“What d’ya mean where’s your belt? Didn’t you pack it?” I screeched.
He wouldn’t meet my eye. “Doesn’t look like it. And I’m afraid these pants will fall down.”
“Well, at least you’ll wake up the students.” I sighed. “But don’t worry; I always have a safety pin in my suitcase.”
Except when I didn’t. Pat and I eyed each other in a panic until I said, “We passed a mall on the way in. Hang tight and I’ll be right back.” It was rush hour in Charlotte, a nightmare in the best of times, but I flew to the mall, grabbed a belt at Penney’s, then sped back. We were five nerve-racking minutes late to the auditorium, and it took me twice that long to catch my breath. But Pat’s britches stayed up.
Driving straight to Barbara’s memorial, Pat wore his docksiders, baggy khakis with a navy shirt, and a rumpled navy blazer. The other Citadel guys would be in respectable dark suits, I knew, but also knew that Barbara would’ve held Pat’s face in her hands and laughed at him for being his usual rumpled, unstylish self. The big USC event the following day was my main concern, but I’d taken care of that. In the trunk next to his overnight bag I’d put his good suit in a hanging bag with a dress shirt, tie, and shoes. Then I’d taped a big piece of paper on it: USC AWARDS CEREMONY!
I’d just gotten in from my trip to Alabama when Pat returned home. Seeing the car I ran out to meet him, anxious to hear about the memorial service. We hugged and wept for Barbara and the family, then Pat hobbled into the house toting his overnight bag. Driving for eight hours for two days in a row had hurt his back, as long drives had done since his back surgery in the early ’90s. I told him not to worry, I’d get the rest of his stuff.
My heart sank as soon as I opened the trunk. There was the hanging bag I’d packed him with the sign still on it. The paper was taped over the zipper so the bag couldn’t have been opened. Unbelievably, Pat had appeared at the hoity-toity awards ceremony in the same thing he’d worn for two days. I closed my eyes and sighed at the futility of my efforts to keep such a thing from happening. Then a dreadful suspicion hit me and I stomped over to the passenger side of the car and flung open the door. Sure enough, both the bread and my letter were still on the seat, exactly where I’d put them.
* * *
Sorrow wasn’t done with us, and never is done with any of us, regardless of how blessed our lives may seem. During those years, Pat and I would lose many friends and family members, each blow seeming to come while we were still reeling from the previous one. If we’d learned anything from our losses, it should’ve been that no matter how bad the heartache, the next one is just around the bend. One afternoon in 2010 Pat came in from a trip into town and found me huddled on our bed in a fetal position. Even though I heard him come in, heard the door close behind him, I couldn’t make myself move. It took him by surprise; I was rarely in our room late afternoon and certainly not catatonic on the bed. Proceeding cautiously, he put a hand on my shoulder and leaned over me. “Sweetheart? Anything wrong?”
My response was “Yeah. Everything’s wrong.”
Pat thought a minute before saying, “Is it me?”
Normally I would’ve laughed. Instead I said, “I can’t do this without you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Pat moved me over and sat beside me with his hand caressing my shoulder. I scooted myself upright and leaned into him. “You want to tell me about it?” he asked.
I took a deep breath, wishing I didn’t have to put it into words. Otherwise, maybe it wouldn’t be real. Finally I said, “Do you remember a few weeks ago when Nancy Jane had her gallbladder removed? She was perfectly fine one day; sick and in severe pain the next. They figured it must be gallstones. But it wasn’t, so they’ve been running more tests. She just called to tell me that the test results came back, and she’s scheduled for more surgery next week. Turns out, it’s not her gallbladder.”
“What is it?”
I could tell by his tone that he knew the answer, knew the reason he’d found me in such a state. “It’s cancer,” I told him.
Pat closed his eyes. “Oh dear God,” he said finally. “How old is Nancy Jane, fifty?”
“Fifty-two. It makes no sense! I’m the one who’s always having problems, not her. She and Beckie tease me about my delicate constitution.”
It was true, I’d drawn the short stick in a family of hearty and healthy stock. Beckie and Nancy liked to boast that they never got so much as a cold or a stomach bug, despite kindergarten kids sneezing in their faces or barfing on their feet. Another factor occurred to me, however, one that was hard to ignore. Only a couple of years before, Nancy Jane had gone through an extremely stressful and painful divorce (Is there any other kind? Pat would ask). Not for the first time, I questioned the relationship between stress and illness. As a therapist told me once, your biography becomes your biology. When I’d repeated that troublesome thought to Pat, his response had been typical of him: “I’m a dead man, then.”
I appreciated that Pat didn’t try to make me feel better with platitudes, he just took my hand in his and sat with me. He knew better than anybody how close Nancy Jane and I were. She and I thought so much alike that we practically finished each other’s sentences. We shared the same irreverent humor, same politics, and same spirituality. I’d always been protective of her and knew that was a big part of my despair. I couldn’t protect her from this. No one could. We might say we’d take a bullet for those we love and mean it sincerely, but all the sincerity in the world can’t alter the course of the bullet. The only thing we can do for those we love who are in pain is to be with them and hold their hand.
By the time I traveled to Birmingham for Nancy Jane’s surgery, I’d fallen back on the comfort of platitudes and had force-fed myself every single one I could think of. An even better metaphor, I grabbed each one that floated by and held on to it like a life preserver. Sitting in the waiting room of St. Vincent’s Hospital with the rest of the family and my sister’s teacher friends, we repeated platitudes to one another ad nauseam, trying to convince ourselves that everything would be fine. After all, they didn’t know for sure it was cancer, right? Lab tests could be wrong. We told stories of false diagnoses or miraculous healing.
Several hours later than expected, Nancy Jane’s surgeon came out grim faced. They’d found widespread cancer, a rare endocrine kind that no one saw very often. Because the treatment options were so limited, the surgeon had taken out as much of it as he could. Unfortunately the only way to save her had been to remove two-thirds of her intestines. Nancy would survive, the surgeon told the family, maybe even for a few years. But her life would be greatly altered. It would be an ongoing struggle to keep her well.
I’d learn later that her surgeon, a soft-spoken, exceedingly compassionate young man, had taken pity on the family and friends who had to hear such a difficult prognosis and had softened it as much as possible. I’ll always appreciate that he broke it to us gently and left us with a glimmer of hope. Several years earlier when my mother had been diagnosed with cancer, her oncologist had walked in and with no preliminary, informed her that nothing could be done. She had six months to live if she was lucky, he added briskly, then walked out. He didn’t get far. I stormed after him and suggested he change either his bedside manner or his profession. (I heard later that he did the latter.)
My sister lived in a small town about an hour from Birmingham where she had a wonderful support group. She returned home after a month’s stay in St. Vincent’s, and her friends went into full swing. Nancy Jane was spunky and hardheaded, as I well knew, traits that would serve her well in her recovery. She was already planning her return to teaching, as soon as the doctors gave her the go-ahead. Knowing my sister was in good hands, I understood it was time for me to go home. I’d spent most of July at the hospital, sleeping on a plastic bench a few feet from her bed. I was determined to put up a brave front when I left, but I caved in as we hugged goodbye. She felt so fragile.
“I wish to God it’d been
me,” I told her in a choked voice. The old Nancy Jane would’ve said, “Me too,” and we would’ve laughed together. Instead she blinked back tears to say, “It would’ve killed me, either way.”
It’s so true, I thought as I walked to my car. Watching someone you love suffer is a killing thing.
Chapter 16
Location, Location, Location
In 2012, five years after our exile in Highlands and return to a solid foundation, Pat and I left Fripp Island and moved into Beaufort. Our decision to move involved mixed emotions for both of us. Because he and Lenore had bought the Fripp house, he’d insisted from the start that I needed a place to fix up the way I liked. Lenore had great taste, so I hadn’t gotten rid of any of her stuff. My preference was for neutrals and earth tones, but I learned to live with the bold patterns and colors of my predecessor. Besides, I told Pat, if he kept buying houses for his wives, he’d end up poor as Job’s turkey.
Mainly I was so happy to get back into our house after exile that I had no desire to go anywhere. But our lives were changing in ways that neither of us could continue to ignore. Pat’s years of hard living and hard drinking began to catch up with him, causing more problems. He’d been in the hospital a couple of times and had just gotten out when I had to leave for Nancy Jane’s surgery. After my return, he and I found ourselves driving into town to see Dr. Laffitte often. Every couple of months Pat traveled to the diabetics clinic in Charleston—though I don’t know why he bothered since he ignored their advice. Nevertheless, change was in the air.
I was more torn about the move to Beaufort than Pat was. Fripp Island, and our small cozy house, had been my refuge and my safe harbor. It was odd; Pat’d always been averse to change, no doubt stemming from his childhood of constant moves. When he saw that change was inevitable, however, he didn’t look back. I too adjusted easily to the move into town once we were there, but a part of me will always remain on Fripp Island.
Pat was the one who found our Beaufort house. At the time we still had the Grasshopper, but we rarely took the boat out. After the Warleys relocated to Beaufort, John, Pat, and our friend and attorney Scott Graber would occasionally take the boat and cruise up and down the Beaufort River. On one such occasion, a crisp, late fall day of sun and sparkling waters, they took the boat down Battery Creek, a deepwater tributary of the Beaufort River, which is the body of water that Beaufort’s on. Scott pointed out a house high on the banks and told Pat that we should look at it. A friend of his was selling.
Pat liked what he saw, I could tell. As soon as he returned to Fripp, he told me about the place that Scott’s friend was selling. “You might want to call our realtor,” Pat added casually, but his voice held a telltale note of excitement, which surprised me. He was a master of the poker face, a trait I envied; and I still believe it to be one of the reasons he was such a great storyteller. I do okay at relaying a sad tale—unless it’s so sad I burst into tears—but when I try to tell something funny, I crack myself up. As Pat always reminded me, I enjoy my humor more than anyone else does.
The house on Battery Creek spoke to me when we drove into the yard with its moss-hung oaks and heirloom camellia bushes, many of them tall as trees. Inside, the voice was loud and clear: Conroys, I am your house. It wasn’t fancy, but vastly comfortable with space for two offices and an expansive view of the beautiful, marsh-edged Battery Creek. We’d found our new home. Later that spring, we moved in. I decorated it in my own funky, eclectic style, with furnishings from consignment shops or thrift stores. Gene Norris would’ve been proud.
“You don’t have to tell everybody that you got our stuff at the Habitat store,” Pat groused one day.
“Why not?” I cried. “The Habitat store has great stuff. Especially the one on Hilton Head. You wouldn’t believe what rich people get rid of. Besides, I’m recycling. You’re all for that, aren’t you?”
He wasn’t impressed. “Always the same with you ants—so proud of your miserly little selves.”
I eyed him smugly. “I might be an ant, Babezee, but I have grasshopper taste. You like your office, don’t you?”
He admitted that he did, and I hid a smile. Mr. Poker Face had given himself away. The truth was, he loved his new office and couldn’t hide his pleasure. The house had given me the opportunity to repay Pat’s gift to me, when he’d insisted years before that I have a room of my own. This time, I made sure that he did. And I’d surprised him with it. By a stroke of luck (for me and him both), Pat had been away speaking about his latest book, My Reading Life, when the moving van came to Fripp to pack us up. By the time he returned, we were moved in, and he had his own space.
The layout of the new house had been a major selling point for me. There were plenty of rooms for me to choose an office from, and no one had to urge me to claim one. I picked out a choice one with windows overlooking the creek. But I’d been determined that Pat’d have an equally fine one, plus his own library with plenty of shelves. Cost be damned; before we moved in I hired a master woodworker to make him a special desk and to add plenty of bookshelves. One whole room, down the hall from his office, was dedicated to Pat’s books, with library-style shelves that could be accessed from either side. When Pat walked into the room for the first time, he stared in disbelief, then his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. From then on he spent endless hours in his library arranging and rearranging his beloved books. I’ve never known anyone, before or since, who loved books the way he did.
I loved my new office too, but never with the same devotion I felt for my first one. For one thing, it was harder to work in the Beaufort location. I soon discovered the danger of too much distraction. The vista from the back windows was so stunning it mesmerized me. Because Battery Creek is tidal, it ebbs and flows, either flooding the marsh on the horizon until water and sky merge, or pulling itself away, baring the mudflats and exposing the oyster beds beneath. Boats traverse the wide waters, leaving a glorious wake of waves behind them. Constantly moving, constantly beautiful, the ebb and flow of life itself, the creek is hypnotic to watch. Sometimes I can’t tear myself away.
My room here is different too, smarter and more stylish. The wicker tray’s gone, having been replaced by a utilitarian number from the office supply store, especially designed for laptops. I’m pretty sure neither Goodwill nor the Habitat store have anything like it. I can’t imagine I’d find an antique Chinese screen there either, like the one I use to block off even further distraction from the door. My first painting still hangs on the wall, the one Pat gave me of the woman reading in the chaise, as do my beloved bird prints. But they’re joined by posters from signings and framed covers of my six books, something unimaginable to me all those years ago when I decorated my first writing room.
With the move into town, so much changed for us, as things always have and always will. I couldn’t wait for the family to see the house and our new location on Battery Creek. I never told Pat, but I harbored a foolish hope that being in town would make us more accessible, and one day Susannah might show up. We’d heard that she’d moved to Atlanta with her mother to be near Gregory, who’d relocated to Savannah. Maybe during a visit to Savannah, only an hour away from Beaufort, Pat’s estranged daughter would look up the father she hadn’t seen in thirteen years and show up at our door. It was a pipe dream that never happened.
Pat made one thing clear from the start—Camp Fripp wasn’t moving with us. At first he’d agreed with our accountant that we couldn’t afford both places, and the Fripp house would have to go. But to my surprise, he reneged on the agreement. “Are you kidding me?” was his response when I questioned his reversal. Pat was usually as good as his word. “I would’ve agreed to anything to get this house,” he said. “But hear me loud and clear: Camp Fripp is staying on Fripp. We’re too old to run Battery Creek Camp. When family comes, our guesthouse is located twenty miles from here and that’s where they go. Period. End of discussion.”
I didn’t say a word. One thing I knew, Big Boss Man mig
ht talk a tough line, but hospitality had always been a part of his makeup. Sure enough, he was horrified when our first visitor, Nancy Jane, said her goodbyes after a tour of the new house. Pat looked at her in disbelief. He’d been so relieved that she’d done well enough after her surgery the summer before to return to teaching and was going about her life as best she could. Stubborn as ever, she’d shrugged off her doctor’s advice not to drive to Beaufort alone and had hit the road the day school let out.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Pat squawked. Why, to Fripp, Nancy Jane responded, and she wanted to get there before dark.
“The hell you are,” Pat snapped, then turned to point an accusing finger at me. “Are you going to let your little sister go all the way out there? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not going to impose on you and Tanna,” Nancy Jane told him. “I’ll be perfectly happy at the Fripp house.”
Pat stuck out his hand and demanded her car key. “I’ll put your suitcase in the guest room. And I better not hear another word about you going anywhere.”
He snatched up her key and stormed out the door, muttering to himself about Helen Keller doing such an awful thing to her poor sick sister. Nancy Jane and I looked at each other and giggled, taking care to rearrange our amused expressions when Pat reappeared. After putting her suitcase down, he wrapped Nancy Jane in a big hug. “I’m so glad you’re here, kiddo,” he said, and his voice caught. “Don’t you dare leave us, you hear?”
Tell Me a Story Page 25
