A Woman Ignored (A Woman Lost Book 2)

by T. B. Markinson

  I bobbed my head, understanding how bad that sounded. And it was. But did it warrant always being reminded of that every time something monumental happened in our lives?

  Had her announcement shocked the hell out of me yesterday? Hell yes!

  Had I fainted? Check.

  Had I acted immature? Somewhat.

  But had I gone over the edge? Not at all.

  That was a good sign for me.

  The waitress set my cinnamon roll down in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I said, smearing melted butter all over the top. There was nothing like a Frankie’s cinnamon roll on a spring Sunday morning after a beautiful bike ride.

  Why did my girlfriend—fuck, I mean wife—have to ruin it for me? Shit, she acted like I hadn’t changed one iota.

  By the time Sarah strolled into Frankie’s, I was ready to give her a piece of my mind. Seriously, she had to stop treating me like a delicate flower that might go to seed each time something popped up. But then I spied Maddie, hot on Sarah’s heels. They both looked blank, like something had happened. Something bad. Did someone die?

  All I wanted to do was enjoy my Sunday morning. I looked down at my half-eaten roll and selfishly thought about asking them to wait until I had finished. Wasn’t there a rule: no bad news on a Sunday before nine?

  The two messengers sat down at the booth, and I motioned to the cheerful waitress to bring two cups of coffee.

  “Righty-O. Coming right up!”

  “How was your bike ride?” Sarah didn’t look me in the eye; instead, she fidgeted with the drinking straw in my water glass.

  “Very enjoyable. A bit crisp, but a gorgeous start to the day.” I tried to maintain a happy demeanor, hoping the two doomsayers wouldn’t panic about the news they had to break to me. I was trying—maybe too hard. I saw Maddie give Sarah a worried glance.

  “That’s nice. You’d think that after two years you’d be able to sleep in past five.”

  I smiled—unhappily, but doing my damnedest to be convincing. Happy as a clam. A clam that was ready to snap its shell shut and ignore whatever news they brought. Wait—was that what they were worried about?

  Pull it together, Lizzie.

  “So, why are you two out of bed so early on a Sunday?” Maybe if I just kept thinking or saying the word “Sunday,” the happy-go-lucky feeling would stick around, no matter what.

  “Peter called me,” said Maddie.

  Peter? My brother, and her ex-fiancé. Hey, maybe this news wasn’t about me at all. Maybe Maddie was having a bad day and she needed me. Things were looking up—for me, at least. I took a cheerful bite of my cinnamon roll and motioned for Sarah and Maddie to help themselves. Neither did. Shit! That was bad.

  “What’s up with Peter?”

  “He wanted to let me know something, so I could tell you.” Maddie leveled her gaze on me.

  “Why didn’t he just call me?” Ever since I had left the wedding with Maddie when she jilted him at the altar, my brother hadn’t spoken to me. Not that we were close before that, but his obvious avoidance since then still irritated me. I wasn’t the one who ruined his relationship; he was. He’d been having an affair, with no intention of ending it, even after Maddie found out. I was sure that in his warped mind it was all my fault. My family blamed me for everything.

  Lizzie the Les-Bi-An destroys all in her diabolical homosexual path.

  “Well, you know that’s not going to happen.” Maddie crossed her arms. “He has to talk to me. He has to play nice so my father won’t ruin his career.”

  “My father can ruin his career as well.” I said, even though I felt childish. Peter and my father were in the same business: finance. They made shitloads of money while I was content making a lot less but doing a job I loved. My mother hated that about me. She never could understand why I loved studying history. Dead people didn’t pay much.

  “Yeah, but your father doesn’t like you.” She smiled to offset her bluntness.

  “Thanks, Maddie, for keeping it real. So, what’s the news that has you two so worried?” I motioned to their faces with my fork.

  “Worried? We aren’t,” Sarah said, in her “pretend everything’s fine” tone.

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you look like I’m about to go off the deep end. Go ahead, just tell me.” I mentally prepared myself for the annoying tidbit about my family, something that would make my skin crawl. To say I was the black sheep was an understatement. If I didn’t look so much like my brother, I would have demanded a DNA test to prove I wasn’t related to anyone in the hateful Petrie clan.

  “Your mom’s sick.” Maddie stirred the coffee the waitress had just placed in front of her; I suspected only because it gave her something to do, since she hadn’t added any sugar or cream.

  “Like the flu sick?” I couldn’t see the big deal. It wasn’t like I was about to rush out of Frankie’s to whip up a batch of chicken noodle soup for my mom—the woman I liked to call The Scotch-lady since that was the only beverage she ever consumed.

  “Actually, it’s a bit worse than the flu.” Sarah jumped into the fire.

  Worse than the flu? Well, I hated colds more than the flu for the simple fact that colds lingered for days, if not weeks. The flu made you shit your pants or puke up your guts for a few days, and then it was done. I preferred that.

  “Can one of you give it to me straight?”

  “Okay—” Maddie looked to Sarah for help.

  “She has cancer, Lizzie.”

  I gazed at Sarah, not comprehending. My mom was one tough broad. Nothing could kill her. Cancer and my mom didn’t add up. I mean, if Death arrived on Mom’s front doorstep, she’d let out a hiss that would make him tremble and tell him to crawl back to hell.

  Cancer?

  Cancer—and my mom?

  No, simply not possible.

  “Breast cancer?” I probed.

  “No. Colon.”

  Of all the cancers, she would get colon cancer.

  Jesus, Lizzie. Stop being such a heartless bitch.

  This was not the time for asshole jokes.

  None of us spoke. Their expressions told me it was true, but I was having a hard time digesting it.

  The big C.

  I was never close to Mom, that much was true; yet I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. Cancer didn’t mess around. Before I was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, I was tested for cancer. And I was scared shitless. Seriously! I didn’t intend for that to be a pun.

  Fuck!

  The word echoed inside my head, even though I sat mute at the table. Sarah and Maddie passed questioning looks back and forth.

  Finally, I broke the silence. “Did they catch it early?”

  Maddie shook her head. “I don’t think so. You know your mother. Peter said she refused to go to the doctor, even though he kept encouraging her to.”

  “So there’s no hope?” Damn it was hard to keep my voice from cracking. Why was it so hard? I wasn’t close to my mother, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like my whole world was crumbling down around me.

  “Your father wants to have a chat with you.” Maddie didn’t take her eyes off her coffee. She continued to stir. Did she feel less helpless staying busy?

  “Peter called you to give me the news and to have you set up a meeting with my father, is that the gist of the phone call?”

  Maddie nodded.

  Sarah put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

  I looked at her, confused. My reply sounded like it came from far away. “I don’t know,” was all I could say.

  * * *

  My father wanted to meet at a restaurant near his work, not at home. I wasn’t surprised, considering I wasn’t a frequent guest. I knew where they lived, of course—I grew up there—but I wasn’t itching to visit, and they weren’t itching to have me over for dinner; up until this point, that had worked well for all involved.

  My father sat in the bar. The ligh
ts were dim, and a small candle flickered on the table, which sat between two leather chairs. Even in the gloom, I could see that he was troubled. He stared down at his bourbon, the glass containing the honey-colored liquid gripped in both hands. Dad looked old. My dad, Charles Petrie, had always given the impression of a businessman who was used to being in charge, used to being right. Now, my father looked feeble. His wrinkled three-piece suit suggested a confused man. His scarlet tie was tugged loose, and the top button of his blue silk shirt was undone. I couldn’t ever remember seeing my father’s tie loosened so haphazardly. I spied pink pages tucked into the side of the chair. He didn’t even have the energy to read The Financial Times while waiting for me.

  “Hello.” I slipped into the leather chair opposite, feeling underdressed in jeans. I knew the establishment, but I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to dress appropriately—not that the staff minded. The clientele was a mix of business people and other, more down-to-earth folk like me, family members of the professional types.

  “Hello, Lizzie. Thanks for joining me this evening.” Dad sat up straighter, cultivating the illusion that he was in charge.

  I nodded. Was this going to be a business meeting? Item one on the agenda: your mom has cancer. Item two: what’s new with you?

  Dad swirled the bourbon in his glass. A waiter approached and asked if I would like anything to drink. I ordered an Earl Grey.

  “If you would like a drink, I can have Matthew drive you home.”

  Matthew was my father’s driver. About ten years ago, my mother insisted my father must have someone drive him to and from work. It was a ridiculous notion, but my father didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe he enjoyed the peaceful ride. I pictured him with a cup of coffee in the morning, rustling through The Financial Times, and then sipping bourbon on the evening leg while checking his emails. My father always worked. His downtime was reading financial reports. International finance never stopped; neither did Dad.

  “Is it that bad?” I asked. Maybe I would take him up on the idea. I wasn’t the type of person who could have one drink and be fine to drive. A whiff of alcohol made me feel tipsy.

  “It’s not good. Do you know anything about colon cancer?” He sounded tired, beneath the businessman composure.

  I shook my head and poured milk into my tea.

  “At first, the doctors weren’t too alarmed. She had a colon resection—”

  I cut him off. “Resection? As in removal?”

  “Yes. They removed seventeen centimeters.”

  I turned my head to the side and let out a long breath. “I didn’t know she even had surgery.”

  Dad looked as though he was about to say something unpleasant, but he swallowed some bourbon instead. “Peter didn’t know about it at the time, either.”

  That was so my mother. She wouldn’t want anyone to know she was sick or having surgery, let alone of the colon. I bet she was even pissed off about the word itself—“colon.” Prim and proper, that was my mom. I wondered if she’d insisted on wearing one of her navy suits throughout the procedure. Imagining her in a hospital gown was‌…‌well, it was unfathomable.

  “Was the surgery successful?” My voice sounded small, which made me flush, heat creeping up my neck.

  “Yes.” Dad took another sip of liquid courage. “And no. It’s metastasized in her liver. She has Stage Four colon cancer.”

  “How many stages are there?” Four didn’t sound great, but was it out of ten?

  “Four.”

  I rubbed my forehead, shielding my eyes. Come on, Lizzie, don’t lose it in front of him.

  Him.

  I didn’t want to cry in front of my father—how fucked up was that?

  Dad leaned all the way back in his chair and placed both arms firmly on the red leather armrests. His knuckles were fish-belly white. “I know you and your mother haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

  Like, never.

  “But I know she needs you right now.” He stopped, staring over at me to ensure I was looking at him. “And I need you.”

  Now they wanted me to be a part of the family. It was suddenly okay to invite the lesbian back into the family fold.

  Shit no! I didn’t want to forget everything and play the loving, dutiful daughter.

  Actually, that wasn’t a fair assessment. My father spoke so rarely that I never knew whether he was bothered by the fact I was a lesbian. My mother always spoke her mind. She made it very clear that having a lesbian daughter was the worst thing that ever happened to her. My father? Well, I didn’t know him at all. To this day, I couldn’t tell you whether he was religious, Republican or Democrat, or anything personal about him.

  “What do you need?” I couldn’t stop the words from escaping my mouth.

  “I’ve hired a nurse to take care of her at home. But your mom doesn’t want the nurse to take her to and from appointments.” He squirmed in his chair; it didn’t become him. He was too serious a man to fidget. Clearly, Mom’s illness was getting to all of us.

  “She has her first appointment next week, but I’m sure she’d like to see you before then.”

  I didn’t think my mom wanted a friendly chat. She wanted to make sure I would toe the line, act like a doting daughter. All she ever cared about was keeping up appearances.

  The last time I saw my mother, I had just learned that my father had been having affairs for most of their marriage. I felt sorry for her, briefly. After some thought, I realized she put up with it so she could be a rich man’s wife and enjoy all of the glory that went with it: money, vacations, social status. She cared more about what other people thought about her than she did that the man supposed to be closest to her was a cheater. Some days, I felt sorry for her; others, angry.

  Now, sitting across from my father—the cheater—I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t like my parents had ever been a doting couple. I can’t remember them ever acting like they were in love, or like they were even friends. It was always business in our home. Appearances mattered above everything else.

  When I came out as a lesbian, my mother went into a tizzy. Before, she tolerated me somewhat. I wasn’t the best daughter, but I wasn’t the worst either, in her opinion. Mostly, she put up with my weaknesses, such as being shy, an animal lover, an environmentalist, and a historian. It wasn’t as if she was kind to me. She was not a kind woman. But, after I came out, it was all-out warfare.

  And now my father had the gall to tell me my mother needed me. I wanted to tell him to fuck off. How dare he? How dare my mother? Why couldn’t Peter, the favorite, take her to appointments? Peter, the good son, the one always idolized in our family. The one who went into business, not history. The one who would settle down, marry a respectable woman, and have grandchildren my mother could brag about at the country club.

  If Sarah and I had a child (or when, I guess), I had no plans to tell my parents. No way would I put my child through what they put me through. I gritted my teeth.

  But now that Mom had cancer, it was supposed to be a game changer. I would come back home. I would be the good daughter.

  Fuck that.

  Stage Four colon cancer. Why did this have to happen?

  I wanted to scream, to throw my teacup across the room, to stomp out of the place and forget all about them. They sure hadn’t ever tried to track me down just to say hi, not even when my book was published. I didn’t get a phone call saying, “Congrats. We’re proud of you.”

  Ignored.

  That was all they ever did. Ignored me. Swept me under the rug.

  “Would you like to order another drink?” The waiter broke the silence.

  My father motioned for more bourbon. Then he shocked the hell out of me. “Would you stay for dinner? I could use the company.”

  I nodded and ordered a gin and tonic; then I excused myself to call Sarah and ask her to pick me up. The drive would take her more than an hour, and I figured we’d be done with dinner by then
. Dad wasn’t one to linger after a meal.

  My father and I sat at a small table, out of view of the entrance. My mother would have shit a brick if the hostess had tried to seat us at a table where the Petrie family couldn’t be seen, together. My father was different. He enjoyed the best of the best, but he liked to be out of the spotlight. I started to realize how different they were. And how much I was like my father.

  We didn’t chat much, and Dad barely touched his rack of lamb after it arrived.

  “Are you okay to drive?” he asked as we exited the restaurant. “Matthew wouldn’t mind.”

  “Thanks, but my w—” Shit! I almost said my wife. Most days, I forgot she was my wife, but tonight, of all nights, I’d called her my wife. “Sarah is picking me up,” I rushed to cover my mistake. I had consumed two more gin and tonics over dinner, and the lights outside were starting to blur.

  Dad placed a hand on my shoulder. “I always liked her. A beautiful woman. Intelligent.”

  I stood there, dumbfounded. Never had my father acknowledged a woman I was involved with. He’d met Sarah on a few occasions, but I didn’t remember him ever speaking with her. Now he was speaking about her.

  Dad put his hand out, and I shook it.

  Were we sealing a business deal?

  Then he walked away, to his car. Matthew held the door open, and my father disappeared into his domain. Matthew nodded at me before getting behind the wheel and pulling away from the curb. I stood on the sidewalk, near the valet stand, waiting for Sarah to pull up.

  When she did, I noticed Maddie was in the car, too. She hopped out, gave me a hug, and put her hand out for my keys. “We thought it’d be easier to drive your car back tonight, instead of coming back in the morning. Where are you parked?”

  “Thank you,” I said, pointing to my car. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  Maddie threw me a quizzical look. “Must have been an odd dinner. You okay?”