Millicent Glenn's Last Wish: A Novel

by Tori Whitaker

  We waited. The digital clock on the opposite wall flipped its minutes instead of ticking.

  I remembered rocking and humming and nursing my Janie when she was an infant. Her waking from a nap all warm and cuddly. My changing her diaper and nursing her again. How odd to think I’d nourished this woman with the bounty of my body, and today her own breasts were at risk. If only what she was facing in the present had happened to me instead.

  “Hi, Ms. Glenn.” This time I looked to Jane before I looked at the nurse in the doorway, and we got up and followed her.

  The exam room was dim, with indirect lighting glowing from under the top cabinets. I took the one chair with metal legs, while the technician named Tammy taped sticky markers to the tips of Jane’s nipples. I don’t know how many X-rays Tammy took while Jane stood tied to the machine—her breasts sandwiched between flat plates that compressed tighter and tighter, like materials squeezed in the iron vise on Dennis’s workbench.

  “Time to hurry up and wait some more,” Jane said as we were led back across the hall. She was trying to be strong by using her humor. She still had that.

  My old heart caved at the thought of watching her ill, draped on a bed, seeing her color fade, the light of her eyes extinguish, her becoming disoriented from bodily toxins and having to be fed and changed like a baby again—like I had done for Dennis. I knew the utter lack of dignity he’d felt in his lucid moments. Jane didn’t want to undergo that. This much I knew. Yet what could I do to stop the train if that was the route it would take?

  I was helpless.

  “The radiologist will see you shortly,” said the nurse. “You’ll have your results soon.”

  Jane’s eyes darkened in a human fight-or-flight mode. “I’ll learn today?” she said. “I don’t have to wait a week for a letter as with my past mammograms?”

  I’d known this was a possibility. But was it a good sign or bad? I was as impatient as she.

  I’d been holding Dennis’s hand when an oncologist relayed that he had a tumor in his lung: the death sentence that led to the rest. I’d never get over the fright in my strong husband’s eyes. I couldn’t bear to see that again. Not in my daughter’s eyes.

  Jane was sniffing and smacking her lips. Nervous.

  “You okay?” I asked, praying for God to help me accept Jane’s answer, whatever it was.

  “Better with you here.”

  An audible release of air escaped my lungs. Goose pimples raised the hair on my arms, and my eyes stung. She’d been glad I came after all. I was useful. I had a new purpose, to be there for Jane.

  I took her hand and was astonished at how tight her grasp was. So tight it hurt.

  “Ms. Glenn, please follow me.”

  We landed in an exam room even smaller than the last, though now Jane and I each had a chair. The space was dimmer than the last, too. It smelled of antibacterial cleanser or something clinical. It was quiet. We waited.

  “I’m thinking about getting a puppy,” Jane said. “Do you think that’s senseless?”

  Jane, and her daughter after her, had long been ones to throw questions at me out of nowhere. “Mommy,” Janie had said in third grade as we drove down a road, “when you look out the window, how do you know the trees are real?” And then there’d been Kelsey when she was in grad school: “Grandma, do you think Aaron and I should live together before we marry?” My girls’ questions required thoughtful answers that I wasn’t always ready to give.

  Jane’s question today was no exception. But I figured she had duly considered it before asking. Pragmatic, like her daughter. If Jane were to require chemo treatment or radiation, would she be physically able to care for a pup? And if she weren’t to survive, would it be fair to a pet to leave it an orphan? Jane was missing her friends in Georgia, her career, and now she had uncertainty looming about her health. She had Kelsey and me. But she was still lonely.

  I said, “Do it. If that’s what your heart is set on. We can go to the pet shop today—or to the Humane Society. Kelsey and I will support you and the puppy in any way we can.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. I think I’ll wait till this is all over. But I just wanted to know in case I get spontaneous.” She smiled.

  How I loved it when she smiled. I remembered her first smile, an adorable toothless grin when she was a few weeks old. Mother Glenn had said it was gas. But that smile was cute to me all the same. I’d missed her smiling at me during all her years away.

  “What breed of dog would you—”

  There was a knock, and the door opened. “Hello, Ms. Glenn. I’m Dr. Patel, your radiologist.” She spoke so quickly I was glad we had two sets of ears to take everything in. “We don’t have a clear answer for you based on the X-rays. As long as you’re here, we want to do everything we can.”

  I looked at my daughter out of the corner of my eye, and she was composed. Only one finger, slowly stroking the small scar at her brow, gave a hint as to what was going on inside. And a flash of a long-ago day rose up in my mind: my holding her while her face bled, my trying to stop her suffering.

  “I’m having another technician come in and perform an ultrasound,” the radiologist said. “It’s painless and won’t take terribly long. It’ll give us a fuller picture of the lump you felt. Sound good?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Jane said, and I was glad of it.

  I adjusted in my chair. Stiff as I was, I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d be here with her to the bitter—or sweet—end.

  CHAPTER TEN

  March 1951

  For my shower, Pauline served petite sandwiches garnished with sliced sweet pickles, and she’d mashed sherbet into a bowl of punch. It was a lovely spread on her new chrome dinette table amid yellow and white decorations in a baby carriage theme. I was due in a couple of weeks. We women sat in Pauline’s sleek living room, its white and cool-green decor bringing to mind a luscious mint frappé. One of Dennis’s sisters jotted down all the gifts for my soon-to-be second child. I received hand-knitted sacques that opened down the front to free a baby’s bare legs. Pads and sheets and a bathinette—unlike Janie’s tiny tub, this one was the folding type with pockets and a canvas top. From Pauline I got two dozen cloth diapers, complete with a coupon for a laundering service while I recovered.

  “Are you going to chug castor oil?” one of the neighbors asked as the gifts I’d opened passed around our circle. “That’ll get the labor in gear.” Everyone enthusiastically agreed.

  I said, “I took my teaspoonful of cod-liver oil all winter long, never missing a day, you’ll be pleased to hear. But, ladies, I think I’ll pass on the castor oil.” They all chuckled.

  “Come on,” Abbie Glenn said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated amusement. She was in the folding chair beside me. “Be a big girl.” Everyone laughed. Except Pauline and me. This was my baby shower. I didn’t care to be teased.

  I’d once asked Dennis why Abbie didn’t like me. Was it because I was German? It could be. Her mother’s house had a gold star hanging in the window, meaning that a son—Abbie’s older brother—had died in the war. Or was it because I’d grown up poor? I had even speculated that Abbie didn’t care for me because when she’d been a girl, she’d had a crush on Dennis. He’d laughed and said, “Don’t worry about Abbie. She rubs people the wrong way sometimes.”

  Mother Glenn concurred when I asked her. She went so far as to suggest Abbie felt threatened; she craved having center stage. So Abbie wanted to be the favorite Glenn daughter-in-law—and Housewife of the Year to boot. “But Abbie doesn’t realize we don’t play favorites in our family,” Mother Glenn had said. “And we love you, Millie dear, like you’re one of our own.”

  Abbie was my sister-in-law. I’d try to be less judgmental. But it was hard.

  Abbie had gotten pregnant with her third baby a couple of months before me and had already given birth. Now she entertained everyone with how she’d spurred on her labor. She’d coated a glass with a quarter cup of orange juice, poured in the casto
r oil, and then added more juice. “I held a cube of ice as round as a walnut in my mouth, trying to freeze my taste buds,” she said, “then I washed the icky potion down, keeping it as far to the back of my tongue as possible. I went into labor that night, ladies. Linda Jo was born eight hours later.”

  “But remember, Abbie, our mother-to-be gets to set a date for her delivery,” Pauline said. “Gets to skip most of her labor this time.”

  “Getting to set a date for surgery may be better than having to go through all the old wives’ remedies,” said Deloris, my neighbor—the one who’d once hosted a party for her husband’s birthday and been baffled to learn I’d rather work on ledgers than have a hobby. Sadly, though, Dennis still had my role reduced to one mailing a week and the occasional ad since becoming pregnant the second time. I wouldn’t “overtax” myself or create a complication. I remained pleasant, though, because Janie was at a delightful age, and I was holding out hope that once Dennis saw how capable I was of running our beautiful family of four, I’d get back involved in the business. It wasn’t a matter of if but when.

  “And a date for surgery is better than going through hours of contractions and pushing,” said another friend. Most everyone agreed.

  That was fine but for the fact that I might lose my water before that scheduled date arrived. And there was no accounting for my recovering from all the stitches later.

  “Ladies, shall we have refreshments?” Pauline said, ushering us to her table, where we would fill dainty china plates and carry them back to eat in our laps.

  “My goodness, this cake is to die for,” said a neighbor. Abbie had insisted she bring a coconut cake.

  “Why thank you,” Abbie said. “It’s one of my husband’s favorites. He likes extra coconut on top.”

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Abbie. So moist.” That was Deloris. “And the buttercream. Scrumptious.”

  The room filled with the sound of women conversing about the Ozzie and Harriet radio program. But rather than join in, Abbie scrutinized my plate.

  “No cake for the guest of honor?”

  “I, uh—”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her mouth. “I completely forgot. You don’t like coconut.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. Mother Glenn looked on sympathetically at me. “Pauline baked my favorite cookies.” I smiled and bit into my second snickerdoodle sprinkled with cinnamon.

  But Abbie being Abbie, she couldn’t let it go. “Again, my apologies. I should have left a corner of the cake’s frosting plain. Just for you.”

  That woman grated on my nerves. Then Mother Glenn winked at me, and that made me smile.

  I heard my name and shifted left. Deloris was trying to get my attention.

  “Millie, did you know Sally here just found out she’s expecting?” Our new neighbor, Sally, was sitting right there, bright as the torch lamp lit up behind her.

  “How wonderful,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  Deloris went on, “What OB do you use, Millie?”

  I could sense Abbie’s ears had gone on alert. “I’m a patient of Dr. Collins,” I said. “Pauline recommended him.” I hoped the inquiry would end there.

  “As men with stethoscopes go, he’s a jewel,” Pauline said.

  “Millie didn’t use him the first time, though,” said Abbie. “Dr. Welch, the OB who delivered all the other Glenn grandchildren, delivered her Janie.” Abbie looked to the Glenn sisters for affirmation. They nodded politely but not overly politely.

  “Why did you switch OBs?” Deloris asked.

  Because I didn’t want to use a doctor Abbie used, I thought. “Because he’s closer in, more convenient,” I said.

  “Oh good,” Deloris said, and lit a cigarette.

  “Millie didn’t think our doctor was good enough for her anymore,” Abbie said, laughing.

  It wasn’t funny. Mother Glenn frowned at her. Perhaps that’d shut her up.

  “Well, honestly,” I said, wishing I were in the half of the room that followed a different conversation, “I owed it to myself to check around, given my circumstances. The surgery and all.” I glanced to my right, and Abbie was looking at me as though she were mystified—and that made me mad. “And for another reason,” I continued, “I like a doctor who speaks directly to me better than one who talks about me in the third person when I’m sitting right there.”

  Dennis’s sisters’ eyes were wide, and I felt myself burning red.

  I laughed and said, “Just teasing.”

  Then they broke into a hearty laughter.

  Deloris said, “I guess that’s particularly important to you, Millie, given you work with ad men and Lord knows who else.”

  “My sister-in-law thrives on juggling a job and caring for the baby and the house,” Abbie said. “I’m afraid she spreads herself too thin.”

  Please, Abbie, just shut up.

  Mother Glenn didn’t think I spread myself too thin. And that was good enough for me. “A wife’s gotta do what a wife’s gotta do,” she was often known to say.

  Fortunately, Deloris rose to refill her punch. Some women were gabbing about Camay beauty bars. Others needed to get home and get supper started. I thanked each guest as they shuffled out the door, and they hugged me and said they couldn’t wait to see the new baby. Abbie still lingered.

  My back was sore, my ankles were swollen, and I was ready to lie down and rest. Good thing I lived right next door. Pauline and Abbie insisted I not stay and clean up. The husbands could cart all the gifts home later. I waddled to Pauline’s room, and I’d no sooner fetched my trench coat off the bed than Abbie breezed in. She was always pretty at first glance, but sitting beside her today I had realized that in profile, her face was quite ordinary. No bone structure, nor depth or dimension.

  “I hope you aren’t mad,” she said, wringing her meticulously manicured hands. “About the coconut.”

  “Nope,” I said as I slipped one arm through a sleeve.

  “Swell,” she said, picking up her coat. “So it won’t be long now. I’ll be an aunt again.”

  Even the birth of my child was more about her than it was about me.

  “Millie,” Abbie said. “I’d like to talk to you, friend-to-friend.”

  “About what?” I asked, pulling on my coat the rest of the way.

  “Why do you spend so much time making up newspaper ads or bookkeeping or whatever you do anyway? Isn’t being a mother and keeping a nice home more important?”

  I stood there, dumbfounded. “Listen,” I said. “My floors may not be as squeaky-clean as yours. Though I doubt it. My clothes hampers may pile up a little higher than yours. Though I doubt it. And you can bet I’m a good wife. Don’t you doubt it. And I’m a damn good mother, too.”

  “Well, well, yes, Janie’s a wonderful child,” she said. “But—”

  “But? I’m standing here eight and a half months pregnant, and believe it or not, I’m tired. I want to go home, Abbie. Alone.”

  “Of course,” she said, picking up her purse, her cheeks pink. She looked remorseful. “Good wives never let a house fall apart. I’m sure you never do that. And I’m sure your new doctor will be fine, too,” she said, buttoning up her coat.

  “Millicent?” Pauline called from the hall.

  “Coming.”

  I soon walked through the grass between our houses, carrying a half dozen snickerdoodles wrapped in tin foil. Abbie had needled me until I felt like a pincushion. But why? She had a wonderful family. She was Betty Crocker extraordinaire. Some of the things I chose to do weren’t as fancy. I enjoyed working with numbers. Could she not accept that?

  If only my opa were here. He’d know how I should handle her.

  He had taught me that there were three kinds of people in the world: Some were just plain evil—like Adolf Hitler. And then there were good people who occasionally did bad things; they made a wrong decision. And then there was the bad person who had a nice streak every now and again. Opa nev
er told me what category the men who’d beaten him up fell into—the rowdy ones who’d busted out his eyetooth in an alley and had twisted his leg until it snapped. That had been about anti-German hysteria in this country during the Great War. Opa had shared his story when I was eight, when he’d taken me to Union Terminal for the whispering fountains. That day, a fancy lady had pointed and called me a German urchin. I hadn’t known what that was, but it had almost made me cry.

  I wanted to think Abbie was the good person who sometimes made mistakes. Like me. But she was constantly hurting my feelings or embarrassing me or trying to make me feel inferior or casting doubt on my decisions. It was insulting. I shouldn’t have had to put up with it. She and I would have many years ahead of being the rival Glenn sisters-in-law. Couldn’t we just get along?

  I took from my shelf a small cherrywood box that Dennis had made. It preserved a memento from my grandfather: it was Opa’s last surviving boyhood marble and my only keepsake of his. I could manage Abbie. I could. On that day in Union Terminal with the drinking fountains when I was a child, Opa had ended his lesson by saying, “Your name means strength in German. You’re Millicent the Strong. Don’t you ever forget it.”

  The day after the baby shower I spent admiring the dressing table that fit snugly between the chest of drawers and the closet in the bedroom Dennis and I shared. I placed a dainty hobnail milk glass lamp on it, so its dim little glow for midnight feedings wouldn’t disturb Dennis. I had put sturdy baskets beneath the dressing table, and Dennis had installed three shelves above it. I’d laundered everything. I folded the miniature terrycloth washcloths, the pink-and-blue striped receiving blankets, the tiny flannelette kimonos. I’d lined up covered jars for diaper safety pins and absorbent cotton, and I picked a place just for booties. Mother Glenn had gone overboard crocheting them in yellow, pink, blue, and white yarns, some with tiny pom-pom ties.