Brooke closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. Sing, sing a song…She played the song in her head until the panic that had risen in her chest abated. She tucked her wallet, cell phone, keys, hair pick, and fingernail file back into her purse and snapped it closed. Then she hugged the pouch against her stomach and watched the second hand move smoothly around the clock’s dial.
On the fourth round, her phone vibrated—a call coming in. Whoever it was could leave a message. She wasn’t in the mood to talk. She watched the second hand make two more circles. Midway through the third circle, the door opened and Dr. Classen breezed in. The scent of oranges came with her—an aroma much more pleasant than the antiseptic smell lingering in the sterile room. The doctor stuck out her hand, and Brooke took hold of it.
“Thanks for coming in so quickly, Brooke.”
Brooke forced a dry chuckle, pulled her hand free of the doctor’s cool grip, and drew on the false bravado that had carried her through her tumultuous childhood. “How could I resist such an intriguing invitation? I don’t think I’ve ever been so privileged.” She lifted her chin and forced the corners of her stiff lips to curve upward. “Is this when you ask if I want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dr. Classen placed a large folder on the desk and dug in the pocket of her white jacket. She withdrew a sample pack of antacids. “Here. Chew these.”
Brooke’s hands shook so badly she had trouble tearing the pack open. She tipped the little packet and poured the two tablets into her open mouth. Fruit flavored. Orange, matching Dr. Classen’s perfume. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The doctor sat on the round stool and crossed her legs. She hooked her chin-length bob of blond curls behind her ears, folded her hands on her knee, and looked directly into Brooke’s face. “You asked about bad news or good news. I suspect that your gut reaction will be to take what I’m about to disclose as all bad news, but I want you to try to overcome that. Your attitude from this point forward will play a major role in successfully beating this disease.”
“A disease…” The various conditions she’d encountered in her internet search paraded through Brooke’s mind. She swallowed. “Is it curable?”
“There’s a seventy percent survival rate, and those are good odds.”
Survival rate? Did that mean— Panic swooped in hard and fast. Brooke began to tremble from head to toe. Her stomach whirled. She clamped her hands over the chair’s armrests to prevent herself from vibrating out of the seat and commanded herself not to throw up. She glared at her doctor. “I have cancer.”
Dr. Classen didn’t respond verbally. Nor did she offer a gesture of assent or denial. But her eyes…Her brown eyes that had always reminded Brooke of chocolate drops glimmered with such compassion that Brooke didn’t need to hear an answer. She knew.
The doctor put her hand on Brooke’s knee. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a word no one wants to hear.”
Brooke choked back a bitter laugh. “Ya think?”
Dr. Classen’s fingers tightened. “You have ovarian cancer. We believe it’s at stage two. That in itself is good news. Many women aren’t diagnosed until it’s stage four, and by then there’s less than a twenty percent survival rate. We’re fortunate your chiropractor recognized the symptoms and acted quickly.”
Brooke didn’t feel fortunate. She was too scared to feel fortunate. Tears threatened, but she stubbornly set her jaw and blinked them away. “So what happens now?”
“I refer you to an oncologist.”
Brooke shook her head. She didn’t want to see an oncologist. She didn’t want to need to see an oncologist.
Dr. Classen rolled the stool a few inches closer and cupped her hands over Brooke’s white knuckles. Despite the doctor’s calming presence, Brooke continued to quiver, as if an earthquake rumbled beneath her chair. “I recommend Dr. Scott Dickerson. He’s the best at the KU Cancer Center. I’ve already sent over copies of your test results, and as soon as I receive a confirmation, I will schedule your first visit with him myself.”
“When…might that be?”
“Soon. Later this week, in all likelihood.”
A buzz filled Brooke’s head, as if her brain sizzled. This was happening too fast. Her throat was so tight she wondered if her tonsils had tripled in size. Questions flooded her, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask them. She didn’t want to hear the answers.
“Would you like me to give you an idea of what to expect?” Dr. Classen spoke softly, kindly, like someone trying to calm a crying baby.
Brooke shook her head, but she rasped, “Yes. Please.”
The doctor’s hands slid from Brooke’s hands. She leaned sideways and picked up the folder from the desk, then flopped it open across her lap. A black sheet of paper with what looked like a series of white inkblots lay on top of the stack. Dr. Classen pointed to various shadows on the blots as she spoke. “The cancer is in both ovaries and fallopian tubes and the uterus, and it has affected your bladder. The standard treatment is a surgical cytoreduction.”
Brooke frowned. “A what?”
“Surgery to reduce the number of cancer cells. In other words, the surgeon will remove your ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uterus—a radical hysterectomy.” Her chocolate-drop eyes took on the sympathetic glow again. “I’m sorry, Brooke. This means you’ll never bear children.”
Brooke had never considered bearing children. But with the possibility ripped away, she experienced a sense of loss that took her by surprise. “I…I see.”
“Before they perform surgery, however, the oncologist will most likely order a full-body CT scan. He’ll want to make sure no cancer cells exist outside your pelvic region, because that will change the plan for treatment.”
Brooke processed what she’d heard so far. “You said my bladder was affected. Will they take that out, too?”
Dr. Classen shook her head. “They’ll probably use chemotherapy to eradicate those cancer cells. Depending on what the CT scan shows, you might also have radiation therapy.”
This was too much to absorb all at once. Brooke slumped forward and pressed her fingertips to her forehead, where a headache was beginning to pound. Her bangs brushed her fingers and she gasped. Would she go bald? She jerked her hands down and stared at Dr. Classen. “What if I don’t want chemotherapy? Do I have to have it?”
The doctor’s expression didn’t change. “Ultimately it’s your choice whether to undergo any of the standard treatments. No one will force anything on you—whether surgery or chemo or radiation—that you don’t approve. But you need to understand that the cancer has spread beyond your ovaries.”
“You can take those out.” Pain stabbed Brooke’s chest with the statement. She’d heard how women who lost their breasts to breast cancer felt less like women afterward, but she had never quite understood why. Now she understood too clearly. But the cancer needed to be removed from her body. “The…tumors…” Could these ugly words be coming out of her mouth? “Take all of them out. Then the cancer will be gone, right?”
“Not necessarily.” Dr. Classen closed the file and set it aside. “Often women with ovarian cancer will have cancer cells elsewhere that are too small to be detected with any of the currently available tests. We refer to these cells as micrometastases. The small cells cause cancer recurrence following surgical treatment alone. So to cleanse the body of micrometastases and improve your duration of survival and potential for cure, chemotherapy is the best course of action we can provide.”
Brooke stood, forcing Dr. Classen to roll her chair backward. “I’ve heard enough. I…I need some time to think, to come to grips with—” Would she ever come to grips with this unwelcome invasion in her body? How unfair that she, who had lived a cleaner life than her mother, should be stricken with something as ugly as cancer.
Dr. Classen rose and put her hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “Is
there someone you can call to come get you? You’ve received a mighty blow, and it might not be wise for you to drive.”
Brooke jerked away from the doctor’s touch. “I’ll be fine. Let me know when you’ve set up the appointment with…” She searched her memory. What was the oncologist’s name? She couldn’t recall, and she didn’t care. “The doctor at the KU center. Thank you for—” Would she really express appreciation for having been dealt such an ugly blow? She darted out of the room, up the hallway, and into the reception area.
Eyes straight ahead, she charged for the door and then half walked, half jogged through the maze of hallways leading to the parking garage. She wove around other people, lips pressed so tight her jaw ached, not caring if she bumped into them and forced them to step aside. She needed to talk to someone. To rail at someone. To receive comfort from someone. But who could she call? Her mother? Laughable. Mom couldn’t pull her face out of a bottle long enough to put a coherent sentence together. Her friends? What friends? She had none. Not real ones. Only casual business acquaintances who were wrapped up in their own lives and families. She was on her own.
By the time she reached the section of the garage where she’d left her car, her entire body was drenched with sweat. Her silk tank stuck to her skin like a sheet of plastic wrap. Eager to put the AC on high and blast herself with cold air, she hurried the final distance. The SUV remained in its place to the right of her vehicle, but the mafia car had gone and an older-model green Plymouth sat in its place. The change unnerved her, and she aimed her finger for the keypad. Before she connected with it, her gaze fell on a dent and green scrape about four inches below the keypad. The Plymouth’s door had assaulted hers. She released a stronger oath than leapin’ lizards and pressed her thumb against the spot. A magnet wouldn’t fix this one. It went too deep, and the silver paint was scratched all the way to the metal underneath. Her Lexus had been permanently impacted. And so had she. Tears pricked.
She unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. But instead of putting the car into gear, she slumped forward until her forehead met the steering wheel. Pain stabbed through her lower spine, and she bit down on another curse. The throb seemed to chant, Cancer, cancer, cancer…
With a growl, she sat up and slammed her palms on the hard plastic wheel. Why? Why her? She started to whack the steering wheel again, but her hands paused midstrike and she gasped as another question roared through her mind. Why not her? What made her so special that she should be immune from a malady that affected thousands of people every year? Oh, some of those people brought it on themselves with unwise lifestyle choices, but others were like her—stricken for seemingly no reason.
A soft buzz came from her purse—another call. She closed her eyes, considering ignoring it. But maybe taking the call, focusing on business, would help. She snatched the phone from her purse. Hirschler Construction flashed on the screen. Her heart gave a leap. She tapped the accept button and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hello, Brooke.”
At Marty’s warm voice, the tears Brooke had valiantly held at bay broke through the dam and flowed down her cheeks. “Oh, Marty, I’m so glad you called.”
14
Pine Hill
Marty
Marty’s pulse automatically increased its tempo. Although she hadn’t communicated with Brooke except through letters, she heard something in her friend’s tone that seemed out of place. A sadness. A helplessness. A brokenness. She forced a hesitant question. “What’s wrong?”
For several seconds, not a sound came through the phone. Marty pressed the receiver even tighter against her ear. Had the line dropped? Just as she was ready to hang up and call again, Brooke chuckled.
“Oh, you know how it is. Sometimes you just need to hear a friendly voice. I hope you’re calling to tell me”—a discernible swallow, almost a gulp—“Anthony decided to take on my project.”
Something wasn’t right, but if Brooke didn’t want to discuss it, Marty should respect her wishes. “Yes. Our plan is to leave for Kansas on Friday, so his first workday at the town will be the first Monday in July. Is that soon enough?”
Another odd strangling noise preceded a throaty chuckle. “That’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted. Is he bringing his whole team?”
“No. Three of the men are staying here to handle local jobs, like you suggested. The other three are coming with us, and a new man hired on, too, so you’ll only need to find one additional worker to make a team of six.”
“Good. Good.” Brooke’s words were clipped, as if fired from a slingshot. “There are four mobile homes hooked up to water and electricity, each with two bedrooms. You and Anthony will have your own—the one with the biggest kitchen, since you’ll be doing the cooking. The men can double up with whomever they prefer for a roommate, and the man I hire can take the remaining trailer.”
Marty cringed. “Well, one of our men is a newlywed, so he’s bringing his wife, and of course I’m coming with Anthony. So that means one of our men will need to bunk with whoever you hire. Unless we can put three men in one trailer.”
“That wouldn’t give much personal space for any of them. I’ll see what I can do about getting an additional trailer on-site if your Mennonite worker doesn’t want to room with a non-Mennonite. I…”
Marty waited, but Brooke didn’t finish her sentence. Concern for her friend’s well-being chased away worry about invading her privacy. “Brooke, are you all right? You sound kind of unsettled.”
A harsh laugh blasted in Marty’s ear. “I’m sitting in my car, Marty, instead of behind my desk. It’s harder for me to concentrate in here.”
Marty didn’t believe her. From Brooke’s letters, she’d learned how often the businesswoman used her car as a second office. Brooke’s unwillingness to talk felt like a rebuff. “I’m sorry I caught you at a bad time. I should probably let you go anyway. I have lots to do to get ready for our move. But I wanted to let you know you don’t need to search for another contractor.”
“I appreciate that, and I don’t want to delay your leave-taking. I’m very eager to—”
Marty frowned, straining to hear. Had Brooke’s voice broken on a sob? But Brooke didn’t cry. At least, not to Marty’s knowledge. “Brooke?”
“We both have much to get accomplished in the next few days, so let’s end our conversation now and talk more in depth when you get here. All right?” Her brisk, professional, almost unemotional tone had returned.
Marty chewed her lip, wrestling with herself. Should she press Brooke—obviously something was troubling her—or let it go? Although their friendship was decades long, the number of years without face-to-face contact left Marty floundering about what to say or do. “Um…”
“Now, obviously, if you or Anthony have questions or concerns, feel free to call. If it goes to voice mail, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can. I am very pleased you will be coming. I know Anthony and I will forge a great working relationship, and you and I have so much to catch up on. Can’t wait to do that. But for now, I better run. Bye, Marty.” The line went dead.
Kansas City
Brooke
Brooke tossed the cell phone onto the passenger’s seat and pressed her fist to her lips. It had taken every bit of self-control she possessed not to break down and share her diagnosis with Marty. She needed the release. But two things stopped her. Marty had enough to do to get ready for a move across several states, and Brooke wasn’t ready to speak the awful C-word out loud. Not saying it didn’t change anything, but if she didn’t talk about it, she could pretend—at least for a little while—that there wasn’t something awful growing inside her.
She’d left the engine idling for too long. At least four cars had rolled past while she sat talking to Marty. She should leave the parking space, let someone else have it. But she didn’t put the car in g
ear. She closed her eyes and let her head sag against the headrest, welcoming the flow of cold air from the AC vents against her neck and chest. Soon she’d have the chance to talk to Marty in person. By the time the Hirschlers arrived, her appointment with the oncologist—another ugly word—would be behind her and she’d have a better idea of what she was facing.
And Marty would be here to be her safe harbor, just as she’d so often been when they were children. If Brooke didn’t know better, she’d suspect divine intervention. But she did know better. If there was a God, He wouldn’t subject children to drunken mothers and their abusive boyfriends or women to diagnoses like cancer and infertility. Believing in God made some people feel better, and that was fine. But adopt it for herself? Not a chance.
Without prompting, part of another Carpenters song began to play. And solitaire’s the only game in town…
Another car inched past. She’d taken up space here long enough. Time to go home. She had work to do. If she was lucky, it would occupy her well enough to chase away the awful C-word reverberating through her mind.
Noblesville
Anthony
Anthony accepted the windowed envelope with a check peeking through and shook Robert Butler’s hand. “Thank you for trusting Hirschler Construction with your project, sir.”
The older man released Anthony’s hand and aimed his gaze at the two-story structure that resembled an 1800s carriage house. A grin crinkled his eyes. “I had no doubt you Amish men would do a bang-up job. Seems like you’re all born with a good work ethic.”
People often mixed up the Amish and the Mennonites, and it only confused folks more when he corrected them. So Anthony folded the envelope in half and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “If you decide to have my team do the finish work on the apartment, call Steve Kanagy. His number is on the invoice.”
Ours for a Season Page 11
