by Lynne Hinton
“Do you need any help?” Margaret asked as the injured woman disappeared into the hall.
Louise merely shook her head. Margaret turned in her seat and sighed. She never knew there were so many elements of a sickness. Not only does a person have to take care of herself but she also has to care for her friends.
“Just give her a little time,” Beatrice said.
It appeared to Margaret that Beatrice wasn’t upset, and she felt glad about that. She smiled at her. Then she sighed again and got up from her chair and walked to the bathroom, where Louise was trying to stretch gauze around her wounds using only one hand. Margaret pushed herself beside her and took the roll of thin white fabric and began wrapping it around Louise’s hand.
“It was not a personal thing,” she explained as she tightened the gauze around Louise’s palm.
“It was personal for me,” Louise answered.
Then there was a long pause as Margaret pulled the bandage down and around and over the burns and up and above her thumb.
“I didn’t know how to say it,” Margaret said. “I mean, I just couldn’t form the words enough for myself, so I couldn’t imagine how to say it out loud for somebody else.” Margaret finished and took the scissors that were on top of the commode and cut the end of the gauze.
“I never thought of me as just somebody else,” Louise said painfully. She reached in the medicine cabinet and pulled out the tape and handed it to Margaret.
“You know what I mean,” Margaret replied as she cut small pieces of tape and placed them on the bandage. “I’m telling you now.”
“Yes, yes you are,” Louise replied, taking the tape and gauze and putting them into the cabinet. Then she walked toward the dining room.
“You want to try the tea again?” Beatrice was standing in the kitchen, filling up the kettle.
Margaret and Louise stood next to the table.
“Yes, that’s fine,” Margaret replied. “But I’d like for us to sit down and finish talking.”
Louise shrugged her shoulders and sat down. Margaret moved behind her and pulled out the chair next to her while Beatrice put the kettle on the stove. She got out three cups and three teabags.
“I’m sorry I waited to tell you.” She placed her arms on the table. “Honestly, Lou, I don’t know how to be sick. I don’t know how you tell somebody that you’re going to take a test that may change everything for you. I don’t know why one person chooses to keep things inside or why another picks up the phone right away and asks for help. This is new for me. I don’t know how to do it.” She paused. “I just don’t know how to do it.”
Louise lowered her gaze. “See, that’s the thing,” she said quietly. “I always thought in a friendship, that there shouldn’t have to be a knowing how to do it.”
She glanced back up at Margaret. “I mean, if you care about somebody, if you truly are a friend, shouldn’t it just be in a natural order to hear bad news and then go to the ones you love?”
She reached for a napkin with her right hand and then, remembering her recent accident, dropped her arm in her lap. “I mean, why should there have to be a thought process? Why shouldn’t it just be fundamental?”
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know.” She leaned toward Louise. “Is there anything fundamental about cancer?” Then she sat back in her chair. “I guess there are stages that are documented and basic questions everyone has. But aren’t there as many ways to handle bad news and backbreaking news and life-changing news as there are people in the world?”
She rested her elbow on the table. Then she thought a minute and added, “If I remember correctly, when Roxie died you didn’t ask me about going to the cemetery and camping out. You were in a lot of pain and you just went. By yourself.” She emphasized the last two words.
Beatrice spoke from the kitchen. “I heard that,” she said. “You were some sight that night!”
Louise drew in a breath, recalling that awful night and how she had made a choice to be alone after the funeral. She hadn’t sought out the counsel or advice of her friend. She had just stolen George’s car and driven herself out to the grave. Her friends came to find her.
Louise laid both hands on the table. She faced Margaret. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being selfish.”
She reached over to touch her friend’s arm. She was still angry at Margaret, still angry at Jessie, and she was still angry that friendship wasn’t always enough. She wanted the relationships she shared with these two women to guarantee honesty and intimacy and an undeniable sharing of the heart. But she realized there were no guarantees regarding friendship. She understood that there are times when even friends turn away from the women they love. “How are you doing?”
Margaret smiled slightly. “I don’t know.”
Margaret rested her head against the chair and closed her eyes. She thought about the last few days and the state of her mind, her spirit. She thought of how she had not slept a full night since receiving the first phone call, how she tossed and turned for hours in the darkness.
After a few minutes Beatrice brought in the tea in cups she had placed on a platter. “Hot tea,” she said. Then she added, “Good for whatever ails you!”
Louise pulled out the chair for Beatrice using only her left hand.
“I never thought I’d be afraid to die,” Margaret said without changing her position at the table. “I thought I was this strong, independent, faithful person who would face sickness or death like some army officer or something.” She reached for her cup and blew across the top of the tea.
“I thought I’d prepared myself for everything and that I could handle any disease or ailment or crisis.” She put down the cup.
“I’m not really ready,” she said as she turned toward Louise, then over toward Beatrice.
Both women appeared concerned, then Louise nodded knowingly.
Beatrice spoke up. “Yes, I always thought I had managed to be ready for everything too.” She relaxed in her chair.
“Did I ever tell you how I imagined everyone dying so I’d be primed for the pain?” Louise stretched for her cup; she seemed better.
Margaret and Beatrice waited for the story.
“That’s what I used to do on the weekends.” She set the cup down, pulled her chair closer to the table, and then started to take a sip.
Margaret shook her head as she took a swallow. “You mean to tell me your leisure time was spent killing off people in your mind?” She wondered if this was why Louise always seemed so prepared for the deaths of her family members, how she managed to be so strong and put together.
“Yep,” Louise said without appearing embarrassed. “Got everybody too. Mama, Calvin, Bitsy, Aunt Myrtle. I saw them all slain before it happened.” She leaned forward. “And for the most part I was plenty ready.” She paused a second.
“And then…” Louise put down her cup and dropped her arms at her side. “I loved Roxie.”
Margaret closed her eyes again and listened while Beatrice watched her friend.
“And as hard as I tried, even after she married George and I thought I’d lost her, I could not think of her dying.” Louise sat up and started again to drink her tea but then kept talking.
“Even when she moved in here and I was supposed to know about her forthcoming death and be prepared.” She slid down in her seat. “There’s some things your heart simply refuses to acknowledge.” She hesitated. “There are ideas and notions that just cannot be considered.”
Margaret remembered Roxie’s funeral and afterward how Louise had grieved. She recalled how difficult the year had been for her friend and thought that maybe her reasons for not telling her about the mammogram and biopsy had been a fundamental response after all. Maybe her choice was meant not to cause Louise any more pain. And with that idea, she wondered if she should say anything in this regard but then decided just to keep silent.
“I guess there’s really no way to be prepared for life’s little surprises,” Beatrice said.
“No,” Louise responded, “I guess not.”
“And,” Louise added, “I guess there’s no real way to know what you’ll need from your friends when you run into those little surprises either.”
Margaret shook her head. Louise glanced out the window and noticed how dark the sky was turning. “I think that storm is about to break,” she said as she drank from her cup. Then she spat out her drink and yelled, “This tea tastes like shit, Beatrice.” She put down the mug. “Where did you get this?”
Beatrice took a sip. She swallowed and then acted confused. “It’s something you had up in your cabinet.”
Louise thought for a moment. “What kind of box was it in?” she asked.
“Yellow, I think,” Beatrice answered. “With lots of writing on the box.” She put down her cup. “I didn’t have my glasses so I couldn’t read it.”
“Beatrice, this is a laxative tea. I bought it for Roxie.” She sat back in her chair. “It’s called Easy Movement and it tastes like what it’s supposed to make happen.”
Margaret laughed and Beatrice drank some more and then licked her lips. “Well, I think it’s fine.”
Louise got up from the table and took some water from the refrigerator. She poured a glass for herself and one for Margaret, who was apparently not too thrilled with the tea either.
“You know, I never liked my titties,” Beatrice said as Louise was sitting down.
Margaret took her glass from Louise and listened in disbelief to Beatrice.
“They were always too big, bouncing all around all the time.” She put her hands under her breasts.
“And my shoulders have actual dents in them from wearing chest girdles all my life!” She rubbed her left shoulder with her right hand. “Have you all ever seen my breasts?”
Margaret shook her head while Beatrice started to unbutton her blouse.
Louise quickly responded. “Beatrice, if you flop those things out on my dining room table, I swear I’m calling the police.”
“Oh all right, Ms. Prude.” She pulled her blouse together. “Well, anyway, I almost considered having them taken off!”
Margaret was still stunned.
“You mean a size reduction,” Louise said in a sort of callous way.
“No, I mean cut off,” Beatrice answered. “What did I need these things for anymore? I had already nursed all the babies I was ever going to nurse. And I didn’t really foresee a future in exotic dancing.” She took another sip. Louise grimaced at the thought of Beatrice dancing naked.
“Well,” Margaret asked, “what happened?” She was curious.
“Dr. Lucas said he wouldn’t do it.” Beatrice dropped her face, her chin resting on her chest. “He said I should be grateful for what I had and that my husband was a lucky man.”
Louise was shocked. “He said that to you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“What did you say?” Margaret asked in astonishment.
“I said that Paul Newgarden wasn’t a breast man and that even if he was, his luck did not have anything to do with the size of his wife’s boobs but everything to do with the fact that I was a good woman and that he was fortunate to be married to me.” She said this loudly and with a lot of pride as she remembered that doctor visit from many years ago.
“Huh,” Margaret said in reply. “I can’t say as I’ve ever had such a conversation with my doctor.”
“Well,” Beatrice responded, “that’s because you have normal breasts.”
Margaret glanced over at Louise and started to laugh.
“What?” Beatrice asked innocently.
“What does having normal breasts have to do with having that kind of conversation with a doctor?” Margaret took a drink of her water.
“It has everything to do with that.”
Louise and Margaret waited for the explanation.
“If you have normal breasts, then you wouldn’t have asked for them to be taken off. And if you were not to ask to have them taken off, then you would not have heard your doctor say such a thing.” Beatrice said it so reasonably that Margaret and Louise thought they must have missed some step in the process since they still did not understand.
“Never mind, Beatrice,” Louise said. “What kind of surgery are they doing?” she asked Margaret.
Margaret was still thinking about Beatrice’s story as she answered Louise’s question. “They’re going ahead to do a mastectomy.” She paused, then explained. “They were going to do a lumpectomy; but they’re concerned that isn’t enough, that based on the test results, it would be better to go ahead and take the whole breast. That way, if it’s…” She stopped. “If the cancer’s spread, they wouldn’t have to go back and do another operation.”
There was silence at the table as the three women considered what was about to take place. They watched the sky and thought of storms and loss and the sorrow inherent in the surgery Margaret was facing. They listened to the approaching thunder and the whirling of wind and sat with their sadness, wondering how much of what they felt should be shared.
“You know, I said I wanted them off at one time, but truthfully,” Beatrice’s voice was calm, “I would miss mine if they were gone.” She placed her hand across her chest as if she was pledging allegiance to something.
Louise tried to reach under the table to pinch Beatrice, but she was sitting too far away. She thought this sort of talk was bad for Margaret. But then she turned toward her friend and noticed that Margaret appeared not to be put off or uncomfortable with Beatrice’s ideas.
“What do you mean, Bea?” Margaret asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied as the storm picked up outside. Then she added, “They are a part of what makes us women.”
Louise wanted to put an end to the topic. “Let’s get out of here and get some lunch before this weather breaks.” She stood up from her seat.
“No,” Margaret responded, “I want to talk about this.”
And Louise sat down, glaring at Beatrice, who did not notice.
“Do you think they really make us women?” Margaret asked.
Beatrice reached up and cupped her breasts. Louise watched her, then faced Margaret, who was staring at her own chest.
“Breasts do not make us women,” Louise said, almost in anger.
“Then what does?” Margaret asked. “Is it our wombs or our vaginas?”
Beatrice pulled her knees toward her chest and started rolling up her dress.
“Beatrice Newgarden Witherspoon, don’t even think about it!”
Beatrice dropped the hem of her dress and drank some more tea. It annoyed her that Louise could be so modest.
“I don’t know, Margaret,” Beatrice said as she sighed at Louise and then spoke to her other friend. “I guess I’ve always thought it was a physical thing. That the definition of our gender did have to do with what is or isn’t a part of our bodies.” Then she added, “Male, penis, female, no penis.”
Margaret replied, “Well, now you’re saying that being a woman has to do with not having the male organ. That we’re female because, by process of being denied a penis, we’re not male.”
Beatrice reflected on this notion. “Yes, I guess I am.” She hesitated. “But then what about the titties?”
“What about the titties?” Margaret asked.
“Could you maybe use a different word than titties?” Louise asked. “It sounds so…locker room, or something.” She was still trying without much success to put a halt to the talk that was taking place at her dining room table.
“Being a woman is about not having a penis; and it is about having…” Beatrice hesitated then said with a certain amount of dignity, “breasts.” She turned to Louise, who smiled a fake smile.
“Which then brings us back to my situation,” Margaret responded.
Beatrice’s brow was knotted in concentration.
“If I lose my breasts, then am I no longer a woman?”
“Of course not,” Louise exclaimed in disbelie
f at the entire conversation.
“Hold on!” Beatrice replied. “It’s a good question. And I need to think about that.”
The three women sat in silence for a few minutes, two of them considering what it means to be a woman, one of them trying to figure out how to change the subject.
“Okay, let’s look at this,” Beatrice said like she was a scientist.
Louise started to her feet and Margaret spoke up. “Oh, I don’t think she means look in a literal way, Lou!” Margaret said, and the other woman sat back down. “You don’t, do you, Bea?”
Beatrice shook her head and continued. “If a baby is born female, there are certain body parts it has and certain body parts it does not have. And when the doctor sees which parts there are, the doctor decides if it’s a boy baby or a girl baby.” Beatrice nodded as if she had come up with the right answer.
“But what if the baby has both parts, or some of one and some of another?” Margaret had heard of such births from her niece who was a labor and delivery nurse.
Louise exhaled loudly. This line of thinking was just too much for her. She began to notice a throbbing in her hand, and she took another sip from her glass of water.
“Then it’s genetic,” Beatrice answered. “It’s the XY chromosome thing. Whether you’re male or female has to do with your NBA strand.”
Louise almost spit up her drink. “NBA? NBA? Is that what you said?”
Margaret started to laugh. “Oh my God, that’s what she said!”
Beatrice quickly realized her mistake. “DNA, I meant to say. DNA!” She kicked Louise’s leg. “It isn’t very nice to make fun of others.”
“You’re right.” Louise stopped, sounding almost apologetic. Then she added, “But sometimes it just bounces out of me!” And she laughed some more.
Margaret covered her mouth, trying not to laugh, but it was funny to her. And to hear Louise and Beatrice now fighting about it made it even funnier.
