Holding On

by Lisa Mills

  Janna tipped her head, eyes soft. “I wasn’t referring to myself. I was talking about God.”

  Those words. Danielle winced as memories tore from the dark recesses of her mind and surfaced like an eruption. She was nine or ten, sitting beside her mother in the church auditorium as her father led the mid-week Bible study from the pulpit.

  “God will help you if you call on Him,” he said, voice full of conviction. “He will deliver you from trials and tribulations.”

  She’d lowered her gaze and stared at her lap, smoothed her hands down the long skirt she’d worn to hide the deep purple bruises on her legs. Bruises her father had given her. Discipline for forgetting her chores. She’d prayed for God to help her remember, to do everything right so her father wouldn’t be angry. God hadn’t heard. Not then. Not in any of the years that followed.

  Janna touched Danielle’s arm, dispelling the dark memory that had gripped her. “God loves you. He wants to help you through this,” she said, urgency in her tone. “Just ask Him and He’ll be there.”

  Danielle shook her head, fighting back a rush of sadness. She’d heard it so many times before—from her parents, her pastor, her Sunday school teachers. They were wrong. She’d asked, but the pain had never stopped.

  “Give him a chance, Dani-girl. He won’t let you down.”

  Danielle didn’t bother to explain that He already had.

  ~ ~ ~

  The moment she saw Mr. Hartog’s face, she knew she was in for an earful. He met her on his front porch and snatched the papers out of her hand. “Wait here,” he growled. Turning, he went back into his house and slammed the door in her face.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking!” The snarky comment fell flat with only the azaleas to hear it. She sighed and sat down on the steps, baking in the hot afternoon sun, wishing she were anywhere else. Lost at sea in a hurricane would be preferable to spending time in this guy’s presence.

  She had arrived at his address, on time, and with a color printout of the completed brochure in hand, but he was obviously one to hold a grudge. Or maybe he just enjoyed torturing her in particular. Who knew? The guy was simply a jerk, and she had too many other concerns to let it get to her today.

  Nearly half an hour passed before the door clicked open and he emerged. “I suppose this’ll have to do.” He thrust the papers at her. “But you should know I won’t be working with you again. Your work is inferior and your conduct is unprofessional.”

  She jerked back as if he’d slapped her. Inferior work? She’d seen his brochures from the year before. She’d given him a better-organized piece with twice the creative flair. And unprofessional? If there were a club for unprofessionals, he’d be the president. A little voice in the back of her mind told her she should hold her tongue, but the larger, louder part of her brain had taken enough abuse from the man.

  “Listen, Mr. Hartog.” She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to look him in the eye. “I admit I had several emergencies this week that caused me to miss some time at my desk, but that wouldn’t have been a factor if your company had started this project earlier and allowed a reasonable amount of time for the developmental process.”

  He sneered down at her. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

  “I’m saying that I don’t appreciate you laying all the blame at my feet when a good share of it belongs to you. You should have initiated work on this brochure at least a month earlier. And I should have declined to take on a project with such unreasonable time limits.” After holding her tongue for weeks, speaking her mind felt wonderful. The high only lasted a moment.

  His eyes narrowed and his face turned red. “Perhaps you’d prefer to end our business dealings right here and now!”

  Her chest constricted. Could he do that? Could he just dismiss her at this late date? “You wouldn’t have your brochures for the trade show.”

  His lips curled back in a snarl. “Maybe I could live with that. We don’t have a contract.”

  Her naiveté smacked her in the face. With her other clients—her honest clients—a verbal agreement sufficed. But then, she’d never dealt with a man like Hartog before. Without a contract, her legal rights were unclear. Could he pull out and refuse payment for her services? The project had consumed so much time and effort that she couldn’t afford to lose it now.

  Grasping to salvage the situation, she forced some humility into her tone. “The work is complete. It’s in both our best interests to follow through.”

  He glared down at her, frown lines digging deep into his cheeks and brow.

  She decided to interpret his silence as agreement. “Well, I’ll be going then.”

  She rushed to her car, thankful to escape the black cloud he projected. The man made her want to dive under the nearest piece of large furniture and hide until he left. How did a person get to be so nasty-tempered anyway? And a better question—why did she tolerate it? Why had she always tolerated that kind of treatment from older men?

  The damage incurred from her father’s wrath still haunted her. A tone of voice or a carelessly spoken word triggered defenses she’d learned early in life—cower, placate, take the blame whether she was at fault or not. She’d put a thousand miles between herself and the pain of her youth. Why did she still feel trapped by the memories? Why could she not escape the feelings and the patterns they’d bred her into?

  She pounded her hands against the steering wheel, needing an outlet for the overwhelming frustration she felt. Heaven forbid she ever make her child feel that way!

  Driving home, she tried to shake off the pain stirred by Mr. Hartog’s insulting words. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. The brochure was finished, and other than burning the file to a CD for the printer, she could spend the rest of the weekend having fun with Trevor. They needed a break and some goof-off time after the week they’d had. Maybe a trip to the beach if the weather held.

  Back at home, she let herself into the house and found Janna putting a casserole dish into the oven.

  “Dinner again, Janna? You’re spoiling me.”

  Janna smiled as she closed the oven door and tugged off the oven mitts. “Just making myself useful.” She gestured to the pasta boiler and the bowls on the counter behind her. “And don’t worry, I’m washing these dishes right now.”

  Danielle shook her head. “I’m not worried about it.”

  “Oh! I need to tell you, a Dr. Shanglin called while you were gone.” Janna reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a slip of paper with a number jotted on it. “She wants you to call her back right away.”

  Danielle stared at the phone number, her heart pounding. “Guess she has some test results to discuss.”

  Janna nodded, her face serious. “The kids are playing in the sandbox out back. I’ll keep an eye on them while I do dishes.”

  Leaving the kitchen and kids to Janna’s capable hands, Danielle went to her bedroom and shut the door. Soothing shades of seafoam on the walls and turquoise in the bedspread were accented by white-painted furniture. She’d done most of the work herself, and loved the effect. The room’s breathy colors usually calmed her, bathed her in the serenity of the seaside. But today tension had rooted too deeply for her surroundings to penetrate. She sat on the edge of her mattress and reached for the phone on the bedside table. With clammy palms and butterflies swirling in her stomach, she dialed the doctor’s office.

  After a few minutes of transferring through operators, Dr. Shanglin picked up. “Miss Jordan, I’m glad you called back today. We have a diagnosis, and we need to move quickly.”

  Chapter Six

  Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia. In Danielle’s mind, it was just a fancy medical term for a mother’s worst nightmare.

  “We refer to it as ALL for short. It’s an aggressive cancer, but treatable.”

  Danielle’s heart plummeted into the pit in her stomach. “Aggressive cancer” was a phrase that she never wanted to hear applied to her child.

  “I know that sou
nds bad,” Dr. Shanglin continued, “but his chances are good. We’ve caught it in the early stages, and we have treatments that have proved effective for many children.”

  Danielle knew she should be feeling hopeful at the doctor’s statement, but the only word she heard was many. Not all. “How many?”

  “There’s an eighty-five percent chance that the chemo will destroy the cancer and Trevor will remain in remission for five years or more.”

  Relief flooded through her at the high number. “That’s good, right? Eighty-five percent is high.”

  “We’ve seen very good results in fighting this type of cancer, but we need to move quickly. If there’s any way you can arrange your schedule, we’d like to see Trevor on Monday. He’ll be admitted to the hospital as a patient and will stay for approximately two weeks. We need to run a few more tests, and it’s easiest to get those done while he’s here. As soon as the test results are in, we’ll put him on daily chemotherapy treatments until remission is achieved. We usually see remission within six to ten days. If his body is handling it well and there’s no fever or infection, he can go home after that.”

  “So he could be cancer-free in two weeks? Would that be the end of it?” A ray of light pierced the darkness of her nightmare. Did she dare hope it would all be over soon?

  “Not quite. He’ll have to come for outpatient visits, usually two per week. We’ll need to monitor his progress carefully, and he’ll require ongoing consolidation chemotherapy to sustain the remission.”

  “How long will that continue?”

  “That varies with the patient.” Dr. Shanglin paused, and Danielle could hear someone talking to her in the background. “I’m sorry, Miss Jordan. I’m needed in the ICU. Let’s discuss this in more detail on Monday morning. In the meantime, I’ll have my secretary e-mail some information on what to expect when you arrive. Would that be helpful?”

  “I … I’d appreciate that.” Questions ricocheted through her mind. Danielle wanted to detain Dr. Shanglin and demand answers. She wanted assurances and promises that her child would recover—and quickly—and she wanted it all right now.

  But another mother was worrying over her child in the ICU and needed the doctor’s time and attention. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  Danielle hung up the phone. Her heart pounded out a loud beat in the silence of the room. Three days ago, she was worrying about Trevor missing a day or two of school and making up his homework. Today she was worried about saving his life. The weight of worry bore down on her with crushing intensity. It drained her energy, dampened her mood, stole her motivation. Trevor was going to need her more than ever these next few weeks. She didn’t know where she would find the resources to support him when she could barely see beyond the mountain of despair that had built up around her.

  But then her bedroom door crashed open and Trevor burst into the room, laughing and jostling with Cory. “Hi, Mom!” he said, breathless from playing. His cheeks were rosy, brown curls tighter than usual in the humidity. As quickly as he’d come, he bounded out the door and down the hall to his room, Cory following close on his heels.

  Her heart swelled to bursting, and she knew what would get her through the next few weeks with all the horrific challenges she and Trevor faced. Love. It was the tie that bound her to him, and him to her. Love for her son was the fuel that fed her soul and carried her through her days. Love for Trevor had sheltered her through rejection and comforted her during homelessness. It had given her the motivation to pull her life together and make a home for them. It directed her career and the work she did every day. Love had been enough in the past, and it would be enough now. Love would carry them through.

  With renewed energy flowing through her veins, she went to her desk in the living room and turned on her computer. While it booted, she searched for a blank CD. There were things that had to be done before they left. She needed to burn a copy of the brochure to a disk and drop it at the print shop early Monday morning on her way to the hospital. Janna would probably pick up the mail while they were gone. Then she needed to call the school. She could probably have Trevor’s schoolwork sent to them. He could work on it while he convalesced.

  Her computer chimed, announcing the receipt of a new e-mail. She opened the file from Dr. Shanglin’s secretary and hit print. Read about ALL, was added to her mental list of things to accomplish before they left town.

  She expected the next few weeks to be the most difficult of her life, but she would face them with fierce determination. By the time they returned home, she hoped that leukemia would no longer be a threat.

  ~ ~ ~

  A gusty breeze shot through the parking lot of the Pediatric Cancer Center, fluttering the leaves of the palm trees overhead and tugging at the clothes of people making their way to or from the hospital doors. The smell of rain permeated the air. Dark clouds rolling in from the west suggested they were due for a spring storm.

  Danielle held Trevor’s hand and leaned into the wind, clutching her purse as the gusts tugged against her grip.

  As they neared the front doors, a family emerged—the mother and father on either side of a young girl maybe four years old. A blast of air hit the child and snatched off her pink baseball cap, throwing it into the air. The three of them laughed as they chased after the hat, tumbling and rolling down the front walkway.

  “Mommy, look!” Trevor pointed at the family as they pursued the hat. “That girl doesn’t have any hair.”

  “Yes, but don’t point, Trevor.” Danielle reached for his hand and pulled it down.

  “Sorry,” he answered, sounding contrite. “But why doesn’t she have any hair?”

  Many of the children they’d seen in the hospital had lost their hair. She’d wondered when Trevor would make the connection. They reached the doors and entered a vestibule, out of the wind. Danielle paused and knelt so she could look Trevor in the eye. She had decided it was best to deal with these types of questions when they arose. As much as she wanted to shelter him from the harsh realities of leukemia, she knew that a seven-year-old was big enough to understand much of what was happening, and he would need answers and support—not denial.

  “She’s probably taking some medicine that makes her hair fall out. Lots of the kids who visit here have to take that medicine.”

  “Will I?”

  “Maybe. The doctor will tell us today.” She studied his face, tensing as she waited for his reaction.

  A mischievous smile worked its way onto his lips. “If my hair falls out, I don’t have to get a haircut.”

  The dreaded hairdresser’s scissors. He hated to sit still, and the hair clippings stuck to his neck and made him itchy. “Way to look at the positive side of things.” Danielle kissed his nose and stood, reaching for the second set of doors.

  They checked in at the front desk and were asked to wait until a Registration Clerk called them back to admit him for his stay.

  Deep restlessness washed through Danielle as she sat waiting. And regret. And dread. This was all happening so quickly. There wasn’t time to adjust to the changes, to plan and adapt. She suddenly wished they could have more time before he began treatment.

  Wouldn’t it be fun to take him on a trip to Disney? He’d been begging to go for years, but she hadn’t had the financial resources. Maybe Disney wouldn’t have worked out, but a long day at the beach would have been sufficient. They would need fun memories to dwell on during the darker moments of the coming months. But under the circumstances, they’d have to make do with the good memories they already had.

  Would that be enough? Had she given him strength and skills to cope with the struggles he’d soon face? She felt no confidence or certainty. She wondered if all parents felt such insecurity about how they raised their children, or if only the people like her who’d had cruddy childhoods and no good example to follow felt the crippling doubt she often experienced about her parenting skills. But if she were a bad parent, would she worry whether she was doing right by her child? Dan
ielle’s parents hadn’t seemed to care one way or the other if she was happy and well cared for, too absorbed with their own agendas and needs. The more she considered the matter, the more she embraced the theory. Maybe only the good parents gave their parenting skills any thought.

  Less than ten minutes passed before a clerk called their name. This time an elderly woman named Doris handled their check-in and walked Danielle through various papers and forms, explaining that they would file all charges with her insurance and then contact her to set up payments for the remaining balance. She didn’t want to think about what that balance would be, or how she would find the money to pay it. Thankfully, worries, like canned vegetables, would sit on the shelf well preserved until she had time to stew them.

  When Doris had gone over all the necessary forms and acquired the signatures she needed, she printed off a wristband for Trevor with his name and blood type on it. There was a second wristband for Danielle, identifying her as his guardian for security purposes. They helped each other fasten the bands onto their wrists, the act feeling significant, like the end of something safe and the beginning of a journey into the unknown.

  “I think we’ve covered everything.” Doris folded a stack of papers and handed them to Danielle. “These are the copies for your records.”

  Danielle opened her purse to stow the papers. As she shoved them inside, her eyes fell on a blue plastic CD case.

  Alarm shot through her, every muscle in her body going tense. The CD for the printer! How could she have forgotten? Her heart pounded out an erratic rhythm, and she couldn’t catch her breath. The printer had been expecting it by eight that morning. He had assured her that he could have the job printed and delivered if he had the CD early in the day. But if he didn’t have the print files, then all promises were off.

  She closed her eyes and groaned. Mr. Hartog was going to scream himself hoarse demeaning her for her incompetence, and in this instance, she could hardly argue with him. Sure, she’d been pre-occupied. It wasn’t every day that a person took their child to the hospital to begin cancer treatments, but that wasn’t really an excuse. She’d messed up big time, and she had a feeling she’d pay dearly for the oversight.