A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  Before I knew it, Jane was pulling in to the hospital parking ramp.

  “Welcome back.” She wasn’t smiling.

  “Sorry. I was thinking about what might taste good to you.”

  “I told you, nothing does.”

  I pursed my lips together and got out of the car. The cancer center wing was large, looming, and intimidating. Mom’s whole hospital had been much smaller. Jane gave me a hurry-up glare, and I picked up my pace.

  Inside, the elevator doors opened onto a sterile cream-colored lobby. There was a sign reading Infusion Center pointing to the left. I followed Jane.

  The Infusion Center was painted a deeper shade of cream—vanilla extract added to milk—with huge plate-glass windows looking out onto the city. Recliners sat squat and sturdy in pods, like staged living room arrangements, along the walls. Each had a curtain attached to a track in the ceiling that could surround it, but few were pulled. There were also straight-back chairs scattered throughout the room, some tucked up next to the recliners as if seeking protection.

  Most of the recliners were occupied, each with a friend or relative sitting close beside. It felt like a strange dystopian library, with everyone reading or whispering. While Jane flashed some card at a reader machine, I surveyed the occupants. Two brothers sat quietly arguing. At least I assumed brothers by the antagonistic expressions and matching eyes. Next to them I saw a lovely looking older woman patting her husband’s hand. Her face was soft and gentle and lightly wrinkled. His was not. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, caught my attention.

  Jane noticed my face and followed my line of sight. “That’s Andy.”

  “He’s too young to be here,” I whispered.

  “I know. He’s probably a couple years older than Kate, but he’s small. I don’t know why he gets his chemo here rather than up at Children’s.”

  We walked across the room, and Jane claimed a chair next to the brothers’ pod.

  “What happens now?”

  “We wait. Cecilia or one of the other nurses will draw some blood, check it out, and then deliver Cytoxan and the Red Devil.”

  “The what?”

  “Adriamycin. It’s bright red. But I read a book by a doctor who was also a patient, and she called it Red Sunshine because it shone in and burned away all her cancer. I like that imagery better.”

  “I’ll go with that too.” I sat down. It felt stiff and awkward, like the moment before a restaurant health inspector reaches for his pen to approve or deny your permit.

  A nurse came toward us, and I couldn’t help thinking, That’s a nurse? She had dyed jet-black hair pulled back into a bun with short, uniform pageboy bangs across her forehead. She was beautiful and neat, with flawless pale skin and high cheekbones, but the dark lipstick, tattoo ink peeking from beneath the sleeves of her uniform, and piercings traveling up her right ear slightly disconcerted me.

  It occurred to me that I probably appeared just as foreign to her in my fitted Anne Fontaine tunic, so white one almost needed sunglasses, and my black wool leggings and heeled boots.

  “Jane. Right on time. Good to see you.”

  “Thanks, Cecilia. This is my little sister, Lizzy.” There was no point in correcting her. “She’s visiting from New York.”

  “That’s so nice. Are you here for long?” Cecilia smiled at me.

  Jane answered, “A couple days. She never stays long.”

  I kept my expression completely bland until Cecilia turned back to Jane. She sat down and inserted a needle into Jane’s chest, and I gasped.

  “I gather Mom didn’t have a central port?”

  “I . . .” I wanted to say I was sorry. Sorry for being a jerk, sorry for ever insisting she use my full name and for never staying for long visits, and desperately sorry that she had to endure this . . . but I didn’t. I caught my lip between my teeth, unsure I could watch Cecilia work.

  Cecilia slid her glance to me. “It’s hard the first time. I know this must seem really strange.” She turned back to Jane and smiled. “You look good today, Jane.” She withdrew the tube and laid tape over the needle. “I’ll be back.” She shook the vial as she walked away.

  “You never do, you know.” Jane turned to me. “Stay long.”

  “Drop it, Jane. I’m not biting.”

  Jane widened her eyes to look innocently doe-like. “Just saying.” I knew that expression. I saw it plenty as a kid, watching Jane wheedle herself out of trouble.

  We squared off in silence because, for once, I didn’t want to fight.

  “Hey, we’re going to be late.” Jane jumped from the recliner.

  “For what?”

  “I got distracted. I have to go see Dr. Chun now. It’s like a two-minute visit, but Cecilia doesn’t give me the good stuff until I do. Come on.”

  We headed down a maze of hallways and corridors until we found ourselves in the oncology suite. I waited while Jane stepped into the office and back out again a few minutes later. Her shoulders rounded forward and she wouldn’t look at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I caught up to her.

  She shook her head and kept walking.

  “Jane, stop. What’d your doctor say?”

  She glanced at me and swiped at her eyes. “She said my count’s low. I can get this week’s dose, but she’ll have to step it back or even skip one if it doesn’t come up.” She stopped and leaned against the wall. “This is my program, Lizzy. They gave me over a 90 percent recovery rate with this plan.” She wiped her palm across her nose. “It’s supposed to work.”

  “Hey . . . it’s going to work.” She threw me a glance, letting me know I had no clue what I was offering. I moved on. “What does ‘stepping back’ even mean?”

  “It means I’m not strong enough, my body is taking too big a hit from the chemo and not recovering well. So you tell me how this’ll work if I can’t stay on plan?”

  Her question wasn’t argumentative; she was pleading for reassurance. But she was right; I had no answers. “Maybe they can pick different drugs. Doctors switch antibiotics all the time. Maybe something else will work better?”

  Jane rounded on me, all pleading gone. Her eyes still shimmered with tears, but now they flashed fire too. “This isn’t a sore throat.” She choked on a sob and caught herself. “There aren’t other options. This is it.”

  “Oh . . .” I held up my hands. “I didn’t know.”

  “Now you do.”

  “Thank you for explaining,” I whispered to no one as I watched her walk away. I tapped the back of my head against the wall and let her go.

  After getting lost twice, I finally reached the Infusion Center and found Jane sitting in the recliner with her eyes clenched shut. I sat and said nothing.

  Cecilia came around the corner and approached us, fully dressed in a protective gown and gloves and sporting a serious expression—in her eyes, anyway, for that was all her face mask left exposed.

  “Is this for real?” I whispered.

  Jane opened her eyes. “It may be red, but it’s not Kool-Aid. She’s got to protect herself.”

  “And the face mask?”

  “She says it’s because she leans over so many of us in a day. We don’t need any more germs. So I guess that’s to protect us, not her.”

  “Still—”

  “Are you okay, Jane?” Cecilia cut into our whispers with a concerned, muffled-sounding voice.

  Jane minutely shook her head.

  “Don’t get discouraged. Counts bounce around all the time. Try to rest and eat more this week.”

  “I am trying. I can’t try any harder.” Jane bit her lip.

  Cecilia’s eyes softened. “I know. Just keep at it. Everyone reacts differently, but most go through this and are able to complete treatment.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and I know Dr. Chun told you that.” Cecilia’s eyes crinkled. A smile.

  “She did . . . I . . .”

  “Unique as you are, Jane, you aren’t remarkable in this area�
��everyone’s counts bounce a bit.”

  Jane sputtered over a bit of laughter. I looked to Cecilia, part impressed, part jealous with how easily she handled my sister. She hooked Jane up to an IV bag and opened a valve. It was like dropping food coloring into a glass of water. The red color struck, contained and discreet, then spread through the bag, turning it bright red within seconds.

  “How long . . . how long does this take?” I felt a stab of pain and looked down at my fingers. I’d shredded the cuticle on my left pinky without noticing.

  Jane glared at me. Clearly I did not know how to handle my sister.

  “It takes a couple hours, with both drugs and flushing. When Jane moves to the Taxol, that’s over six hours long.” Cecilia squeezed Jane’s shoulder. “All set. I’ll be back soon.”

  Jane glanced at the IV and I followed her gaze. It was obvious why they called it the Red Devil. The medicine was fire red and grimly mesmerizing. I remembered Peter’s directives.

  “Shall I read to you?”

  “I’d like that. Peter sat there and worked on his computer last time. I read some but hated it. I kept watching that . . .” She pointed to the IV line.

  I dug into my bag for my Kindle, wondering how Jane and Peter could see the same scene so differently. I looked up and found tears had gathered in her eyes again. Time to read.

  “I’ve got about a hundred books on here. What would you like?” I started scrolling. “Oh, I’ve got The Weird Sisters. Have you read that?” Yikes, it could be about us. “How about a classic? I just reread Catcher in the Rye—so much better when you’re out of high school. Or what about a sweeping romance? I’ve got Heathcliff and Cathy just waiting to cross the moors together. And I’ve got—”

  “Grab Emma from my bag.”

  No Austen, please.

  “It’s beneath your chair.” Jane pointed to her brown bag.

  I leaned down and pulled out Tic Tacs, a wallet, and more receipts than I could crumple. “Do you ever clean this thing out?”

  “Skip the commentary.”

  I dug again. “You sure it’s here? I’ve got plenty of others.” Then I felt it. “You must know this novel backwards and forwards by now. Don’t you want something else?” I looked up and gently shook my Kindle. “One hundred books, right here at my fingertips.”

  “I’m working my way through Austen. I finished Sense and Sensibility a couple days ago.” Jane blinked her eyes, trying to clear them. “What’s wrong with Emma, anyway? You love Austen.”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on. You were as addicted as the rest of us. How many times did we watch all those Pride and Prejudice remakes? You were obsessed with Greer Garson in that 1940 one. Heck, you’re Lizzy.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “That’s so formal. Was Lizzy not good enough for you?”

  “I don’t like it, and I’ve told you that for years.” I started to put the book away. “Let’s just find something else.”

  “I don’t have anything else.” Jane grabbed it. “Don’t read. Sit there or go to the cafeteria; I don’t care. I’ll be done in a couple hours.”

  I yanked the book back. Jane was ticked—but she was scared too. I could see it in her eyes: her blood count, the central line, the Red Devil—everything boiled around her and it all glowed red. I sat back and held the book in my lap.

  “I used to read to Mom that last year. At the end she only wanted Austen.” I shrugged. “Who am I kidding? The woman only ever wanted Austen.”

  “She was singularly focused.” Jane offered a small commiserating smile.

  “She started with Sense and Sensibility too. Then we read Mansfield Park, Emma, and Northanger Abbey. Pride and Prejudice was her last . . .” I couldn’t continue.

  “Lizzy.”

  I shrugged. “It just seemed good to leave the nickname behind when I went to college. Besides, New York doesn’t feel like a Lizzy sort of place.”

  Jane sat silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. I cringed because I knew that breath—it was her prelecture launch. Don’t do it, Jane.

  “That’s an excuse. You changed it to leave us all behind.”

  “I’m not the one who left everyone behind,” I mumbled, but Jane was just getting warmed up.

  “You can’t do that. Dropping your nickname and pretending Mom never existed won’t work . . . That’s why I want to read Austen right now. It reminds me of Mom and of one of the best parts of my childhood. Don’t you want to remember?”

  “As if you know anything about me or about that time.” I leaned forward, angry. “Maybe I would want to read Austen novels and watch the movies and roll around in the romance of it all if it reminded me of Mom’s life, and of good and whole moments, but it doesn’t. I don’t have the luxury of your memories. Each word is a death knell.”

  Jane snapped her mouth shut as if swallowing something bitter. I closed my eyes as the anger washed away and was replaced by regret. Jane was doing battle with cancer—a daunting opponent—and here I had picked another fight.

  “I’m sorry.” I turned to the marked page and started to read. “ ‘An egg boiled very soft—’ ”

  “Don’t. Please don’t read. Just go,” Jane whispered, her eyes again closed.

  I spread my hand across the pages. “I can’t. Please, Jane. I’ve nothing else to give you. I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t reply or open her eyes. I continued to read. “ ‘—is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than anybody. I would not recommend an egg boiled by anybody else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our small eggs will not hurt you.’ ”

  I chuckled. “I’d forgotten all the food references in Emma. This could be fun.”

  “Only you,” Jane mumbled.

  I pondered her comment. When I first started to cook, around age twelve, Jane was my staunchest supporter. She’d call home and ask what I was making and how it tasted. But as I became more confident in the kitchen, her ardor cooled. I believe she thought I pursued cooking to gain attention and form a special bond with Mom. She never understood that, when working with food, I never needed extra attention—I was whole and complete.

  I returned to the story, and after about an hour of whispering the words, I needed a break. I looked around and found a water bottle sitting on the side table.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Cecilia put it there about ten minutes ago. I think it’s for you.”

  “That was really sweet.”

  “She is really sweet.” Jane’s voice was dead and even. I wasn’t forgiven.

  I scanned the room to thank Cecilia and noticed that Andy’s chair was empty. “Where’d the kid go?”

  “They walked out about half an hour ago.” Jane fixed her gaze on the far wall. “He’s getting thinner.”

  I reached for something light, verging on ridiculous, to smooth away the conclusion she seemed to draw from that. “Maybe he’ll grow up into a dashing and slightly misguided Frank Weston?”

  “Are you trying to play Mom’s game?”

  “Thought it might help.”

  Mom used to point out people wherever we went, the grocery store, church, the dry cleaners, and ask us which Austen character they reflected.

  “Maybe another time.”

  I reached for another distraction and nodded toward the brothers. “Those two are brothers, right?”

  “Yeah, I sat next to Tyler last time. He’s about your age. Brian’s a bit older, maybe a couple years younger than me. He moved here from Chicago to take care of Tyler. Leukemia, I think.”

  “That’s hard.”

  I looked around again, searching for someone or something new. “What about those two? She looks sweet; he looks like a curmudgeon—and yet he keeps patting her hand. It’s cute.”

  Jane looked at them and her expression softened. “They’re lovely. I sometimes wonder if Peter and I can become that.”

  “Aren’t you already?”

/>   Jane snorted. “We were . . . before this caught us.”

  I sat silent. If there is one thing I’ve learned as my friends marry, it’s that you can listen to them dish about their husbands, but you never join in. An innocent “He sure has his opinions” froze a friendship for weeks—and a discernible chill still hovers. I could only imagine how Jane might eviscerate me if I crossed that line.

  So I changed the subject again. “I’m all refreshed. Let’s keep reading.”

  “ ‘INVITE HIM TO DINNER, EMMA, AND HELP HIM TO the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife—’ ”

  “Are you reading only the foodie parts?”

  “You fell asleep. I can’t help it if they’re so interesting they wake you up.”

  “Look.”

  The last red flash of the chemo cocktail, as Jane called it, threaded its way toward her chest. It snaked down the line, up the line, and disappeared. Jane sighed, absorbing the last drop.

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it. Cecilia will be over in a minute to flush the line and unhook me.”

  “I’ll clean up.” I reached down to pick up a few stray receipts that had fallen out during my search and shoved them and Emma back into the recesses of Jane’s bottomless brown bag.

  “One more down.” A perky, muffled voice chirped above me.

  I looked up to find Cecilia, fully protected, opening another valve on Jane’s IV. A few seconds later she disconnected her; then Cecilia stepped back and lowered her mask to reveal an open and cheerful expression.

  “Still umpteen to go.”

  “True, but if you focus on the accomplishment, it helps. Each step is a big deal, Jane, and you’re doing well despite what happened today.”

  “You don’t know that.” Jane reprimanded her for offering Pollyanna promises.

  Cecilia paused. I wondered if she would launch a counterattack.

  “You’re right. Every case is as unique as every individual, but some things are more common than you think, like counts going up and counts going down with no rhyme or reason. I also know your cancer was caught at an early stage, and it’s a type with good response rates. And you’re strong, Jane. That’s important too.” She smiled and paused to let her facts sink deep. “Perspective can change everything.” She added the last sentence as if it wasn’t advice, but a personal reminder.