Thirteen
Consider anything, only don’t cry!
—Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass
Eve’s wish on the moon had come true. She felt a happiness she didn’t think possible in her life again. It was like awakening from a long slumber, feeling a bit confused and blinking at the light. The world seemed brighter somehow, more crystalline, clear and fresh. On Monday morning she dressed with extra care, gazing in the mirror trying to see herself as Paul would see her. Bronte cast suspicious glances her way under disapproving brows, but remained obstinately silent, refusing to speak to her. Finney was caught up in his own world of new friends and sports and seemed oblivious. He did, however, smile sweetly when she impulsively hugged him before going to work.
At the college, Paul was very careful not to look her way more than necessary or show favoritism, especially under Pat’s watchful eye. If anything, he was more gruff than usual, but she saw through the ruse. Later in the afternoon, she managed to catch a carefully aimed smile that told her in no uncertain terms that he was aware of her and remembered every detail of their night together. Her skin tingled in anticipation. He had wanted to see her again the next night, every night this week, but she had declined. This was all going much too fast for her and she wanted the children to gradually grow accustomed to Paul. So they settled for seeing each other at lunch, either at a restaurant or for long walks in the park, and patiently awaited the long Fourth of July weekend when they would share a meal, and Paul’s bed, once again.
* * *
On Tuesday morning, Annie sat waiting in Dr. Gibson’s office at the university hospital. The beautiful windows were reminiscent of an earlier time of craftsmanship. John would love this old building, she thought, then felt the twinge of sorrow that always came lately when she thought of her husband. With an absentminded gesture, she rested her hand on her abdomen, tender and swollen after her last bout of heavy bleeding. It was empty, like her marriage. And perhaps it was just as well.
For the past month, she and John were just inhabiting the same space, more like roommates than husband and wife. John acted the martyr in his silence; Saint Sebastian accepting the arrows. Well, she hated martyrs. Especially when they went into a grand sulk. There was nothing saintly about his behavior. This was John’s way of punishing her for her own flares of temper.
In the past, these silences could go on for days, making the air between them so thick with hostility she’d become physically sick. Then when he’d felt she’d had enough, or he couldn’t stand it any longer, he’d approach her and give her the cue: “Do you want to talk about it?” And of course she would, and it would be over.
This one would not be over so easily, she knew. She’d crossed some line when she’d told him in a snit that she wanted a divorce. She hadn’t meant it, and told him so, but he’d walked away, telling her she could do what she wanted. He was still walking away, refusing to talk, hiding his feelings behind the veneer of hurt pride. And now he was back and forth from Florida, slavishly directing another one of R.J.’s big deals.
The building boom there was irresistible to a man with dreams as big as R. J. Bridges’s, and now John was tangled in the silken web of wealth and power. He’d been bitten by the bug of greed, and like a venom that slowly spread throughout his bloodstream, all John’s own quieter dreams of craftsmanship and a simple lifestyle had been destroyed. Now his simpering after R.J. looked pathetic. He was not defending what was precious in himself. She fell in love with the inner toughness that he used to protect himself with, to protect her, and their nest. R.J. was threatening the nest, and John was allowing it. She hardly knew him anymore.
Annie crossed her legs and wagged her foot. Where was that doctor anyway? It was stupid for her to be here. Except that she harbored hope she and John would work it out. A baby would cement them, join their futures and return his sense of purpose. She needed a baby more than ever.
The door swung open and Dr. Gibson briskly strode into the office, carrying her medical file and several sheets of lab results. After the preliminary greetings, the doctor got right down to business.
“As far as your baby-making apparatus goes, all the tests are normal. John’s sperm count is high and there’s nothing wrong with you. I see no reason right now why conception shouldn’t occur at some point in the future.”
Annie held back a laugh thinking, Yeah, well how about no sex. That’s a pretty good reason.
“But—” Dr. Gibson paused to look at the lab results “—I still want to know why you’re having such heavy periods. And this spotting in between... You can’t keep losing that much blood, Annie. Your blood test shows you’re still anemic. I mean ghetto level anemia, not at all usual for a woman in your health and economic level. I don’t like this, not one bit.”
“Oh, well,” Annie replied, despondent.
Dr. Gibson folded her hands on the reports and speared Annie with one of her no-nonsense looks. “This is serious, Annie. I want you to take this to heart.”
Annie felt her heart was already over full at the moment, but she nodded complacently.
Dr. Gibson continued in her methodical manner. “Your Pap smear came back unusual as well. It’s probably nothing, there are plenty of abnormal Pap readings. Still, we have to check it out.”
Annie sat straighter, faintly alarmed. “Check it out for what?”
“For any number of things. We’ll do another Pap smear to start. And...”
Annie tensed, hearing the hedging in Dr. Gibson’s voice.
“In your case, with your heavy, irregular bleeding, I also want to do a biopsy to rule out cancer.”
The mere threat of the disease rocked her to the core. Suddenly, menopause didn’t sound so bad. “I thought you said it was normal to have irregular bleeding at my age. That it was hormonal.”
“It is, but your bleeding is excessive and causing chronic anemia. It could just be fibroids, also fairly common. A sonogram will give us a picture. Don’t be alarmed. We always want to cover the bases, Annie.”
Annie frowned, thinking only of more tests, more prodding and poking.
“The biopsy is done here in the office. I just need to snatch a little sample of tissue from the uterus.”
Annie slunk in the chair. “Take as much as you want, Doctor. Take the whole thing if you want. I don’t care.”
Dr. Gibson tilted her head and studied Annie for a long moment. “You’re awfully dejected this morning. That’s not like you. Is anything the matter, Annie?”
Annie looked at the compassion in Dr. Gibson’s lightly freckled face. In the light pouring in from the beautiful windows, her hair looked like the burnished copper pots Annie had chosen to hang in her kitchen—if the darn renovations ever got completed. So much of her life was hanging in the balance.
Annie’s chest constricted. She felt like crying and spilling out how mad she was at John, how hurt.
“No,” Annie replied, shaking her head, keeping her own counsel. “When do you want to do it?”
“How about now? No time like the present.”
So it was that, within a quarter hour, Annie lay on the cold slab the nurses called the examining table, legs spread-eagle and feet hoisted in stirrups. She took deep breaths and stared at the countless, tiny holes in the soundproofed ceiling. Dr. Gibson sat between her legs wielding what looked to Annie like a medieval instrument of torture. It was some long-necked, metal clamp, sort of like one of John’s pliers, supersize. No matter what words of reassurances Dr. Gibson was muttering, about how there’d be a shot of local anesthetic and how it would only pinch for a moment, it looked pretty clear to Annie that that sucker was going to hurt.
And it would be cold, too—Annie just knew it.
* * *
The fans whirred in Gabriella’s kitchen. Outside the humidity was rising with the temperature. I
t was going to be a hot one and Gabriella sorely missed her air-conditioning. The unit had broken down during that first heat wave in June and they couldn’t afford to buy another one.
“It’s not so bad,” she told the children while they groaned about the heat and how they were the only family in town without air-conditioning. “When I was a little girl in Puerto Rico, no one in the whole village had air-conditioning. We made friends with the hot weather. We drank cool drinks, sat in the shade and went to the beach.”
“At least you have air-con in the hospital,” muttered her son, Freddy, not caring one whit about what she’d done in Puerto Rico.
“Would you like to trade places, eh? You go to work and let me stay home. Ha...don’t I wish.”
She made light of the situation, but in her heart Gabriella was worried. It had almost been a full year since Fernando was laid off and he still hadn’t found another full-time job. His unemployment checks helped support them for the first several months and he was able to pick up work here and there on a part-time basis, but nothing steady. Now the checks had stopped coming and she’d had to increase her hours once again to make ends meet. This would be the first weekend she’d had to work in years. Months ago, they’d made the joint decision that he should not get off track and take a job outside of his field. The right job would come along and everything would be all right. They just had to hold on.
She believed this, she believed in her husband, but her schedule was taking its toll. She was desperately tired all the time, trying to manage both her home and her job. Fernando was growing more and more depressed, which only added to the burden. And the children, feeling the tension and the heat, were crabby and fought among themselves. More and more, Gabriella felt as if she were a firecracker being pulled at both ends. She was ready to explode.
* * *
Across town, Midge was suffering the typical mood swings of an artist before a show. During the week, while hoisting her four-and five-foot canvases, perched on ladders to hang them to her precise specifications, she was in an adrenaline rush. She worked around the clock, agonizing with worry, pushing herself to her limits, aching in every muscle, yet too wired to sleep. She imagined it was the way new mothers felt going into labor.
Susan, another artist exhibiting in the same show, laughed when Midge told her that. Susan was the most successful of the group, a teacher at the Art Institute and already represented at another gallery. She’d been around the art-scene block several times and was mildly intimidating with her swaggering confidence and boisterous voice.
“Good analogy,” Susan said, wiping her cropped blond hair from her brow after hanging a six-foot canvas. She was an attractive woman, not quite as tall as Midge, with the taut, defined muscles of an athlete and pleasant features. Her eyes, a surprisingly pale-gray, shone from behind prominent cheekbones and a slightly bent nose like a ray of sunshine in the mountains. “Aren’t these canvases our precious babies? Except I sure ain’t no new mother. This is my umpteenth kid by that count, and they’re all fucking hard to push out.”
Midge grinned, liking her all the more. All week long, Susan had been generous with her supplies, helped her lift her canvases and brought her cups of coffee from the deli across the street. The art world could be lonely. There were lots of petty jealousies and behind-palm verbal swipes. It was a breath of fresh air to discover someone open and unguarded.
Midge prowled the gallery with her chin cupped in her palm. She viewed the other canvases, then walked past her own paintings again and again, studying them at every possible angle. Back and forth she walked, sensing Susan’s eyes on her. There was little more to be done now; she knew she should go home. But she couldn’t. She walked on air, absolutely enchanted by her own art.
Susan came closer and wrapped a friendly arm around her shoulder. Midge was surprised but didn’t pull back. It was an affectionate gesture, giving and loving, and she could feel herself open up in its warmth.
“So, little mother, what do you think?” Susan asked, looking at one of Midge’s large abstracts. The layered pinks resembled skin and glowed with evocative swirls and shapes.
“I feel like a mother counting toes,” she said, leaning her weight against Susan’s hard-boned shoulders. Susan chuckled and squeezed her shoulder. Midge felt a new undercurrent between them that was odd, but very pleasant.
Susan began stroking her back in a consoling manner. “There are ten, believe me.”
“I love those canvases so much, I can’t bear it. I hate to leave here.”
Susan gave her back a firm pat, then she broke away, grinning sarcastically. “I should hate you, Midge Kirsch. I’ve been admiring, no, envying, your work all week. Such powerful lines, and your sense of color blows everything else here right out of the water. It’s very erotic. Very O’Keeffe-ish, but not. I really like them. Very much.”
Midge felt her knees weaken with a profound relief. There had been a conspiracy of silence from the other artists during the week. She had always prided herself on her confidence and self-esteem, at least where her work was concerned. Her view of the world was clear. But during the past week, her pedestal had been reduced to rubble.
“No one else has said a word,” she said, speaking plainly. “You’re the first. I was sure they hated it.”
“Nah, the cowards. They love it but hate you because you’re so much better.”
“I doubt it,” she chided back, enjoying the camaraderie. Then more honestly, she added, “Last night I was miserable. I went home so sure I didn’t measure up. I wanted to take it all down. I agonized why I was ever enamored with my paintings.” She crossed her arms and laughed. “I thought my babies were ugly.”
“I feel that all the time. Don’t know anyone who doesn’t. Hell, I wanted to take my own stuff down last night.”
“God, I hate the pressure of openings. I absolutely dreaded having to buy new clothes. My mother insisted. She has this idea that openings are still the grand fetes of the 1980s. I was so frazzled with worry about my work I let her win the battle of the clothes. How are we going to survive tonight?”
“I’ll tell you what. Let’s make a pact. We’ll check on each other every hour on the hour. A smile, a hug, whatever. That way, if one of us freaks, we have a backup.” She paused, then said with more seriousness, “We’ll be there for each other.”
Midge felt again that there was a subtle invitation in the comment. “It’s a deal.”
“How about we have dinner afterward? Some of the people are going to the Rose Bud. We can join them, but we don’t have to.” Susan’s eyes signaled a clear interest in developing their friendship.
“I’d like to, but I may be busy. I’m expecting my friends to come by and they’ll likely want to go out to dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”
“No, thanks. I’d feel out of place. Let me know though. You know where to find me,” she said without a hint of disappointment. Midge was attracted to her open warmth and honesty, her toughness and smarts. There was no subterfuge with Susan. No backstabbing or insecurities. She was a woman at ease with herself and the world.
She was someone Midge wanted to get to know better.
* * *
Annie once believed there was no such thing as time. She took each day as it came without thought of the past or worry for the future. She was one of many of her age group who felt young, still perceived herself as powerful, her body as a temple of health—well exercised, fed healthy foods, copiously watered and pumped up with mega doses of vitamins.
On Friday morning, the third of July, however, she suddenly became aware of each day, each hour, each minute as it slipped through her fingers.
Dr. Gibson called Annie into her office, uneasy that John was out of town, unwilling to wait for his uncertain return. She wanted to see Annie as soon as possible. She was unusually reserved and her eyes reflected the worry etc
hed in her brow.
“Annie, sometimes the tests reveal what we don’t want to see. I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but the results show that you have cancer of the endometrial lining. Uterine cancer.” Dr. Gibson’s eyes were soft with concern, a sharp contrast to her crisp medical whites. “That would explain the heavy bleeding, the spotting and, of course, the irregular Pap smear. The good news is that uterine cancer has one of the best survival rates.” She paused and pursed her lips. “The bad news is, we’ll have to remove the uterus.”
Annie sat still and quiet in the cushioned chair, absorbing the words like a body blow. The shock reverberated to her very foundation, cracking her identity and crumbling it like sand at her feet. Breathless and numb, she was unable to move.
“No,” she blurted out, an instinctive warding off of a threat.
“Yes, Annie,” Dr. Gibson replied with a sober expression. “There’s no mistake. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” she repeated.
“Normal cells grow and divide in an orderly manner,” Dr. Gibson explained. “But sometimes normal cells go crazy, divide out of control and produce too much tissue that forms tumors. Some tumors are benign. They don’t spread through the body. Others are malignant. Triggered by unknown factors in the genes or environment they metastasize, or spread, and destroy nearby healthy tissue and organs. Those are cancerous.”
Dr. Gibson explained the process thoroughly but Annie remembered none of it. She couldn’t get past the word cancer.
“We’ll need to do more tests. You’ll need to arrange your schedule to take time off from work.” She paused to look at Annie’s face, then closed the file and spoke in a gentle tone. “We can talk later about when to schedule surgery. I’d like to do it within a couple of weeks. Go home, Annie. When will John be home?”
“Not till tomorrow sometime... I’m not sure. I don’t even know what hotel he’s at. How’s that for a lousy break?” She gave off a short, bitter laugh.
The Book Club Page 22
