Moments We Forget

by Beth K. Vogt

  “You haven’t drunk any of your coffee, Jo. It’s probably cold. Let me reheat it for you.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m just going to have water.” Johanna placed her porcelain cup to the side. “It hasn’t set right with me this morning. I knew I needed to buy new coffee. Old beans and stress don’t mix.”

  Johanna had just admitted out loud that she was stressed.

  “What are you going to do now?” Payton stirred her oatmeal. “Just wait until your boss calls you?”

  “At this point, yes. It’ll probably be early next week—”

  Payton sat forward. “You are not waiting for your boss to call you.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You’re going to call him.”

  “I am?” Johanna huffed a laugh.

  “Yes. Call him. Either ask to meet with him or talk to him over the phone. You decide. Tell him you’ve had time to think about things and that you want to keep your job.”

  “Weren’t you listening, Payton? I don’t want to keep my job.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Why are you an expert on my life all of a sudden—able to tell me what to do? Why would I want to keep my job? I didn’t get the promotion. I can’t work with this guy . . .”

  “Have you even tried to work with him?”

  Johanna pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I don’t want to try. He talks about teams and tough love and wants to celebrate people’s birthdays . . .”

  “Sounds to me like you have been listening to him. Now you’re just being stubborn—and I do know what that looks like. I didn’t ask if you wanted to work with him. I asked if you’ve tried to work with him.”

  Johanna glared at Payton, not saying a word.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I figured it was my turn to be persuasive. “You’ve stayed in this job for years. Haven’t moved for Beckett—and we’re glad you didn’t. And now you’re going to quit?”

  “They didn’t give me the promotion.”

  “Fine. That’s another reason to stay. Prove them wrong—show them that you deserved to be the pharmacy director. At the very least, stay while you look for another job.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ll call him?”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  I sat back in my chair, satisfied. Bit by bit, we were dragging her up out of the barrel. “That’s something, Payton.”

  “I’m sorry about Beckett.” With her words, Payton bound the three of us together. “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  “He said we didn’t have a real engagement . . . that I wouldn’t ever settle on a date and start planning a wedding. As if that gave him the right to sleep with another woman.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Johanna shrugged. “I’m just glad I found out before we got married.”

  “I know you’re hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt. I’m angry. I’m not going to waste any time being hurt or sad . . . I shouldn’t even be thinking about him.” Johanna’s voice cracked.

  “Oh, Jo—”

  “How could he do that to me?” Her shoulders shook even as she brushed away the tears. “He’s not worth crying over.”

  The uncharacteristic display of emotion was like finding out a seismic fault line ran right through your property, right beneath the foundation of your home.

  “He may not be worth crying over—” I offered Johanna a smile wet with tears—“but you are.”

  Johanna sat in her car outside the Pilates studio close to her house. The time in class had allowed her body to relax—her mind, too. The workout was strenuous but familiar. And now other classmates—women she said hello and good-bye to and maybe “That was an excellent workout”—returned to their cars. Started them. Left the parking lot, heading home to their families. Maybe to get ready for a date or a quiet night at home. But she sat there, the engine running, the defroster clearing the windshield as warm air filled the car.

  She needed to make the call. Stop talking herself out of it.

  Jillian’s and Payton’s admonitions to talk with Axton Miller had stayed with her all day. To call him first. To not quit. To at least try to work with him. To prove to the hospital administration that they should have given the promotion to her. If she was going to talk with him, she needed to do it sooner rather than later.

  Now.

  She tapped his number into her phone—one of the advantages to having access to the hospital computers—and waited.

  “Hello?” a high-pitched, bubbly female voice answered. “This is the Millers’.”

  “Is Dr. Miller there, please?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  She couldn’t blame the woman for asking—not after the Iris misadventure. Of course she’d asked for Dr. Miller. Not Axton. And her face hadn’t shown up on his phone screen—if this was his cell phone. Maybe the man had a landline.

  “This is Dr. Johanna Thatcher. I work—”

  “Oh, Dr. Thatcher! Yes, Axton has told me quite a bit about you.”

  She was sure he had. “Well, I—”

  “He’s so excited to work with you. Says your skill set and his are a perfect match. He’s always evaluating things that way. Strengths. Weaknesses. What’s best for the team. But I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.”

  Johanna leaned back in the seat, staring at the storefront of the Pilates studio. There was no getting around Dr. Miller’s wife. “Yes. I have.”

  “You should have seen him when he coached our sons’ soccer teams when they were younger. Same lingo. And they were only eight at the time.”

  “Really?”

  “If nothing else, my husband is consistent.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Now that the holidays are over, I’m looking forward to meeting you.” Apparently Mrs. Miller had nothing better to do than talk with her today. “I’ve told Axton I’d love to have you over for dinner. And your fiancé, too. Axton mentioned you were engaged.”

  Of course he did.

  “There’s no need—”

  “I love to cook. And the house we bought has a gourmet kitchen, so I need to take advantage of that, don’t I? Any food allergies? Shellfish? A lot of people are allergic to shellfish.”

  “No.” Although she did have an adverse reaction to people who talked too much.

  “Good.” Voices sounded in the background. “Hold on—Axton, this phone call is for you, not me. It’s Dr. Thatcher.”

  During the lull in conversation, Johanna tried to get her bearings. She lifted her damp hair off her neck, shifting in the seat and lowering the heat. Maybe she should have waited to call until she got home. But if she had, she would have talked herself out of calling.

  “Johanna? This is a bit of a surprise.” Dr. Miller’s voice jolted her second thoughts up against her determination to confront her boss. “Is anything wrong?”

  There were so many ways she could answer his question, but she’d stay professional.

  “No. Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to follow up on our last conversation.”

  “I see. I planned on talking with you early next week.”

  If this was his subtle way of saying she shouldn’t have called—of saying he didn’t want to talk with her right now—too bad. She wasn’t backing down now.

  “I apologize if this is inconvenient, but it won’t take long.” She rushed ahead. “I wanted to tell you that I agree with you.”

  “You . . . agree with me?”

  “Let me clarify. I’m not saying I buy into all that positive-leadership stuff. I’m still thinking about that.”

  “What do we agree on, then?”

  “I’m not a quitter.”

  His laughter coaxed a small laugh from her. It was as if they took one small step toward each other.

  Johanna released her tight grip on the steering wheel. Flexed the fingers of her right hand, encouraging blood flow.

  A shared laugh
didn’t make her friends with this man.

  “Do you think we could agree on one more thing?”

  Here it came. He was already wanting more from her.

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly.” Another chuckle. “We’re making progress.”

  “Nice.”

  “Would you agree to be more open-minded to my approach to raising morale? To not counter with efficiency ratings every time we discuss my plans?”

  Johanna grabbed the steering wheel again, choking back her instant rebuttal. “You’re asking me not to quit . . . and in the same breath, you’ve asked me to change.”

  “Yes—and not for the first time. The truth is, to work together, we would both have to change. I also used the term open-minded—that implies being willing to consider my suggestions. Can we start there?”

  “I can agree to that.”

  The tension inside her loosened, like a soldier transitioning from attention to at ease. Not that she wanted to use military analogies right now.

  The first step would be to stop thinking of her new boss as the enemy.

  “We’re in agreement, then?” She could hear the smile in Dr. Miller’s voice. “You’re not quitting?”

  “Agreed. And you’re not planning on firing me.”

  “No, I’m not. I never was. And you’re willing to consider the concept of positive leadership.”

  She inhaled. This was a little harder to do than she’d realized. “Yes.”

  “You’re reading the book?”

  “. . . I’ve read the book.” He’d ask several things of her, so it was only fair that she could ask something of him. Perhaps he would see it as her willingness to try to learn. “Would you be willing—when we meet the next time—to share with me two, maybe three principles that you think are key?”

  “If you’ll tell me one thing you liked about the book.”

  “A few weeks ago, I would have said, ‘The end.’”

  That honest comment earned her another laugh. “But you won’t say that now, right?”

  “I just did. But I’ll come up with something else before we talk next. I’m being open-minded, remember?”

  Someone talking in the background delayed his response.

  “I’m sorry, Johanna, but my wife told me to try to arrange having you and your fiancé—Beckett, right?—over for dinner. Shall we put something on the calendar for later in the month?”

  His words chilled her as if she’d rolled down her car windows, letting the January wind ransack the interior of her car.

  “Oh . . . um . . . I’m not at home right now. And Beckett’s schedule is awful.” She pressed her fist against her lips.

  Calm down.

  “Let me talk with him and you talk with your wife and we’ll compare calendars.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you at the hospital on Monday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Happy New Year, Johanna.”

  “Happy New Year, Axton.”

  Johanna tossed her phone onto the passenger seat next to her workout bag. She’d agreed to be open-minded with Axton Miller. Fine. But one thing wasn’t happening. There’d be no get-together dinner with his family.

  HERE I WAS, once again, fortifying myself with a cup of coffee. Gail and I had agreed to meet at Third Space Coffee, so getting something to drink appeared normal, not like an attempt to strengthen myself to talk with someone I didn’t know. What was that saying? “First I drink the coffee, then I do the things.”

  Well, today was a huge thing I’d never done before. Meeting with someone I barely knew to try to help her as she faced a battle like the one I’d just walked through—not unscathed, but I had come out the other side alive. And that was something . . . something I could share with Gail.

  Even so, I should have ordered a larger drink.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Harper.

  You there?

  Yes. Looking online at jobs. What’s up?

  I’m meeting with Gail during her lunch hour. Waiting for her to show up.

  ☺ You’ll do great, Jill. I know you can help her.

  Her experience is going to be different than mine.

  Of course it will be. But you, better than most people, can listen to her and calm her fears.

  “Jillian?”

  The soft questioning of my name had me almost dropping my phone. The woman standing in front of me seemed somewhat familiar. Gail—and I had no reason to think this wasn’t Gail—was ten, maybe fifteen years older than me, wearing a long hooded down coat and fur-lined waterproof winter boots.

  Hesitant. Scared.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m Jillian.” I wanted to hug her. Tell her it would be okay. Maybe that’s all I needed to do today. But I couldn’t . . . couldn’t hug someone I’d just met. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “I got some black tea, actually. I ordered when I first came in. I’ll listen for them to call my name.”

  “I’m not sure we ever talked when I worked at the bank.”

  “No. I don’t think we did. I knew Harper—”

  “Harper knew everyone.”

  Gail’s laugh brought light to her eyes, easing the tightness around her mouth. “Yes. She’s wonderful. I was so glad when she mentioned you. I hope you don’t mind that she did.”

  “No, of course not.” As I reassured Gail, I realized I meant it.

  “I just don’t know who to talk to. Being diagnosed with breast cancer is just so sudden—although I realize that’s probably not that unusual.” She paused as the young barista with a long blonde braid brought her tea over. “Thank you.”

  We both paused, sipping our drinks. Catching our breaths.

  “I forgot that you were so much younger than me.” Gail removed her coat. “You must have been so shocked when the doctor told you that you had breast cancer.”

  “Yes—I was. But I think every woman is, no matter what age. Did they find something on your mammogram?” I bit my bottom lip, remembering my determination not to let this morning be about me and my cancer journey.

  “No. I found a lump in early December. I’m not one of those women who does monthly exams—I mean, I know I should. But I saw a public service ad on TV and when I took my shower that night, I—I found something in my left breast. I thought I was imagining it, so I checked a couple of times. And then I thought I should see my doctor, just to be sure. She found something, too, during her exam. And that was that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gail sipped her tea, possibly in an attempt to hide the tears in her eyes. “Of course, with the holidays, everything has been slower. My doctor ordered a diagnostic mammogram. I’ve also had a biopsy . . .”

  “I remember all of that. Do you have your diagnosis?”

  “Stage 2b. One lymph node had cancer. No other spread.” Gail spoke as if she’d practiced saying those words over and over again. “Now it’s January and we’re going to decide what to do next. Mastectomy or lumpectomy with radiation to the site. Maybe chemo.”

  Listening to Gail talk was like listening to someone retell my story. In some ways, we were so similar, starting with the cancer catching her unaware. Maybe women with a family history of breast cancer lived with the fear every day, but Gail and I, like so many other women, had been minding our own business, not expecting cancer to interrupt our plans, to take over our lives.

  Gail wore no wedding ring on her left hand. But I couldn’t assume she wasn’t married. Or that she didn’t have a significant other.

  “How is your family handling all of this?”

  “My family?” Gail almost looked confused, as if she didn’t understand my question. “I’m divorced. No husband. No boyfriend. My parents live in Minnesota.”

  “Any kids?”

  “A daughter and a son.”

  “Have you told them?”

  “No. I didn’t want to ruin the holidays.”

  I tried to not show my surprise. “No one suspected anything?”

  “My da
ughter spent this Christmas with her husband’s family. And my son is in college—and well, you know how kids are. He was home, but he was so busy with his friends that it was easy to not say anything. I didn’t want to worry him.”

  “I can understand that. I didn’t tell anyone in my family right away, either.” Yet another thing in common with Gail Ferguson. “So when are you going to tell them?”

  “I thought maybe you could help me figure out how to tell them.”

  Me?

  A little more than twelve months’ head start made me an expert when it came to breast cancer—at least to Gail. There was no need to let on how much I struggled with all the aftereffects—not now, anyway. This morning was about encouraging her. I was a little farther down the road than Gail, which meant that, if I chose, I could double back and walk alongside her. And I understood not wanting to tell family right away. Our reasons might be different, but I still understood.

  All the other people in the room—the trio of women sitting together, laughing and talking, the college-age guy hunched in front of his laptop, blocking out any noise with a pair of blue earbuds, the man and woman sitting together on the couch—they were leading normal lives. Expecting things to go as they planned. But behind their brand-new calendars and just-begun-to-be-filled schedules, they didn’t know what the day held. Not really. Disruption was a phone call, a text, a lab report away.

  I didn’t know any of them. Couldn’t help them.

  Until Harper had asked me to meet her, I hadn’t known Gail, either. Now I did. And I knew what Gail was facing—the doctors’ appointments, the decisions, the questions—even better than she did.

  The first domino fell the night of my engagement party. Only now did I know all that was set in motion with Dr. Sartwell’s phone call. Only now did I know how much I’d lose . . . and how much I’d gain in the process. I didn’t want Gail to walk through all the losses alone.

  But I wasn’t the one to walk alongside her. Revisit all those places. Could I be of any help to her when I was still enmeshed in my own struggles? But then, hadn’t Payton wrestled with the same doubts—wondering if she could help me when she didn’t have all the answers? Until she’d realized it wasn’t about having all the answers.