A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “I definitely want to eat here,” I whispered to myself.

  Nick overheard and leaned in. “Let’s come next week.”

  “I wasn’t hinting.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  Back at Jane’s, Nick got out of the car and walked around to the passenger door to help me out and gather my small packages—a wheel of Trufflestack goat cheese and olive oil soap.

  “Thanks. This was a wonderful day, and I’m so glad I got to see Matt.”

  Nick darted a glance back into the car. “He really likes you.”

  I headed up Jane’s porch steps.

  “Wait. I was serious about Sitka & Spruce. How about Monday?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “If I don’t see you before then, I’ll call Monday morning.” He bounded up two steps and kissed me, lingering. “But I can’t imagine not seeing you all weekend.”

  “It’s three days.”

  “That’s a lot when you’ve only got about seven left.” As he turned away, I caught Matt’s stare through the car window. Nick seemed to question it when Matt hugged me or held my hand, but then he kissed me in front of him? And was counting days?

  “You’re probably going to have to explain that kiss.”

  “That’s the point.” He didn’t turn around.

  Chapter 28

  INSIDE I CALLED OUT TO JANE BUT HEARD NO REPLY. I headed up the stairs and found her lying in bed. “You okay?”

  “I ache, but I’m fine.”

  “I brought you cheese and soap. Smell them.”

  “Which?”

  “Both. They’re wonderful.”

  She held each up to her nose. “They’re nice.”

  Personally, I thought the earthy, musty smell of the truffles layered over the sharp tang of the goat’s milk and the beautiful simplicity of the olive oil soap deserved more than “nice.”

  “Thanks for making me the sandwich,” she said. “I ate it during my lunch date.”

  “Dad made it before he left. Your date?”

  Jane’s face softened. “Peter called to ask about the Taxol, and we had a good, long chat. It felt . . . really nice. You were right, Lizzy. He knows a lot about all this, but there’s stuff he doesn’t know too.” Jane’s face blanched, then pinched. “I’m going through menopause. I’ve had hot flashes for weeks.”

  I almost made a quip, then sobered. She was serious. “You’re forty-one.”

  “A friend called it chemopause. My cancer is estrogen positive—so estrogen feeds it. Killing the estrogen helps kill the cancer.”

  I sat on the edge of her bed. “Did you want more kids?”

  “I wanted the choice.”

  “Does Peter?”

  “He doesn’t have the choice now either . . . And I won’t have breasts, at least not my own, and I’ll get wrinkles faster because my skin is so dry and now I won’t have estrogen. And who knows what my teeth will be like. Taxol can do a number on them too. And sex, forget it. I’m like a dry, shriveled prune.”

  “Good to know.” I thought my eyes were about to burst out of their sockets.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I believe you.”

  Jane pressed her fists against her eyes as she had done a few mornings before. I shifted to sit next to her and leaned back against her headboard as well.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think anyone does until you go through it. Friends mentioned it, but I didn’t know it would feel like this.”

  “I’m sorry, Jane.”

  We sat for a moment. And I understood Dad. Vulnerability was hard, and I wanted to push it away. I sat for a moment more before venturing to safe ground.

  “You know, the whole upsized breast thing might be an advantage. I wouldn’t mind going from a B to at least a C . . .”

  “I’m thinking about that myself.” She threw me a lopsided grin. “There’s got to be some silver lining, right?”

  “And . . . Peter might not mind, you know? About more kids? I got the impression he thought your family was pretty perfect.”

  “True, but I still feel like I’m robbing him. Like it’s my fault.”

  “You can’t think like that. Why do you do that?” I took a breath. She didn’t need my exasperation.

  “What?” Jane raised her eyebrows—her eyes, actually. For the first time, I noticed the startled expression she wore, bare of both eyebrows and lashes. She now had a permanent deer-in-the-headlights look.

  “You always act like you can control things and if they go badly you’re to blame. You were like that as a teenager. I remember watching you with your schoolwork, your friends, dating. You were so perfect—except when you weren’t—and then you were devastated and tough. The only time you were truly relaxed was when you came home from one of your trips with Dad.”

  Jane was quiet for a moment. “I loved those trips. Fishing, hiking. Nothing to worry about, only to enjoy. I’d love to take a trip like that right now.”

  “Gardening wouldn’t do it, would it?”

  “What?”

  “Nature. I was thinking about your garden, wondering if playing in the dirt would relax you because you loved those trips, but I think not.” I looked at her. “Real nature’s too big to worry about or control. You just have to enjoy it . . . I don’t really know you, do I?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Well, I do know this. This isn’t just happening to you. Peter’s in it, too, and I suspect missing out on the possibility of more children won’t matter. He gets you and your two wonderful kids.” I straightened the pillows under my back. “Did you know Dad and I took them to the park yesterday?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “You were asleep . . . Anyway, a boy with a leg brace showed up, and a bunch of kids stared at him and even pointed. Kate walked right up to them and told them to stop—really nicely too. Not a single kid looked sideways at that young boy again. Do you understand the gift of that?”

  “That’s so great.” Jane’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t cry about it.”

  “I’m not.” She smiled, but she was still crying.

  “I know something that will cheer you up.” I scooted off the bed and raced to the hall bathroom. “That whole dryness thing?” I called out as I grabbed my toiletry bag. “Wait till you see what I’ve got.”

  I rounded the corner back into Jane’s room to find her eyes bulging out of her head in a curious and horrified expression.

  “What?” I stopped. “Your face—the dryness and wrinkles. What’d you think I meant?” I plopped the bag on the bed and opened my favorite jar of cream. “Put some on the back of your hand.” I reached for another. “And feel this eye cream. You’ll never get crow’s feet.” I pulled out six little jars of creams.

  “How do you have all this? You’re like what, thirty-three?”

  “I have a weakness for great-smelling face creams. Smell this.”

  “You buy these for the smell?”

  “I assess everything by smell. The only place I don’t like it is in the kitchen, but that’s because—” I stopped. I didn’t want to discuss Mom. This was about Jane.

  “These smell for only a moment; then it’s gone. That’s part of what’s so special. Smell this.” I reached for my Dr. Hauschka Moisturizing Mask. “Roses. Who wouldn’t want that spread all over her face? I got it at Whole Foods the other day. I’ll get you one too.”

  “You crack me up.” Jane shook her head at me, grinning—in a somewhat superior, older-sister manner—but it still felt good. She picked up a night cream. “Buy me this one too. It smells like berries.”

  I beamed. “Doesn’t it? And it tingles when you put it on. Have no idea why, but it feels so good.”

  “When I was first diagnosed, I thought of Mom, and it scared me to death.” Jane paused. I wondered if the smells had triggered memories in her too. “Then I got a good prognosis and thought I could beat it. It’d be one more thing I conquered, a
nd we’d be okay.”

  She handed me back a jar. “It isn’t happening. I’ve fallen down, and nothing . . . nothing about this is good.”

  I dropped the jars into my bag and sat still, waiting.

  “When Mom was sick she wrote me a letter. I wish I still had it. It said a lot of things, good things, and she quoted some Bible verse. It said something about God working stuff out for good for those who love him. I don’t remember it exactly, but I found comfort in it. I figured if she believed it, then it must be true. Do you believe that’s true?”

  “I want to.”

  “Well, I need to believe it, but I’m scared. What if I never see my kids grow up? Katie in a wedding dress? Danny as a father? And Peter? We talked today, but it was more like friends catching up than talking to my best friend, my lover, and my husband. What if this is the end, and that’s how I leave him?”

  “Whoa . . . Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself?”

  Her eyes hardened. “I don’t deserve this.” She fisted a chunk of blanket.

  “No one does. Mom didn’t.” I sighed.

  “This is about me.”

  I shifted so I could face her. “Not entirely. It’s about cancer and bad things happening to good people. And you can’t beat yourself up because you can’t control it. I get that you don’t understand and that you’re angry. It’s okay to be scared, too, but you’re not responsible. Let yourself off that hook.”

  Tears gathered in Jane’s eyes and her lip trembled. “It’s terrifying, Lizzy.”

  I closed my eyes because that was the one thing I couldn’t truly say I understood. There was no getting around it—I was still the healthy one. I was not the one staring cancer down and wondering, wishing, hoping, and praying to be the one standing at the end.

  I reached my arm around her and held her tight. “I only see it from the outside. But it’s pretty scary out here too.”

  She whispered into my shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Talking with me. Listening.” I absorbed her compliment as she ran her fingers through the ends of my hair. Tears pricked my eyes.

  “I’d kill for your hair right now.”

  I smiled but didn’t move.

  Jane took another deep breath and changed the topic, but not too far. It felt as if she was emotionally cleaning house. “It was good to talk to Peter today . . . but I still picked a couple fights with him, Elizabeth. I can’t seem to stop.”

  Elizabeth, not Lizzy. She had collected herself, and somehow it made me feel like I’d reached the end of a good book or a lovely movie—a soft sadness crept over me. We weren’t children anymore.

  “He’s not the enemy, but I feel like I’m in a war and if I let any side down, all sides will crumble.”

  “Think of him as reinforcements then. Drop one side and let him pick up the battle on that front.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “He will.”

  She rubbed her eyes, mussing the hair on her forehead. A clump tangled in her fingers and pulled away.

  I looked at it and chuckled. “That’s not good.”

  She joined me and our laughter turned to tears. “It’s not funny. But it is. Oh my . . .” She untangled her hair from her fingers and stared at it. “How is there any left? You were supposed to shave it off.”

  “Come on.” I pulled at her hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I pulled a small bench from the end of her bed into the bathroom. She found Peter’s shaver and settled herself in front of the mirror as I draped a towel over her shoulders.

  “Do I need one of these comb-y looking things?”

  She attached one with half-inch long teeth to the shaver. “Use this one. It’ll shorten it; then we can shave it smooth. Can you do this with one hand?”

  “If you sit very still and switch it on while I hold it.” The loud buzz and vibration startled me. It felt more dangerous than I’m sure it was, but I still felt nervous about scraping it across my sister’s scalp.

  Her hair caught and tangled the comb before it hit the blade. “It’s not working. It’s pulling out your hair and tangling it.”

  “Here.” She grabbed for the razor, switched it off, then reached in a drawer and handed me a pair of scissors. “Cut it first, then shave it.”

  I started cutting her hair close to the scalp. I then shaved from her forehead across the top of her head. It took an inordinately long time with one hand, but eventually I made one straight line.

  We both stared in the mirror. “The horse knows the way . . . ,” I sang out.

  “That’s not funny,” she laughed. “Don’t stand there staring, keep at it. You can’t leave me like this.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I started to joke before noticing her eyes. They were round and vulnerable. Her laugh had not reached them.

  “Shave.”

  It took me about ten minutes before I handed her the razor to turn off. She held it in her lap, perfectly still and perfectly bald. She laid it down, never breaking contact with her image in the mirror, and rubbed her hands over her head. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “You’re good bald.” I circled her.

  “Oh God, what’s happened to me?” Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded with God, not with me.

  I knelt before her and swiped them away with my one hand. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see that? You’ve always been beautiful. Your hair didn’t make you that way. You just always were—inside and out. I loved watching you as a kid.”

  “I’m ugly and broken. There’s nothing beautiful here.”

  “Please, Jane. You’re scaring me.”

  She took a deep breath and swiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s probably the Taxol.”

  I sat back on the floor and started gathering her hair.

  “You okay?” She tapped the top of my head.

  I couldn’t look up. “You’re the one who matters.”

  “You matter to me.”

  I sniffed in reply, and when I’d collected the hair, and myself, I sat on the floor against the wall. Jane sat on the bench watching me.

  She took a deep breath. “I need to tell you something. I took that BRCA gene test and it was positive. You need to get tested.”

  “I wondered about that. Cecilia brought it up. She asked if you’d taken it, but she also told me that only five to ten percent of the population carries one of those gene mutations.”

  “Lucky us.” She sat up straight. “Which means I’ll have to talk to Kate someday, maybe soon, and even Danny.”

  I gasped. “Your kids . . . my kids . . . I hadn’t thought . . .”

  “When Dr. Chun trailed through the implications, I almost fainted.”

  “I’ll put it on my to-do list.” I had suspected it was coming. It had played in my thoughts, and I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I’ve got something for your list, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “You and Peter should go out for dinner when he gets back. A date night.”

  “Because I look so sexy?” she retorted, but her voice cracked.

  “You need an evening out and you need to lay down your arms, on his side of the battlefield at least.” I looked up at the bathroom window and watched the light play through the sheer blinds. “He can’t fix this, Jane, and it’s killing him.”

  “You said that before.”

  “And I’ll keep saying it, because it’s true. Dad couldn’t fix Mom and it wrecked him. Every day he got more frustrated, angrier, more withdrawn. You saw Peter last weekend, how he hovered around you.”

  “He certainly didn’t say or do much.”

  “He’s lost.”

  “What brought Dad out?”

  I wondered if I should tell her the truth. After all, it was only my truth. Perhaps Dad held another. “Mom’s death,” I said. “There was nothing to fix. But I don’t know if he ever came completely back. He didn’t seem to notice that I lived
in the same house my last months at home. And his world seems smaller to me now. Not that I’ve seen much of it.”

  “It is.” Jane remained quiet for a moment. “You’re not there.”

  I looked up at her and squinted my eyes, trying to assess if it was a statement or an accusation.

  “That was a mistake . . .” I wrapped a last bit of hair in a tissue and tossed it into the trash can. “But you get a chance to make your story different. You can come out stronger. Just like you said, God can use it for good. All Peter’s notes suggest you might.”

  “What notes?”

  “His notes.” She still didn’t know. “Wait here.”

  I hoisted myself off the bathroom floor and ran to the guest room. I gathered up all the papers Peter had given me and returned to her bedroom, spreading at least a hundred pages across her quilt while she stared.

  “What is all that?”

  “Your diagnosis. Interviews with other doctors. Internet research. Lists of symptoms, homeopathic cures, medical alternatives. Drawings, though he can’t draw. You name it and he’s looked it up, assessed it, and recorded it.”

  “Peter?” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Your Peter.”

  She sniffled, a horrible, snotty noise, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Why didn’t he show me these?” she cried.

  I turned back to the bathroom to grab some tissues when I heard the front door slam.

  “Mom! Aunt Elizabeth!”

  “Up here, kids,” I called out, my eyes never leaving Jane’s. She grabbed the tissues from me and blotted her eyes, widening them to force them bright and dry.

  We heard two thumps, backpacks hitting the floor, as Kate and Danny rushed the stairs.

  “I got a solo for the spring concert next month,” Kate called as she rounded the corner into the bedroom.

  “That’s fantastic.” I pulled her into a hug.

  She stiffened and stared at Jane. “What happened to your hair?”

  Jane smiled, small and weak. “It was all falling out, so we shaved it off.” She rubbed her hands on her scalp. “Do you like it?”

  Danny stepped around his sister. “Cool. Can I touch?”

  “Of course.”

  Kate didn’t move.