Hope Springs

by Lynne Hinton

  Charlotte squeezed her hand. “I’ll be back next week.” She hoped Beatrice hadn’t heard her as the older woman walked around the bed and picked up her purse. Nadine nodded. And the two women left the room, turning back to wave, then discussing which was the easiest way to get back to the parking deck.

  Nadine closed her eyes and tried to think of how to explain to her doctor that she had not been absentminded or distracted as she stepped off the curb when the light turned green. That she had not been drunk or stoned. That she had instead been the clearest she had been in months. And because the desire and the intention had been without the influence of drugs or alcohol and had been so plain and obvious, so perfectly sharp, Nadine knew that Charlotte was absolutely right. She was in trouble. And even if the young woman wasn’t sure she could find it, she knew she needed help.

  She closed her eyes and rolled on her side and pressed her hand to her heart. She felt it beat and rest and wondered to herself if such a thing were possible, that she could ever really want to live again.

  VOLUME 1, NUMBER 2

  Hope Springs Community Garden Club Newsletter

  BEA’S BOTANICAL BITS

  Pesky Pests

  Bugs! Bugs! And more bugs!

  There are as many insects and diseases in the plant world as there are in the human one. If you have a garden, be prepared to be aggravated by aphids, Japanese beetles, whiteflies, and cutworms. You may also find mealybugs, leafhoppers, mildew, crown rot, fairy ring, and black spot, just to name a few garden pests. Got a sick plant? You may want to check for bugs.

  I suggest you take action before the problem occurs. Keep your soil in top shape. Clean your tools. Inspect plants closely before you buy them. And dispose of anything that might attract or harbor bad bugs.

  If some creature has already moved into your garden and started housekeeping, then you have to zap ’em or trap ’em. Insecticides and traps can be bought at your local hardware store, or you can make your own. My favorite is the slug trap, a saucer of beer sunk in the ground. Soapsuds is also an effective remedy to eliminate many pests.

  My mama used to kill some insects, stir up their remains, and spray the mixture on the plants. “Bug juice,” she used to say. “Even an insect can recognize family.”

  2

  Margaret was outside picking off worms and pulling weeds from her flower beds when the call came. She did not hear the ringing of the phone or the message of the nurse who was telling her the news that would change everything for her in the weeks and months ahead. She was yanking out dodder and witch-grass and checking for mites and leaf lice. She was popping the green pods of snapweed, smiling at the quiet explosions that meant more weeds in the future.

  She was not a particularly gifted gardener. She had grown up on the farm, worked one most of her adult life, and was most comfortable digging in the earth and nurturing plants, watching them grow. She liked flowers, tried new varieties every year; but she never had a show garden, the kind fancy women like to have people come over to see or the kind where nothing ever grows in them except what was designed on paper and planted in the very beginning.

  Unlike many gardeners, Margaret didn’t mind some of the weeds that grew. She enjoyed seeing the unique flowers they produced, even if they were just chickweed or gill-over-the-ground. She found the surprises that grew in her garden to be the most interesting. Volunteer sunflowers that heightened her beds and periwinkle that spread across the yard, the things she did not plant, these were the flowers she actually cared for the most.

  She gathered up the long tendrils of ivy, the coarse brown stems of Johnson grass, and the sticky stalks of stinging nettle, trying not to let any of them touch the places on her arms, just at her wrists, that remained exposed. It took her three trips with the wheelbarrow to rid herself and her little gardens of all the late-summer growth and the pre-autumn pests. And as she headed back inside, she was pleased with herself for the good work she had accomplished on such a hot August morning.

  She walked in and did not notice the blinking light on the answering machine until after she had washed and changed clothes. She saw the indication that a call had come in when she moved away from the refrigerator to retrieve a glass from the cabinet above the sink. She touched the Play button and poured herself some iced tea, not paying much attention as the message began. Then she slid the pitcher back on the shelf and turned to study the machine as the words spilled out.

  “Mrs. Peele, this is Linda Masterson at Dr. Morgan’s office.” The nurse cleared her throat. “Um, we just got back the report from your mammogram and we’d like you to come by sometime this week to talk to the doctor. Call us when you get in and we’ll make you an appointment at your convenience.” Then there was a click, followed by the instructions on how to save or discard the message. Margaret wasn’t sure which to do.

  She pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. She drank her tea and thought a million things. She thought how it could be nothing and how it could be everything. She thought about the nurse, a young woman who must have to make this kind of call every day. She thought about the mammogram and how she and Jessie had gone on the same day last week and how they had celebrated having completed that yearly exam with ice cream at a parlor in Greensboro where they would add a candy bar, cookies, or fruit for just fifty cents extra.

  She had decided to have sherbet with tiny slivers of mandarin oranges on top, and Jessie had ordered a butterscotch sundae. They had eaten and laughed and decided that they should have ice cream for more than just the mammogram day and made plans to go again in a month, “just to honor life,” Jessie had said.

  Margaret thought about her insurance and wondered how much coverage she had for anything serious. She was still a rider on the policy that Luther had gotten from Blue Cross when they first got married. The company had gone through many changes over the years, but she had continued to pay the rising costs and felt sure she had adequate coverage. But she had never tested it herself since she had never had much wrong with her.

  She had annual physicals, flu shots, and regular eye doctor appointments. She was careful with her health but fortunate, she knew, because she had never known many physical ailments aside from the customary bouts with viruses and allergies, a gallbladder incident once, and a couple of cases of strep throat. She had never stayed in a hospital, never had surgery, never been sick for more than a few days, and never had anyone take care of her.

  She shook her head at the possibilities and decided that before she began making plans for extended care or how to complete insurance claim forms she should see her doctor and hear more about what the mammogram had shown. Margaret got up from the table, called, and made an appointment for later that afternoon. She hung up the phone and walked to the mailbox, resolving not to think about anything until she knew all the facts. But the lingering questions, the worry, kept her from being very attentive to anything she tried to accomplish for the next few hours.

  She went back outside, to the flower bed in the corner behind the barn, the one with barberry and two butterfly bushes, and readjusted the railroad ties that bordered it; she reapplied pine straw and mulch from the bags she kept in the shed. She worked a couple more hours, trying to focus on matters at hand, trying to notice and appreciate the long purple clusters that fed so many butterflies, trying to memorize the sharp angles of the sun; but the anticipation was overwhelming, the dreaded possibilities just too irresistible. So she left her outside work, took her shower, and headed for her appointment. Margaret got to the doctor’s office forty minutes early.

  It was not an exam but rather a conversation. She was escorted into Dr. Morgan’s private office and told to have a seat, that he would be there in just a few minutes.

  Margaret took a few deep breaths, remembering the last time she had sat in front of this desk, waiting to discuss some health-related matter. It had been almost fifteen years ago when she had gone to see Dr. Morgan about Luther’s stroke, to ask him how it could have happ
ened to a man so young. She remembered how she felt, small and lost, and how he had talked to her. He had explained about the smoking and the genetic factors and the stress of farming; and she had listened respectfully, quietly, but all the time wondering if the doctor believed anything that he said.

  It was not that she didn’t like Dr. Morgan or that he had a deceitful manner. She had no reason to think that he would lie to her. He had been their doctor since they had first gotten married, and there had never been any complaints from herself or Luther. It was just that on that occasion he seemed nervous in a way that made him appear unreliable, like he was hiding something. He never acted that way during her physicals. He was thorough and asked a lot of questions, polite, interested. But there was just something about having to talk about the death of a patient, the death of her husband, that made him seem edgy, guilty, or at least somehow responsible that Luther had died.

  Margaret thought it was an admirable trait for a doctor to be so concerned about his patients, so troubled by their deaths, that he would feel some sense of inadequacy or loss. But she wondered how he ever managed his practice if he took everyone’s death so personally.

  He knocked and pushed open the door, walked in, and shut it behind him. He was wearing a long white coat over a blue striped shirt and a tie with yellow sun faces on it. Everything was sharp and starched. His pants were navy and his shoes were brown, the leather, though old and worn, now polished and reshaped. Under his arm was a manila file, and he dropped it on his desk as he stopped to shake Margaret’s hand.

  “Afternoon, Margaret, how are you today?”

  They had known each other for more than thirty years, Margaret thought as she stood to greet him. And yet they knew so little about each other. They saw each other only once a year in an exam room, she vulnerable and unclothed, he authoritative and professional. There were so many things he didn’t know about her. And there were so many things she didn’t know about him. For instance, had he been the father of three children or four? Was his wife still living? Were they divorced? Where was his home? How old was he?

  In more than three decades, their relationship had been based entirely upon the results of a blood test and the number of times her heart beat per minute. Strange, she thought, that you can know a person for so long but not really understand anything about him.

  “I’m fine, Dr. Morgan.” She sat down and dropped her hands in her lap and smiled.

  “Had a good summer, I hope.”

  She nodded. There was very little possibility of her engaging in small talk.

  “Well, I know you’re nervous about our phone call.” He opened up the file and began to read to himself. Then he closed the file, tapped his finger on the edge of his chair, and faced Margaret.

  “They’ve discovered a small mass in your right breast. It’s fairly deep, behind the nipple, so I don’t expect you’ve felt it.” It was sort of a question and sort of a statement; but he waited for a response. She shook her head.

  “Well, we’ll take a look before you leave.” He took in a breath. His eyes held a certain amount of concern. “Typically, the next step is an ultrasound, to try to locate it more clearly, see if we can tell more about it. I’d like to schedule you for one in the next couple of days. Is that possible for you?”

  Margaret nodded.

  He saw her worry and continued. “We don’t need to think the worst. These kind of results are very common. It could be a false reading, a shadow from movement during the test. It could be a cyst or a fibroid tumor. It could just be some calcification. Doing the ultrasound will help us know a little more.”

  He peered across the desk at the woman and considered what she might be made of, how she would be in the midst of all the unknowingness, all the uncertainties that were about to be a part of her life. He knew that she had handled her husband’s death with dignity and strength, that she had managed all the affairs and remained healthy; but this was different. This had the potential to attack the very core of her being. He wondered what kind of support system she had, what gave her purpose, and how well she could fight trouble.

  He had seen a lot of people come and go through his office door. Diagnosis and prognosis, all could be the same, but the difference came in what patients had to take in with them or what they found inside themselves when the real battles began. The ones who opened themselves to the treatments and the hope, they were the ones who almost always survived or had the best odds. The ones who shriveled up and shut themselves off from that which could heal or at least help, they were the ones who never lasted long. He did not know enough about Margaret Peele to know which kind of person she was.

  “I would like to do a breast exam, just to see if I can palpate it; but regardless, I will have Linda set up the ultrasound for later in the week.”

  He wrote something on a piece of paper, an order for the test, Margaret thought.

  “Do you have any questions right now?”

  There was a pause for a minute while Margaret thought of a hundred questions but did not have the words to articulate them. She wanted to ask what he really thought it was and what she should do to begin preparing for what might be ahead. She wanted to ask how many serious cases start with this same conversation, and out of those conversations and cases, how many of the women were still alive. But she thought they were questions that he might not be able to answer, and she wasn’t really sure she even wanted a response.

  She shook her head and they both got up. She went into room number 3, undressed, and put on the paper apron that lay folded on the table. It wasn’t until after he had completed the exam and told her that he couldn’t feel anything and then left her alone in the room that Margaret actually said the word out loud. Cancer.

  It was not spoken to the doctor or to the nurse; it was not posed in a question or even in an angry bellow. It was not a prayer. She just called out the word like it was a stranger who had simply introduced herself. She said it, took in a breath, exhaled, put her clothes back on, and left the doctor’s office.

  Margaret pulled out of the parking lot thinking about the word, thinking about what it meant. She remembered her father’s struggle with cancer and how the disease crept from organ to organ, silently killing him over a period of long and painful months. She knew of others in her family who died from cancer, a niece, two of her cousins, an uncle who lived out of state. And she wondered if there was some pattern to a family’s medical history, some rational way of explaining how cancer, like ants walking to and from their hills, trailed along genetic lines leaving a relative without any means of escape. Or if the malady struck randomly, hitting a person like a stray bolt of lightning. She wondered if she, unlike those whom a bloodline she shared, could survive cancer or whether this bright August day was the beginning of her end.

  Driving home, Margaret stopped at the church when she saw Charlotte’s car in the parking lot. She got out of her car with the notion that she wasn’t going to tell her anything about the test results or her upcoming appointment; she just wanted to see how Nadine was doing.

  When she walked in, Charlotte was on the phone.

  “I thought the insurance covered this sort of thing.”

  Margaret stood at the main door as it closed behind her.

  “I don’t want to go to your person. I prefer to talk to a woman. Your designated clinicians are all men.”

  Charlotte sounded frustrated, and Margaret wondered if she should wait outside a few minutes. She stayed there a bit longer, trying to decide what to do.

  “Fine. When you talk to your supervisor, have them call me. I think I should have some say in this matter. After all, it is my life we’re dealing with.” Then she hung up the phone.

  Margaret walked toward the office. The door was open.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here this late.” Margaret came in and stood near the weeping fig that the pastor kept against the wall. Some of its leaves had dropped, probably because of the air conditioning, and the stems needed to be
cut back. But other than that, the plant appeared healthy and she was impressed that the pastor was doing a good job keeping the ficus growing.

  Charlotte looked up, surprised that someone was there. When she saw Margaret she relaxed.

  “Oh, hi, yeah, well…” She stopped and then decided she would go ahead and tell the truth. “I’m trying to make an appointment.” She wasn’t sure how much she needed to explain. “Insurance requirements,” she continued.

  She stayed seated at her desk and then noticed that Margaret appeared bothered. Her brow was crossed in worry, something Charlotte rarely saw on Margaret’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked.

  Margaret didn’t realize that she was so transparent, and she immediately tried to change the subject.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, almost a little too confidently. She waved her hand in the air and sat down in the chair next to the file cabinet, across from the pastor. “I just wanted to see about Nadine. I’m sorry; I should’ve called.”

  Charlotte wasn’t sure she believed Margaret, but she went ahead with the line of thinking. “She’s okay. I mean, physically, she’s banged up pretty bad, but I think maybe she might get some help now. She talked about Brittany. She hasn’t done that since it happened.”

  Charlotte could tell something wasn’t right with her friend; but she didn’t know what it was or how to ask about it. She shuffled some of the papers on her desk. Margaret watched her.

  “How about you?” Margaret asked. “You okay?” She had heard enough of the phone conversation to know Charlotte was needing an appointment with somebody; and even though it wasn’t like Margaret to be that nosy, she thought maybe the young pastor wanted to talk.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” she said.

  Neither of them seemed ready to discuss what was going on with them. There was a pause and then Margaret spoke. Her news blew through the room like a trumpet. It surprised even herself to tell it.

  “I have to have an ultrasound. They found something on my mammogram. I just came back from the doctor.” She stopped, appearing flustered. She had not expected to share this information so quickly with anyone. She had not expected to speak to Charlotte about it until after she knew something more complete.