inside, but once spoken? Well, that was something else altogether. That made it real.
“What?” The girl’s eyes grew bright, her lips quivered. “Dying?”
Gloria nodded. “Lung cancer. Late stages.”
“Oh.” She covered her mouth with her hand to keep the sound inside. “I’m so sorry.” Tears trickled down her cheeks, to her jaw, her chin. “So very sorry,” she murmured, choking back a sob.
“Thank you.” It was all she could manage and yet, saying those two words gave her strength to continue. “I need your help, Elissa.” She met the girl’s gaze, held it. “Can you help me?”
“Of course. What can I do?”
“Move in here. Do what needs doing. I have no idea what that is, but we’ll figure it out.” She drew in a breath and let the rest spill out before it dried in her brain. “The doctor thinks I have anywhere from six months to a year. It’s too far gone for chemotherapy; radiation would only be for comfort. I don’t want that. Actually, I don’t know what I want right now, except that this stays between us.”
“You mean you aren’t going to tell anyone else? Not even your daughter?”
Gloria’s jaw twitched. “No one.”
“Mrs. Blacksworth—”
“I’m dying, Elissa. I might make it a year, maybe not. Shouldn’t I be the one to decide how I live those months and with whom?” It would have been much easier to deliver the news to Christine if her daughter hadn’t accused her of orchestrating that whole business with Natalie Servetti. Gloria could not admit to the bold, unthinkable act, even if she were guilty, which she was.
“I’m sorry. I’ll respect your wishes.”
“I appreciate that. Now, I’d like you to move in as soon as possible. You will still prepare meals and do the shopping, but I don’t want anyone in the house, so you’ll have to take care of the cleaning and such as well. You can hire a new lawn service and when the time comes that I can no longer drive, you’ll take me where I need to go.”
“I do have a class on Thursdays and once fall comes, I’ll have three classes.” She stopped, pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “I can try to work around your schedule.”
Gloria offered a faint smile. “Of course. Education is very important.” But only if you actually do something with what you learn. If you forsake it for a man, a marriage, an empty dream, then you’ve lost.
“I think we’ll get along quite well, Elissa.” She must call the girl by her given name; it was the least she could do. “What about compensation? Have you thought about that?”
The girl blushed. “No. Whatever you think is fair.”
Gloria nodded. She would teach Elissa the art of negotiation, which started and ended with silence. “You may have one of the guest rooms, but not the one that originally contained the orchids.”
“I know.” The girl smiled. “That’s Christine’s room.”
***
“See these little shoots that grow between the branches of the tomato plant?” Pop held up a branch and pointed
to a small stem with leaves. “They’re called suckers and if you leave them, they’ll take the nutrients intended for the main plant. Pinch them off like so,—” he pinched off the sucker—“and you’ll get a bigger tomato.”
Christine touched the spot where Pop had just performed minisurgery. “A sucker, huh? Makes sense.”
“Yup.” He found another sucker, pinched it off. “Kind of like a bad relationship that sucks the life right out of the other person.” He continued pinching as he worked his way over the tomato plant. “Most people don’t have the gumption to get rid of it; they just keep plodding along and get used to running half a pint low until it seems normal.”
Talk of blood and pinching made Christine queasy. It had been two days since Nate had confronted her about Connor. Two days of queasiness that had nothing to do with the baby. How long were they going to go on like this, not talking, avoiding one another and the real issues buried in their hearts? She loved him, wanted to be with him, and the more time that passed, the more difficult it would be to talk things out, until there would be nothing left to talk about. They both struggled with trust and yet that was the foundation of any relationship. If they didn’t trust one another completely, the relationship would limp along and eventually die.
“… and a good bean is long and tender-looking.” Pop snapped a green bean and tossed it in a small colander. “You gotta get down and look for the beans because they like to hide under these big leaves.” He pushed aside a few leaves, located three beans, and snapped them from the plant.
“Leave them on too long and the skin gets thick and tough.” He squinted against the sun and met her gaze. “Relationships can get like that, too. If they’re ignored too long, no amount of talk and ‘I’m sorry’ is gonna get through that thick skin.”
“Hmm.” Why was he comparing his vegetables to relationships, or rather, problems in relationships? Was there a message hidden between suckers and thick-skinned and was it intended for her? Did he know about her and Nate? Had Lily told him she was staying at Miriam’s?
Pop straightened and wiped his forehead. “So much for getting work done before it heats up. I could do with a glass of lemonade and a pizzelle. How about you?”
“That sounds good.” She’d only had a piece of dry toast and a cup of ginger tea for breakfast, and it had been an effort to finish that with Miriam’s eagle eyes on her. The woman wasn’t stupid; sooner rather than later she’d figure out that her son wasn’t the only reason for Christine’s loss of appetite and queasy stomach.
“Did Nate ever tell you about his buddy Daniel Casherdon?” Pop handed her a glass of lemonade and a pizzelle and settled into his rocker on the back porch. Something told her there would be a story and a lesson behind Daniel Casherdon.
“No, I’ve never heard of him.”
“His name’s Daniel, but everybody called him Cash. Nice boy. Awful sad about him and Tess.” He bit into his pizzelle, scratched his jaw. He’d changed from his garden boots to red leather tennis shoes, new ones from the looks of them. “Cash and Nate grew up together, three houses away. His aunt raised him after his parents up and took off. Said a kid didn’t fit into their lifestyle. They were going fortune hunting somewhere in Africa or Australia, one of those places that starts with an A. The kid had a chip on his shoulder and got into some scrapes, but he settled down and then he met Tess. Boy, did they have plans.” His thin lips worked into a smile of remembering.
“She was going to be a trauma nurse and he wanted to become a policeman. SWAT team. They planned to head to a city, Philadelphia, I think.” He blew out a sigh. “Cash became a policeman in town while Tess finished up college. She had a kid brother who was always in trouble. Cash tried to help him out, acted like a big brother, but the kid was a mess. About a week before the wedding, the convenience store got robbed. Cash was on duty, guy pulled a gun.” His words drifted off. “There was no damn way Cash could have known it would be Tess’s brother.”
“He shot the brother?”
“Killed him. Word had it the medics had to pull Cash away from the kid. The boy was gone but he refused to stop CPR.”
“How tragic.”
“Lucy and I were torn up about it. Everybody loved Cash and Tess, and most of us were headed to their wedding. Well, if you haven’t figured it out, there was no wedding and nothing Cash could say to make it right with Tess. Some in the town froze him out; others gave him the evil eye. A few blamed the kid and Tess’s family. It was a bad time for everybody; people taking sides, slinging accusations and cruel words. There was supposed to be a wedding, but there was a funeral and enough bad blood to fill a casket. Nate tried to talk to Cash, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone. All he wanted was Tess’s forgiveness and that wasn’t happening. He waited as long as he could and then one day, he just left.”
When Pop didn’t say more, she asked, “Do you know what happened to him?”
He shrugged. “Last I heard he was a policeman in Philadelphia but can’t say for sure. He could be in Wichita for all I know. His Aunt Ramona won’t talk about it. She’s in The Bleeding Hearts Society, the one with the black hair and sad look on her face.”
She did remember the woman: small and square, with brackets around her mouth and dark eyes. “And Tess? What happened to her?”
Pop shook his head and sighed. “Selling some kind of high-end lipstick, as if that’s anything remotely like caring for the sick. She used to send Lucy boxes of the stuff.” His lips worked into a faint smile. “Poppy, that was Lucy’s favorite. Wore it until the day she closed her eyes for the last time.”
“What a sad story.”
“Worse than sad. Tragic is more like it.” He snatched another pizzelle, studied it. “I wonder if they might have found a way to work things out. You gotta work through the pain to the real truth, and once you do that, there’s hope.” He pinned her with his dark gaze. “Anybody that’s ever loved has been hurt, some worse than others. Hearts ripped, trust gone, even hope tossed in the trash.” Those eyes grew brighter, the voice softer. “But if you fight for it and keep talking, you can get through it to the other side. And that’s where you have another chance.”
Why was he looking at her as if he were talking about her and Nate? What did he know? Christine cleared her throat and looked away, but that didn’t keep Pop quiet.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you and Nate, but when Lily comes here and says you’re still at Miriam’s, then I got to ask myself if Nate’s refinishing ten ballroom floors, or there’s something else going on. I’m betting on the ‘something else’.” She fidgeted in her chair and opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The tears, however, did.
Pop reached in his pants pocket and handed her a tissue. “Go ahead and cry. I have a feeling this has been a long time coming. You can tell me if you want, or don’t, but all’s I have to say is you better tell him about the baby fast before somebody else figures it out like I just did.”
Chapter 13
The call came right after lunch. Nate had been talking to Jack about a project when his cell rang. He almost let it go into voicemail, but answered it when he spotted his mother’s number.
“Hi, Ma. What’s up?” He didn’t hear anything past Christine and emergency room. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up his cell and turned to Jack. “Christine’s in the hospital.”
Magdalena General was ten minutes down the road and Nate made it to the entrance of the emergency room in less than seven. His mother hadn’t elaborated other than to say she found Christine passed out on the bathroom floor, and by the time the ambulance arrived, she was awake but groggy. Was he responsible for this? God, he hoped not.
He made his way to the emergency room desk and asked for his wife. He had to see her, touch her, make sure she would be all right. A nurse led him to a draped-off room and ushered him through. His mother and Lily were on either side of Christine, who lay in the middle of a hospital bed, looking small and fragile, her left arm hooked up
to an IV. Her eyes were closed, her breathing faint.
“How is she?” He moved to the front of the bed and kissed his mother’s forehead.
Her usual composure had vanished, replaced with worry and something that looked an awful lot like guilt. “The doctor says she’s dehydrated,” she whispered. “They’re running blood work and a few other tests.” She swiped at her eyes. “I should have kept a closer eye on her, insisted she eat, drink, get her rest. I wanted to give her privacy, so I said nothing. I’m responsible for this.”
“That’s crazy. If anybody’s responsible, it’s me.” He smoothed a hand over his wife’s hair, leaned close, and kissed her temple. Did I do this to you? Make you so weak, you got sick? I’ll make this right, I swear I will. Just give me a chance.
“Nate?” Lily said in a loud whisper. “Hi.”
He turned toward his sister and offered her a high five. “Hi, honey. I’m glad you’re here with Mom.”
“Me, too.” She placed a hand on the sheet by Christine’s leg. “Christine needs us. We have to help her get better.”
Nate nodded. “Yes.” His voice cracked. “We have to do whatever it takes.”
His mother placed a hand on his back and massaged in slow circles, like she did when he was a child and didn’t feel well. “It’s going to be okay. It will all work out.” She wasn’t talking about the dehydration; she was talking about the issues between him and Christine. The separate houses, separate beds. Separate lives. He nodded but couldn’t get the words out of his mouth to agree. Maybe because he wasn’t so sure, even when that’s what he wanted more than anything right now. “Come along, Lily. Let’s give Nate a few minutes with Christine.”
“But she can’t hear anything. She’s sleeping.”
Miriam’s next words held that tone that said, I have spoken, do not make me repeat myself. “Lily, let’s go.”
