Hope Springs

by Lynne Hinton

  “P.M.,” Charlotte added.

  “What night?” Margaret asked, unsure of how many days had passed.

  “Surgery night,” Jessie responded. “Friday.”

  Margaret nodded, trying to retrieve the day that had passed. But it all felt like a blur, a series of snapshots of gloved hands, lists of rules about movements and exercise, medicine bottles, and cold, sterile walls. She was having trouble distinguishing dream from reality, memory from imagination; and she struggled with even finding a way to ask her friends what had happened.

  As she was waking up, she reached over, her left hand feeling all the way across her chest. Her left breast felt normal and no different than before except that two or three pieces of surgical tape were stuck to it; and an ace bandage wrapped around her two, maybe three times. As she slid her hand across the right side, she noticed that there were several thick gauze strips, a long and spongy tube draining from under her arm, and the undeniable, flat, and revealing truth that her right breast was gone.

  She took in a quick breath and the sudden wash of tears surprised everybody, mostly and especially herself.

  Margaret wasn’t sure why she was crying. She wasn’t in pain. She didn’t ache or feel grievous because she hadn’t known what to expect. It was, she now recalled, exactly as the doctor had said it would be, all the way down to the number of pieces of tape and the size of the drainage catheter. It wasn’t that she had been in denial or didn’t understand what was going to happen. There was nothing out of place in the way the surgery had been explained and how it presently appeared to be.

  But Margaret understood in that moment that everything was now out of place. She was unbalanced, abnormal, relieved of, dispossessed of, cut off from a part of herself that she had always had. Part of who she was and had always known herself to be was gone, missing, taken away. And the realization that her right breast had been forever removed from her and that she was not the same woman she had been less than twenty-four hours ago yanked her up from the ground of emotional stability that she had always operated from, leaving her rootless and defenseless while she was forced to fight with her sorrow.

  “Oh, dear Margaret, sweet, sweet Margaret.” Jessie dropped to her knees at the bedside and laid her head down at her friend’s feet. She began to pray quietly.

  Beatrice turned her face toward the door, unwilling to show her own sadness; but reaching out, she took Louise by the hand. And they stood there, side by side, tormented by what they thought they should or should not say.

  Charlotte went around to the other side of the bed and lay down, easily, gently, next to Margaret. She did not pull the woman’s left hand away from the incision and the missing breast. She did not say it would be all right or try to distract Margaret away from the things at hand. She just lay there, on her side facing her parishioner and friend, taking a tissue and wiping the tears as they spilled.

  Margaret closed her eyes and in the postsurgical blur and in the sadness of her loss drifted back to the first time that she experienced physical intimacy. She was young, sixteen, eighteen at the most, and already had been thoroughly warned against the evils of flesh. Her grandmother, a devout and unswaying Baptist, had specifically told her what was and was not acceptable for a girl with pure and high morals.

  Holding hands was reserved for couples who had been together for six months or more. A kiss was only after an engagement. A respectable young lady did not go out alone with a boy and would never sit too close to him or allow him to stand with her, languishing at the front door.

  Telling jokes or crossing one’s legs at the knees was unladylike behavior and was certain to attract trouble. No chewing gum or yelling was ever permitted, and ladies never spoke unless first spoken to. The virtuous young woman wore only dresses that began at the top of her neck, thick and heavy, covering her arms to the wrists, the hem falling at least to the ankles. There was to be no rouge or lace, no open-toed shoes or sheer stockings that allowed the delicacy of the foot to be imagined. There was an appropriate way to dress when courting, and it did not change regardless of season or age.

  “A young woman,” her grandmother had said, “has only two things to entice and eventually secure a husband. One is an unsoiled body and the other is knowing how to whisk a thick milk gravy.”

  Margaret, by the time she did marry, had achieved or retained only one of the two necessary virtues. She had perfected the gravy for sure, but a young soldier on his way to fight in Korea had been able to steal away her only other lure. Luther would be the one to enter her first, the one to introduce her to the complete sexual act of intercourse. But the soldier, the boy with eyes as solid and dark as wood, he had been the one to awaken the sleeping desires within her.

  He was so confident of himself, so perfect in how he talked of his place in the world, how he eased himself next to her, his arm so deliberately and yet casually placed about her waist, that she had not even realized that what she had been guarding and protecting all of her adolescence could be so swiftly and easily taken from her.

  He spoke of battles and combat, but his mouth was so soft, his eyes so tender, that without knowing it Margaret let the rules of her grandmother and the ideas of virtue slip through her mind and his fingers as she slowly lost herself in every word he spoke.

  They met at a social, an event she had sneaked away to attend, but one that forever changed how she thought of herself and the way men and women discover each other in the curves and folds of bodies that are so unlike their own. They had only danced once, shared only one slow melding of lips and arms, one timeless moment of thigh brushing thigh, only one long rhythm that pulled them together and held them there, heart upon heart, breath against breath.

  She had trouble even remembering his name now, his family or where he had gone to school. She could not recall how they met, who introduced them. She did not even know what friend had talked her into running out late at night and showing up at a party to which she had not been invited.

  Lots of things she could not remember, dates, names, places. But some things could not be forgotten. Some things were not lost to time or squeezed out from her memories. Some things clung to the corners of Margaret’s mind and would never be shaken from her. Things like the innocence in the way he held her, the soft way he slid his hand to the small of her back and steadied her there, her quickened pulse, and the manner by which he had lifted up her head carefully with the back of his hand and tenderly kissed beneath her chin, along the delicate bend of her neck, the ever so slight brush of his fingers across her tight and eager breasts. These were the things that neither time nor marriage could ever erase.

  He had touched her first. He, in that one gentle, slow sweep across her heart, had let her know all the reasons her grandmother was so afraid, all the consequences of uncomplicated passion. In the time it took to dance to one easy song about love, he had moved the young woman in a way that demonstrated for her how it really feels to be a woman. He had made her come alive. And now, old and widowed, unheld and undesired, she raked her fingers across the barrenness, the flush and level place, and wept for what was lost forever.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said when she was able to catch her breath enough to form words.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t need to be sorry.” Jessie spoke for everyone there.

  Charlotte, still in the bed next to her, began to straighten the covers around Margaret. Beatrice, her face pinched and red, turned around to face her friend and began to pat beneath her eyes and under her nose with a handkerchief she had in her hand. Louise dropped her head and stared at the floor.

  “The surgery went really well.” Jessie sat back and spoke clearly and with great care. She pulled her legs underneath her.

  “Lou, go get some chairs for everybody.” Suddenly, Margaret had gotten a hold on her emotions and was now concerned about everyone’s comfort.

  Louise pulled one chair away from the wall and set it beside the bed. Jessie got up and sat down in it, thanking he
r as she changed positions. Then Louise and Beatrice went into the kitchen and brought two more seats and sat down near the others.

  Jessie was giving Margaret the details of the operation when they walked in.

  “You’ll need to leave that tube in for at least a week; but a nurse will come by tomorrow and show you how to measure the drainage.” She reached out and took her hand and continued, “Are you hurting? Because they gave you some pain pills; and you can have another one if you want it.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Not right now. I’m okay.” She took in a breath.

  “How about something to drink?” Jessie asked.

  Margaret nodded.

  “I’ll get it.” And Charlotte rolled off the other side of the bed, tenderly, trying not to shake or move Margaret. She stood up and walked into the kitchen. “Anybody else want their drink?”

  Beatrice replied. “You know, I’d like a little more of my tea, if you don’t mind, and do you think you could put some more ice in it?”

  Louise punched her friend in the side with her elbow. It startled Beatrice.

  “What?” she shouted at Louise.

  “Get up and get your own drink. This ain’t the Golden Corral.” Then she shook her head while she mocked Beatrice, “A little more tea with some more ice. Can you believe this woman?” She directed the question to Margaret.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes and got up and followed Charlotte into the kitchen. “Well, she asked.”

  Louise relaxed in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. She seemed uncomfortable with the position, as if she had called attention somehow to her own two healthy breasts; so she dropped her arms awkwardly at her sides. No one seemed to notice.

  “What did the doctor say about further treatments?” Margaret asked the other two women.

  Jessie and Louise turned to each other and then back to their friend.

  “What?” Margaret asked, not sure about what the glance had meant.

  “You don’t remember what your doctor said after the surgery?” Louise asked.

  Margaret shook her head. She tried to think about the day, tried to recall what had happened, to whom she had talked, and the conversations she’d had.

  “I do remember him coming in.” She thought for a minute. “He sat down beside me, didn’t he? Asked me if I wanted to stay overnight?”

  Jessie nodded. “He seems like a really nice person.”

  Margaret tried to remember what he had said. But all she could think about were the rows of gleaming colors, the way they floated like tree branches all around her. She didn’t remember what he had reported.

  Jessie now realized that her friend had not been fully awake when the doctor had stopped by after the surgery. At the time she had appeared alert and coherent, had answered his questions about her level of pain and said she understood the postsurgical instructions and claimed she was ready to go home. Yet she apparently had been affected by the morphine or the anesthesia and had not comprehended anything.

  Jessie was unsure of how to retell his observations and recommendations, was uncomfortable paraphrasing or repeating what he had already said so professionally. She knew that Margaret would be upset since they had all hoped the surgery would be sufficient, the only necessary method of intervention.

  “They want you to do chemo.” Louise blurted it out.

  Jessie dropped her face away from Margaret’s, but she did not let go of her hand.

  “They’re not sure about what the surgery found because the pathology report won’t be in for a week or so,” she added. “They took several of your lymph nodes to see if it shows up anywhere else. And he scheduled you for a bone scan in three weeks.”

  “It’s not because they think something bad or anything.” Louise sat closer to the bed. “It’s just standard, to go ahead and do a few treatments”—she leaned her elbows on her knees—“just to make sure.” She tried to sound reassuring.

  Margaret nodded. She wanted to be optimistic.

  Beatrice and Charlotte, finished in the kitchen, walked into the room.

  “Here’s you some juice.” Charlotte moved between Louise and Jessie and knelt down next to Margaret. The older woman lifted her head, and Charlotte held the cup and straw in one hand and quickly slipped her arm behind Margaret’s shoulders, holding her up while she drank.

  She took several sips and then pulled away to let Charlotte know that she was finished; and she rested on the pillow. Charlotte helped her lie back and placed the cup on the nightstand next to her. Seeing no chair to sit on, she squatted down and sat on the floor next to Beatrice and Louise.

  “Here, Charlotte, let me get you a chair.” Jessie had stood up, but Charlotte waved her away.

  “No, I’m fine here. Really. I’m young, remember?”

  The older women agreed and let her stay as she was.

  “So chemo, huh?” Margaret was trying to figure out what was ahead for her.

  None of the women responded. Finally Jessie spoke up. “Oh, you’ll be fine. It’s so much better than it used to be.”

  Margaret turned to her friend, remembering the difficult time her mother had had, the many hospital stays and endless treatments.

  “They have new nausea medication, a regimen of immune-strengthening vitamins. And the chemo itself really isn’t as harsh as it once was.” Jessie was confident.

  “Mildred Lewis, from over at Liberty, she’s been taking chemo for three or four months now, and she’s doing real good.” Beatrice drank some of her tea. “She didn’t start losing her hair until eight or nine weeks into the treatments.”

  Louise and Jessie snapped their heads over to Beatrice, who suddenly realized what she had said. Charlotte stared at the wall and slowly let out a breath.

  “Oh, right, my hair.” Margaret then recalled the conversation she’d had with an oncology nurse who explained all the options a breast cancer patient would face. She recalled the discussion about chemotherapy. The possible side effects including infection, mouth sores, and ulcers. The usual side effects that were fatigue, lack of appetite, and the universally recognizable hair loss.

  She knew then that her fight was only just beginning. And she turned away from her friends, wondering what resources she had to deal with the disease and all that went with it. She considered the equipment she would need, the amount of energy it would take, the close attention focused on herself and the changes she would undergo, the positive attitude she would have to have, encouragement, strength, faith. She closed her eyes, trying to decide if she was capable, ready.

  The women were unsure of how to speak to Margaret, what to say or how to phrase their support. They inwardly wished for something to give her, some words of comforting wisdom, some meaningful talk. But they searched within their hearts and minds and found no such expression or advice. They had nothing to offer their friend but themselves; and sitting there in the room of sorrow and disappointment, it just simply was not enough.

  Beatrice could no longer tolerate her uselessness. She sat forward in her seat acting as if she was preparing to deliver the most important proclamation of her life. She apparently had made up her mind about something. She rocked back and forth and then leaped to her feet, cleared her throat, and boldly announced to the women gathered around Margaret’s bedroom, “Well, I for one am certainly not going to let you endure the chemo by yourself.” It was a confident proclamation. She stood tall and straight, determined. Beatrice was resolved.

  “Bea’s right,” Jessie responded, thinking she knew what her friend had meant. “We’re going to go with you to your treatments, fix you healthy well-rounded meals, walk with you, pray for you, buy you those positive thinking tapes, whatever it takes.”

  “No, I’m not talking about all that.” Beatrice was dauntless. She was clear and unwavering; and she moved across the room with a firm and steady gait.

  “I mean we will not let Margaret go through this chemotherapy and the loss of hair by herself.” Her words became muffled. The wome
n could hear her fiddling around in the medicine cabinet, moving bottles and dropping things. Soon she opened and then slammed the bottom cabinet.

  The other women glanced around at each other nervously, all too familiar with Beatrice’s unorthodox ideas, her sudden leaps in decision making.

  “Here’s what I need.” And Beatrice came in with a pair of scissors and a bag of plastic razors.

  “Beatrice, what are you doing?” Louise asked.

  “We’re going to share in the chemo treatments before Margaret even has one.” And she stood in front of the mirror on the dresser and began to open the new package. She pulled out several razors and laid them in a row. Then she folded up the package and set it aside. She picked up the scissors and, without saying anything else, began cutting her hair.

  The women watched in horror.

  “Oh my God!” the preacher called out.

  “Have mercy,” Louise said, like she really thought her friend was having a nervous breakdown and was needful of something divine.

  “I think,” Beatrice said as she continued to pull and cut, “it is our duty as her friends to share in this grief. I think we should let her know, let everybody know, that we are in this fight with her!” And the brown curls fell out and down.

  “Beatrice.” Margaret was speaking. She tried to sit up but was unsuccessful, and no one offered to help her since everybody was staring at Beatrice, completely in shock at what she was doing.

  “Beatrice, stop. Really, this isn’t necessary.” And Margaret dropped against the pillow.

  In a swift moment of clarity, Jessie swung around in her chair and peered at her friend in the bed. Then she pivoted her body to focus on the other two women in the room, Charlotte and Louise. She sat watching them for a minute, her gaze keen and searching. And then, as if she were lifted up and directed, Jessie got up from her chair and stood behind Beatrice. She took one of the razors, held it in her hands examining it, and then said as if she were under some spell, her voice gentle but firm, “We’re going to have to have some soap and water, otherwise we’ll get burns.”