"It's nowhere near as serious as that, Mother. Everyone who knows Belinda, knows she's impulsive and silly."
"What will become of her?"
"In time she'll find someone else, I'm sure," I said, but not with any real conviction. Mother just closed her eyes and nodded. Then she handed me the cup and saucer. "You need to drink more," I said.
"I'm tired. Let me rest, Olivia."
"I'm going downstairs and getting Daddy to arrange for you to see a doctor or for a doctor to come here, Mother."
"It's just my nerves," she said.
"It can't be just nerves. It's lasted too long and . . ."
"I've neglected something and I'm nervous about it," she suddenly confessed.
I stared, my heart pounding.
"What are you saying, Mother? Neglected what?"
"A while ago I noticed I had a small lump, so small it wasn't any bigger than a pea."
"A lump? Where?"
"Here," she said touching her left breast. "I mentioned it to Doctor Covington in passing and he advised me to come in for an exam, but I . . I just thought it would go away."
"Mother!"
"It hasn't. It's gotten a little larger and I'm just on pins and needles thinking about it. That's why I can't eat and why I'm so tired."
"You're going to the doctor tomorrow," I ordered. "I'm going right down to tell Daddy."
She didn't put up any resistance.
"All right, but don't worry him. It might still be nothing at all."
"As long as you go to the doctor," I said.
"I will."
I rose and hurried down to tell Daddy Mother had agreed to go to the doctor, but I didn't keep my promise. I told him why she was so nervous. He turned pale and called Doctor Covington immediately.
"He says he was after her to come in. My God, she said nothing. I should have been more concerned with her failing health."
"As long as she's going now, Daddy."
"What? Oh, the doctor says it's better for us to bring her to the hospital immediately, especially after what you said about the lump growing larger. He'll check her in and give her tests there," Daddy concluded.
"I'll get her ready," I said and hurried toward the stairway just as Belinda had come down.
"We're taking Mother to the hospital," I told her. She was half out the door.
"Oh, why?"
"She has a lump on her breast. That's why she's been so nervous lately."
"A lump? Why would she have a lump? Ugh."
"Sometimes it's nothing serious, but many times it's cancer," I said.
"Cancer?" She thought a moment and then asked, "What's going to happen?"
"She has to be examined, tests have to be done."
"Oh. Well, what should I do?"
"Do what you think you should do," I retorted and went upstairs to help get Mother ready.
Belinda went to her friend's home, but left word with Daddy that she would call the hospital from there and then come over if necessary. The weather turned bad so quickly, however, we were lucky to get Mother to the hospital. The rain came down in rolling sheets and turned the sky leaden. It was still raining hard when Belinda finally did call. Daddy told her to stay where she was. That, I assured him, didn't break Belinda's heart.
But it really was raging outside. The wind had trees so far bent over, branches cracked. Traffic came to a standstill. The sky turned darker and darker until it looked like an eclipse. Then the rain continued, now falling in shelves of cold, icy drops that splattered against windows and thumped on walls and roofs. Lights blinked on and off. Everyone was scurrying about, agitated by the fierceness of the storm.
Fortunately, Doctor Covington had gotten to the hospital just five minutes before we had arrived, and was there to oversee Mother's admittance.
Doctor Covington had just turned sixty, but still had a full head of what Mother called chameleon hair. In the daylight or bright lights, his hair looked amber, but at night or in subdued light, it looked dark brown. He had been our family doctor for as long as I could remember. A soft-spoken man of few words, he was nevertheless firm and decisive when he made a diagnosis or prescribed a treatment. I remember thinking he had the perfect temperament and disposition for a doctor: confident to the point of being arrogant, but because of that, you felt safe, felt you were in good hands. There was no room for democracy when it came to evaluating health. I told that to Belinda once when she complained about Doctor Covington being too cold.
"He's got microscopes for eyes and a thermometer in every finger," she whined. She was only about twelve at the time, and I thought she was funny. "Stop laughing. He doesn't have blood in his veins. He's got cough syrup."
"You don't have to like him, Belinda. He's not running for any popularity awards. You don't take votes. You listen and you do what he tells you to do."
"I don't like him," she insisted.
"Then don't get sick," I told her.
Doctor Covington wasn't very tall, maybe five feet eight, but I never thought of him as anything but impressive and commanding. He was married and his one child, a son, had gone on to medical school, too, and established himself at a hospital in Connecticut. Mother liked his wife Ruth, but she was a very private person and not fond of following the social circuit. They rarely accepted dinner invitations and had few affairs at their home, keeping most of their guests to his associates and his and his wife's family.
Daddy and I waited in the hospital lobby, trying to distract ourselves and pass the time by reading magazines and occasionally talking with some of the staff. Finally, Doctor Covington appeared.
"Well, Winston," he began, "as it turns out Leonora's problem isn't so much her stomach, but as you now know something she's kept to herself so long. I'm afraid of the consequences. She was afraid too, I believe, and that's what's given her the stomach troubles. I'll run some tests on her stomach, but I'm confident we know the cause. As to her more serious problem," he continued, "unfortunately, she was in denial, refusing to believe it could be anything. I hope she was right. We're going to do a biopsy
immediately. In the meantime I'll treat her stomach cramps. If that's all there is . . ."
"What do you think?" I asked directly. My heart was thumping madly, drumming out a tune of fright in the cage of my ribs, but Daddy seemed unable to talk.
"It's best not to jump to any conclusions without the laboratory work, Olivia," Doctor Covington replied.
"But there is a possibility of it being
malignant?" Daddy finally asked.
"Of course there is. That's why women should never neglect symptoms," Doctor Covington said, gazing more at me.
Daddy made a small moan.
"Let's not assume the worst. Let me do what I have to do to get a firm diagnosis, Winston. We'll perform the biopsy. I've already contacted Doctor Friedman in Boston, a specialist who is a friend and a colleague. He'll confer with me as soon as we have some results."
Daddy nodded.
"The weather's not letting up any. Looks like a rough storm," Doctor Covington remarked, gazing out the front doors. "She's resting comfortably, now. I gave her something to help her sleep. You two might as well go home. Come back later, Winston."
"We'll be at the office should you need us," Daddy said.
"Good idea. Keep busy," Doctor Covington said. "Looks like it's storming on our family, too," Daddy muttered after Doctor Covington left us.
"You heard what he said, Daddy. Let's not assume the worst."
He nodded, but not with optimism in his eyes.
We had a terrible ride to the office, passing two accidents along the way. The storm didn't let up until late in the afternoon. Most of the day, Daddy and I kept busy, but every once in a while, he would stop by my office door and look in to say he hadn't heard anything.
"I guess she's resting comfortably for now," he remarked. "We'll go there before dinner and then we can go to a restaurant afterward," he decided. "Has Belinda called?"
"Not since late this morning," I told him.
"Better she be occupied than in our hair," he said.
When she hadn't called by five, I called Kimberly's house. The phone rang so long, I thought no one was going to answer. Kimberly finally did, but had me wait almost another minute before Belinda picked up.
"I was just going to call you," she said quickly. She sounded out of breath.
"What have you been doing?"
"Nothing," she replied. "How's Mommy? Is she coming home tomorrow?"
"Hardly, Belinda. She's had a biopsy performed on her and they're treating her stomach problem." I explained everything and she was silent.
"Daddy wants the three of us there before dinner and then we'll go to eat someplace in town," I told her. "Can you get yourself over here within the hour?"
"Oh yes. Bruce will take me."
"Bruce? Who's Bruce?"
"Bruce Lester, Kimberly's cousin. He's very cute, but he's only just a high-school senior," she said.
I didn't want to ask any more questions. I was afraid of the answers. She arrived forty-five minutes later and we all went to see Mother. The sedative the doctor had prescribed to keep her calm made her lethargic and sleepy. She dozed on and off while we were there. I saw Belinda was uncomfortable with the sight of her hooked to an I.V. Finally, Daddy decided we should leave.
Once away from the hospital, Belinda rattled on and on about her day, describing her girlfriends, many of whom she hadn't seen for a while. Neither Daddy nor I paid much attention, but she didn't seem to notice or care.
"Everyone thinks I'm better off without Carson. They all say it would have been a disastrous marriage anyway. His mother would have been interfering with everything, giving her opinions, making my life miserable. Things work out for the best sometimes," she chimed.
Daddy stared through her, barely eating his meal.
"Right, Belinda," I said. "You're not enrolled in any school. You don't have any skills to speak of. You have no other prospects at the moment. Things have worked out for the best," I said dryly.
She laughed.
"Don't worry. I'll have other prospects when I want them," she said with so much confidence, it irked me. Daddy raised his eyebrows and then shook his head. "Let's worry about your mother right now and nothing else," he finally declared.
It put an end to Belinda's babbling, for which I was grateful. The moment we entered the house, however, she ran upstairs to get on the telephone and continue her banter with anyone who would listen. I felt sorry for Daddy. He looked so much older and so tired. All my life I imagined Daddy had steel in his bones. No man ever looked stronger or commanded more respect. It wasn't as painful as it was frightening to see him look weak and defeated.
He poured himself some brandy and sat in his office staring out the window at the gradually clearing sky until he was too tired to keep his eyes open.
Belinda didn't go with us to the hospital in the morning. She couldn't rise early enough and both Daddy and I thought it would be better not to have her moping about as we waited for Doctor Covington.
"I've got her stomach calmed somewhat," the doctor explained, "and she's eaten. She's resting comfortably."
"How long before you have results?" I asked.
"Another day at least," he said. "I'll be on the phone with Doctor Friedman this afternoon."
I sensed that he was expecting the worst. Why else would he want to confer with a specialist so quickly? I didn't say anything about it to Daddy. We visited with Mother who wanted to know immediately where Belinda was.
"We'll bring her around later, Mother," I said. "She couldn't get herself up early enough and neither Daddy nor I had the patience to wait for her," I explained. I saw the pain in her face.
"What will become of her?" she muttered.
"She'll be fine," I said.
"Of course she will," Daddy agreed. "A young woman who looks like that and comes from a home like ours? How can she not be fine?" he growled.
Mother nodded, but not with any confidence. Our eyes met for a moment and she saw my true feelings. I couldn't lie, not to Mother and especially not about Belinda.
As I had anticipated, the worst happened. It was almost anticlimactic. Sometimes, you can feel tragedy settle in around you. It comes on the wind, a gray beast, heavy with skin of glue, and it sticks to your inner soul, weighing you down, settling like a parasite to suck out your hope and your happiness.
Doctor Covington called us to his office late the next day. This time Belinda came along with Daddy and me. She sat quietly, her face suddenly the face of a five-year-old, full of terror as well as innocence.
"I'm afraid the biopsy was positive, Winston," Doctor Covington began.
"Is that good?" Belinda whispered, a little too loud.
"I'm sorry," Doctor Covington said looking her way, "but no, it's not good. Doctor Friedman thinks we should perform the mastectomy to be followed by chemotherapy."
"When?" I asked before Daddy could finish sucking in his breath.
"We can schedule her this Tuesday in Boston," he replied.
Daddy nodded, his shoulders slumped.
"Then let's do it," he said firmly, but worry tormented his dark eyes.
"We'll move her to Boston later today and begin pre-op," Doctor Covington said.
"Does she know?" I asked.
"Yes," Doctor Covington said. "I don't believe in hiding a diagnosis from the one person it concerns the most," he said.
"You told her? But she'll be so sad," Belinda moaned.
"Actually, she took it rather well," Doctor Covington said. "Your mother looked up at me and said, 'So you'll fix it. I'll blink my eyes and it will be gone.'
He started to smile. Tears came to my eyes. Just like Mother to be that way, I thought.
"That nor'easter the other day," Daddy said with a deep sigh as we left the doctor's office, "wasn't anything compared to the storm ahead."
We followed the ambulance that took Mother to Boston. At times I thought Belinda was more excited about us staying in a Boston hotel, eating in restaurants and having time to do some shopping than she was worried about Mother. No matter how I snapped at her, she continued talking and acting like a child on an exciting trip. Finally, at the hotel, she burst into tears after I chastised her for flirting with the bellhop.
"I'm just as frightened as you are, Olivia, and just as worried. I'm only trying not to think about it. You don't care if you think about it. Your brain is like . . like a castle compared to the little house mine is. I don't have as much room in mine and I'm not as strong as you are, so stop yelling at me!" she pleaded, her face twisted in pain.
I stared at her a moment. She was right, I thought. "Let's not argue now," Daddy pleaded. "We've got to look strong and cheerful for your mother."
"Well, tell her to stop picking on me then," Belinda moaned.
"I won't say another word. Do whatever you want. Make a fool of yourself all day, for all I care," I said. She was satisfied.
Eventually, Daddy gave in to some of her requests and whenever we were away from the hospital, he took her shopping or gave her money to go to department stores herself. The boxes piled up in the hotel room. Running out of ideas, she even bought things for me.
The surgeon told us that the operation went well, but results and prognosis would have to wait until after the chemotherapy. As soon as she had made a complete recovery from the operation, therapy was to begin and that could take place at a hospital closer to home.
The third day after the operation, Mother was more buoyant and alert than we had seen her for a while.
"See," she told us, "I knew the doctors would fix things."
Belinda saw this welcomed buoyancy in Mother as an opportunity to talk about all the things she had bought and all the places she had been. It did amuse Mother, and I began to wonder if Belinda being the way she was wasn't better after all. They laughed a lot and Daddy's spirits rose as well.
He hired a special duty nurse
to care for Mother when she was brought home, and for a while it looked like we had come through the storm. Daddy and I returned to a regular work schedule and Belinda picked up where she had left off on her social life. Every night we had discussions about what her future might bring. Our optimism blew out of proportion, I know, because we even talked about having her enroll in one of the better universities. Daddy promised to talk to some of his influential associates and see what he could do.
Mother began her chemotherapy, which in the very beginning was quite devastating. She lost her hair rapidly and was back to being listless and exhausted most of the time. The house began to look more like a wing in the hospital with the nurse rushing about, the paraphernalia to care for Mother's needs, and the doctor's frequent visits.
I almost didn't notice the first days of spring, but Mother reminded me when she asked to be taken out to see her flowers and hear the birds. The daisies bloomed and the petunias spread. Sunlit lawns filled with crocus clusters. The tulips, jonquils and daffodils burst colorfully from the earth. Our trees were full and green, and once again the junipers swayed on the hills in rhythm with the warm breezes. Sailboats were seen more frequently on weekends now. It did look as if the world had come back to life and with it came a reason to hope and be happier, a time to give birth to romance and relationships, a time to expect something wonderful to happen.
However, I was still taken by surprise one day when a young man, Samuel Logan, the son of a man who owned a small lobster boat fleet and distribution company came to visit Daddy, but spent most of his time talking with me. He was a tall, well built man a little over six feet tall. He had devilish green eyes highlighted by his dark complexion and light brown hair. I thought he was by far the best-looking man who had ever shown any interest in me.
"I think it's very nice how you work side by side with your father," he said. "I know from just a few conversations with him that he puts a high value on your service. Most of the women I know are just window dressing. I mean," he added quickly, "there's nothing wrong with looking good. You look real fine, but it's nice to have something more in the package."
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