The Year of Goodbyes and Hellos, page 3
“You came home early!”
Startled, I glanced up from scratching behind Scout’s ears. A glass of water in one hand, my husband stood in the middle of the great room he’d designed. He rarely came home before six o’clock. “So did you.”
He smiled. That knock-your-socks-off smile that never failed to make my heart do a two-step that would worry my cardiologist friend. Even after twenty-four years of marriage, Daniel still had that effect on me. He toasted me with his water. “I told you I was taking the afternoon off. Dad called. They want us kids there early so we can take family pictures before the guests arrive. Did I tell you they hired a live band? Bluegrass. Her favorite.”
His mother’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration. I’d forgotten.
His voice trailed away. His smile faded. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t deny it. I can read your face like an open book, you know that.” Daniel took a long swallow of water, then set the glass on the coffee table in slow, deliberate movements. “I guess it doesn’t matter if you forgot. You’re here. You have plenty of time for a shower before you get dressed. It’s casual.”
He clipped the words the way he did when he was trying not to show his anger. He eased onto the couch. He was as trim and fit as he had been when I married him at twenty-three. His dark, almost-black curls were as thick as ever, even with the occasional strand of silver. He’d already changed into tan Dockers and a white, long-sleeved dress shirt. His huge ochre eyes were his best feature. Right now they were somber. Disappointed. “What’s going on? Why are you home early? It’s obviously not for Mom’s party.”
I straightened. Scout whimpered. He was more tuned in to the temperature in the room than his brother. “It’s okay, sweet pea.” I padded barefoot into the great room and sat on the settee across from Daniel. The dogs settled at my feet, panting as if they’d hiked Death Valley to get there. “I got some bad news.”
“I understand how bad you feel when you realize a treatment isn’t working and a patient’s only option is hospice.” That he managed to keep his voice level spoke well of Daniel’s character. He’d taken a back seat to my patients for most of our marriage. He didn’t always like it, but he acquiesced to it. “Come to the party. You love ribs. Eat ice cream and cake. They’re having carrot cake and German chocolate—your favorite.” He approached, knelt at my feet, and took my hands in his. “Talk to people about something besides disease and death.”
It did sound nice. But no amount of discussions involving politics, wars, weather, or whose child received a full ride to what university next fall would drown out the droning of the digital recordings used by medical records transcribers. Nothing could stifle my brain’s endless efforts to devise a new treatment regimen that might be the one to make the difference for this patient or that one. “It’s not—”
“We could dance a slow dance. Remember how we used to dance to Coltrane in our old apartment when you were doing your residency?” His disappointment had been replaced with a tender tone that begged me to join him in this jaunt down memory lane. Today’s reality kept intruding.
Daniel laughed softly. “The living room was so small we kept bumping into furniture.”
I did remember. The feel of his hands on my lower back, holding me close to his warm, solid body. His smell of Polo, oregano, and basil. The roughness of his five o’clock shadow when he nuzzled his chin against my cheek. The sound of his laugh when I stepped on his bare foot. I was—and still am—a terrible dancer. “You still make the best spaghetti sauce—better than your mother’s.”
“I won’t tell her you said that.” He rubbed his thumb over my palm. “Come.”
“It’s not a patient. It’s—”
The doorbell rang. Dash and Scout barked—in case we weren’t aware that friend or foe approached. They raced to the foyer and back. “Hush, hush, you two. That’s enough.” Daniel let go of my hand and straightened. I beat him to the door. I grasped the doorknob and swiveled for a second. “It’s Sherri.”
“What’s Sherri doing here in the middle of the week? That’s why you can’t go to Mom and Dad’s? I don’t get it. What’s going on?” He grabbed Scout’s collar and pulled him back. The dog was still enough of a puppy that he wanted to jump on our guests. “She can come. Mom and Dad love your sister. No RSVP required. They’ll have enough food to feed Canada.”
“She won’t be up to socializing. I tried to tell you.” I shooed Dash back from the door. His MO was to sniff, bark, wag his tail, and then jump. At least the guest had a chance to brace herself. “I have to let her in.”
“Yes, of course.”
I opened the door. Sherri stood on the porch, a suitcase in one hand, the long strap of her purse over her shoulder, her bulging canvas book bag hanging from her other shoulder, and a bag of cat food under her arm. She clutched Cleo’s pet carrier in her other hand. Her face was red and damp with perspiration. “I know it’s a lot of stuff, but I’m not moving in, I promise. There’s a bag of cat litter in the car.”
“No worries. Let me help you.” Daniel relieved her of the pet carrier, from which yowls and hisses announced Cleo’s unhappiness with her current circumstances. Daniel also took the bag of food. “It’s good to see you, Sher. It’s been months. I was so busy yapping, Kristen couldn’t get a word in edgewise to tell me you were coming.”
“It was . . . last minute.” Sherri set her suitcase aside. “It’s good to see you too. Thanks for letting me stay a day or two.”
A day or two? Wishful thinking.
Daniel did what he did best. He set aside her burdens—out of the dogs’ reach—and gave my sister a hearty hug. “I’ll get the cat litter in a minute. You’re always welcome here. Come in, come in. We were just talking about my mom’s seventy-fifth birthday blowout. It’ll be epic. You should come.”
Sherri took a step back. Her cobalt-blue eyes were wet, but no tears fell. “That’s sweet of you to invite me, and I’d love to see your family, but I’m . . . I haven’t . . . I don’t feel very well.”
Daniel’s gaze bounced from Sherri to me and back. “I’m sorry to hear that. Come in, come in. Sit down.”
“I have to get Cleo situated. She had one hissy fit after another the entire way here. Not even Kenny G made her happy.”
Usually smooth jazz calmed the persnickety feline. The dogs weren’t helping either. Scout had his nose thrust against the carrier’s mesh. I dragged him away. “I’ll take her to your bedroom—”
“Let me do it. I’ll get the litter first.” Daniel dashed out the door and was back in less than ninety seconds. Murmuring sweet nothings, he carted Cleo down the hallway that led to the guest bedroom.
I turned to Sherri. “How did the conversation with your principal go?”
“She told me to take all the time I need.” Sherri kicked off her flip-flops. Her pale-green Bloom Where You’re Planted T-shirt hung loose on her angular body. So did her white slacks. “She said she would ask the district’s HR folks to email me the paperwork to fill out, not to worry about a thing.”
Kerrville wasn’t a big town, but big enough that the school district and Sherri’s principal would have plenty of experience in dealing with leave issues. No matter how guilty Sherri felt about it—and guilt was written all over her face. “Good. I’m glad you were able to start the process so quickly.”
It would take time to complete. The FMLA red tape was massive.
Sherri pulled a tie from her ponytail and let her blonde hair—now streaked with big swathes of silver like the highlights most women paid their hairdressers for—fall to her shoulders. “I suppose. I’m going to miss my munchkins. I plan to go back to teaching the second I’m able.”
“Of course you do.”
I understood. My eyelid twitched every time I thought about the patients getting the word tomorrow that I wouldn’t be sitting with them in the exam room, walking them through next steps, advising them, and treating their side effects. “You can reassess in the fall, depending on how you do with chemotherapy.”
She would learn no one is indispensable. Daniel’s voice reverberated in my head. He said that every time we argued about why I couldn’t take time off for a weekend trip to the beach or even a movie. Those arguments had become more frequent after the girls left for college. He wasn’t handling our empty nest well.
“You didn’t tell Daniel I was coming?”
Sherri obviously intended to move on. So I followed. “He didn’t give me a chance. He’s totally wound up about his mother’s birthday. Not that I blame him.” I linked arms with her. I might be four years younger, but we’d been the same five feet, eight inches tall since my last growth spurt in eighth grade. We trudged into the great room, where we settled side by side on the most comfortable couch in the universe. “With her heart attack and quadruple bypass last year, they weren’t sure she’d be around for this birthday.”
Not to mention the breast cancer diagnosis five years earlier. She’d been diagnosed stage 1. A lumpectomy and radiation had successfully treated it with no recurrence. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when she hit that critical five-year mark. Chances of a recurrence were small—not zero—but small.
“And they’re having a big celebration. You should go. Don’t miss it because of me. I don’t want Angela giving you demerits because of me.”
“Angela gave up on me years ago.” Daniel’s mother loved her five progeny fiercely and expected their wives to put them first, as she had done throughout her life. “I doubt she’ll even notice with a hundred of her closest friends invited to the soiree.”
“Can you call a Texas barbecue a soiree?” Sherri tucked her hands under her armpits and leaned her head against the couch. “I bet Daniel’s dad will wear a white cowboy hat and ostrich-skin cowboy boots.”
Daniel’s parents were the king and queen of country with a massive ranch south of San Antonio. Four of their boys grew up in 4-H, Future Farmers of America, rodeos, and country music concerts. Only Leonard Tremaine could be disappointed in a son who chose architecture at the University of Texas at Austin as his college major instead of agricultural business at Texas A&M in College Station.
“They’ll probably barbecue an entire cow. And there will be homemade ice cream and two kinds of cake.”
Sherri had been to enough Tremaine family events to know they never failed to send their guests home stuffed to the gills and teetering on a food coma. “I’m sure you’re right. I happen to have the makings for ice cream sundaes and banana splits in my kitchen for just such an occasion as this. Besides, Angela will understand when she hears about the cancer.”
“The cancer? What cancer?” Daniel strode into the room. “Who has cancer? Which one of you?”
The fear that etched lines in his face was so familiar. No one was immune to it, least of all a man married to someone who spent every day trying to rescue people from the disease’s clutches.
“It’s me. I have cancer,” Sherri said in a rush to end his panic. “Ovarian cancer.”
Daniel didn’t curse much. He did so now as he eased onto the settee. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you’re here.” Scout, finely tuned to Daniel’s every emotion, propped his head on his knee. Daniel scratched behind the dog’s ears. “This is exactly where you need to be. I’m sure Kristen has made it clear, but I second it. Stay here as long as you like. We’re here for you. I’m here for you.”
Sherri clenched my hand so hard my fingers hurt. “Thank you. I appreciate that so much. We’ll see. I want to get back to teaching as quickly as possible.”
“I set up Cleo’s litter box in the guest bathroom and put out her food and water. Then I released her from the carrier.” Scout sneaked up onto the settee next to Daniel. He slid an arm around the dog’s shoulders and pulled him close. It wasn’t clear who comforted whom. “She wandered around for a bit, yowling and complaining, but then she lapped up some water and took a seat on the windowsill.”
Daniel’s love language was doing things for people. It took me a while to figure that out. I wanted him to tell me he loved me with words. He preferred deeds. In this instance it also took the pressure off Sherri to talk with him about her situation.
“Thanks.” She heaved a sigh. “Thanks for doing that.”
“No problem.” He ran his hand down Scout’s back, planted a kiss on the dog’s nose, and stood. “I better get going and let you get settled in. My dad’s probably paying the photographer big bucks for the family photos.”
“Tell your mom I send my regrets.” I stood and followed him out to the kitchen and the door to the garage, where he’d parked his F-150 EV. He turned and paused, his dark eyes full of pain. “I’m really, truly sorry about this. I would stay, but I figure Sherri needs some time to decompress. So do you. You don’t need me around, getting in the way.”
His arms came up as if he would hug me, then dropped. “Unless you want me to stay. You know I will.”
“No, no, go.” When was the last time we hugged? I couldn’t remember. Now wasn’t the time to pull that thread in our unraveling relationship. What I wanted to say was never take for granted that there would be another birthday to celebrate. Savor those moments now. “This is your mom’s day. Don’t disappoint her. We’ll be fine.”
He kissed my forehead and stared at me for a long moment. The pain faded into resignation. “See you . . . tomorrow . . . or sometime . . .”
“Tonight when you get home.” It would be late. “Wake me up and tell me all about it.”
When was the last time we’d done anything together, just Daniel and I?
Probably the last time we hugged. A parade of memories marched by. His invitation to go to a movie, a comedy club downtown, a Spurs game, a Christmas tree lighting, a play at the Majestic, a concert at the AT&T Center. Invitations abounded. Memories of togetherness not so much.
Bitterness tinged his smile. “I’ll probably be back late.”
“Tomorrow then, for dinner.”
But he was gone.
Relief swept over me. Followed closely by guilt. He was my husband. Did I take him for granted? Did I shortchange him in my balancing act? No. No. I tried to dredge up righteous anger. How dare he try to guilt-trip me in the middle of my sister’s crisis? He was being selfish.
Daniel was the least selfish person I’d ever known.
Like Scarlett O’Hara, I’d think about it later. Tomorrow.
I found a tray and loaded it up with all the fixings for an ice cream extravaganza. In South Texas, ice cream was a year-round treat. Sherri would have her choice of a sundae, a root beer float, or a banana split. Or all three. Chemotherapy would come later. Tonight the patient needed ice cream therapy.
I deposited the tray on the coffee table and bowed like a butler. “Ice cream eaten on your diagnosis day has no calories.” With a flourish I listed ingredients that included chocolate, caramel, or strawberry syrup, bananas, whipped cream, chopped nuts, candied cherries, root beer, and three flavors of ice cream. “I’m happy to do the honors, or if you prefer, you may serve yourself, which allows you to double up on your choice of ingredients.”
Sherri struck the thinker pose. “Decisions, decisions, decisions.” Then, with quick, efficient movements born of much practice, she assembled a banana split, heavy on the whipped cream. She leaned back, took a bite, and mimed a swoon. “A masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”
“You’re so predictable.” I went with my usual. A sundae, heavy on the chocolate syrup. “Chocolate is better.”
“You’re the predictable one.” She took another bite and savored it for a few seconds. “At least mine has bananas. Potassium and fiber.”
“Hey, mine has cherries. They’re full of antioxidants. Besides, ice cream is made from milk. Therefore it’s full of calcium. So it’s healthy, right?”
“Mmm, no. Wishful thinking and maraschino cherries don’t count.” Her smile faded. “Is it just me or is it ironic that I’ve spent so much time working out, eating healthy, and avoiding alcohol, only to end up with cancer anyway?”
I concentrated on the creamy chocolate delight on my tongue for a few seconds, searching for an answer. “You can do all the right things and get cancer. That’s a fact. The fact that you’re in good health, not overweight, and you exercise gives you a leg up in withstanding the treatment and its side effects. This little pity party tonight is the exception, not the rule. Don’t stop exercising—unless your body tells you to rest, then rest.”
“Good to know.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to lapse into doctor mode. Tonight I’m in sister mode.”
“I appreciate both more than you can possibly imagine. Especially when sister mode means all the ice cream I can eat.” She licked her lips and sighed dramatically. “Now all we need is a rom-com flick.”
“That can be arranged.” I picked up the TV remote but didn’t push the power button. “Before I slide completely into sister mode, do you want to know about the call I had with your oncologist?”
Sherri whipped her spoon in the air like a fencer with a sword. “Cancer talk is off the table for the rest of the evening. Tomorrow we face reality. Tonight we eat junk food and entertain ourselves with unrealistic but extremely satisfying romances.”
Sounded like the perfect plan. “You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, Sweet Home Alabama, Ghost, The Wedding Planner, or Twister? Or the usual?”
The usual was Kevin Costner’s baseball trilogy: Field of Dreams, For Love of the Game, and Bull Durham. They had the advantage of being about baseball and featuring our favorite actor.
