The Final Service

by Gary W. Moore

  Advances in communications and transportation had drawn the formerly sleepy little northern Illinois town into the gravitational clutches of Chicago. Truth be told, what was once a country village was rapidly becoming little more than a bedroom community for the Windy City. Its population was increasing, and strangers were more common here than ever. But it was still the kind of place that harbored few secrets.

  Sandy paused outside her classroom to recall something she had overheard her older daughter Emiley remark to a friend: “Hey, I found your nose. It was in my business again.” That pretty much summed up life in small-town middle America. The thought nearly brought a smile to her face, the hint of which just as quickly vanished. Smiles came rarely these days. When they did, Emiley and her younger sister Sarah were usually the cause.

  She was about to open the door to her room when one of her students came bounding toward her, his arms outstretched for a hug. “Mrs. Richards!” It was a daily routine they both enjoyed.

  “Hi Tyler! How’s it going?” Sandy tousled the tow-headed boy’s mop of wild hair with one hand while reaching into her pocket with the other to pull out a dollar bill. When she was sure no one was looking, she let it slip through her fingers onto the floor.

  “I’m going to join band next year, Mrs. Richards. I’m going to play the drums!”

  “I know, and I bet you’ll be the best drummer ever!” She glanced at the floor and pretended to be surprised. “Oops, did you drop your lunch money, Tyler?”

  Tyler glanced toward the crumpled dollar lying at his feet, scooped it up, shot her a wide grin, and took off down the hall.

  Tracey Shirk, Walton Center’s choral instructor, walked up next to Sandy and watched Tyler hoop and holler his way through the throng of students beginning to pour into the school and crowd the hallway. “That kid just always has money falling out of his pockets,” she said to her best friend before lowering her voice and adding, “You can’t feed them all, you know.”

  “Most of them feed themselves just fine,” replied Sandy with a gentle nod. “With Tyler’s broken home and a mom working third shift …”

  “She usually forgets his lunch money.” Tracey finished the sentence for her. “Do you think his mother ever wonders who’s feeding him, or if he’s even eating lunch?” she continued. “And how about those new sneakers you bought him? She has to notice.”

  “I don’t care if she does. He’s a good kid. I’m sure she works hard, and she’s a single mom. It doesn’t hurt to give a little help,” replied Sandy.

  “You’re a saint, girlfriend,” Tracey whispered in her ear as she slipped one arm around Sandy’s shoulder and hugged her. “Not to change the subject, but … how’s your dad doing?”

  Sandy stepped away a few inches, just enough for Tracey’s arm to fall away. “My father’s sure getting a lot of attention today.”

  “People are concerned. You know that. How is he?”

  Sandy took a deep breath and exhaled. “I think he’s fine. He’s tired. He drinks too much. He’s still busy trying to start some kind of business.” The words shot out like a machine gun. Cold. Rapid. Empty. “As for his other business projects, if you can call them businesses,” she added before stopping herself. “Never mind,” she shook her head. “I’m sure he’s OK.”

  Tracey remained silent for a few seconds, cocking her head to one side as she always did when contemplating whether what she was about to say next was a good idea. “Well, Shadow, you need to come to grips with him. He could be gone faster than the Cubs can blow a 10-game lead in September. You two have unsettled business. You shouldn’t leave it unfinished.” When Sandy raised a hand to object, Tracey raised hers a tad faster, and they met palm to palm, a high-five frozen for several seconds at eye level. “We’ve been friends since grade school. I know you. I understand what you’ve gone through,” continued Tracey. “I know what your family has gone through with your dad, but he’s still your dad. And you only get one. And you were his shadow, Shadow.” Tracey grinned at her play on words.

  Sandy managed little more than a shrug and was about to speak when the school buzzer signaled it was time for the first class to begin. As she turned enter her room Tracey blurted, “Hey, I haven’t forgotten.”

  Sandy furrowed her brow and turned to look at her friend. “Forgotten what?

  Tracey mouthed the words, “Happy birthday!” grinned, winked, and turned away.

  Sandy grimaced. Why couldn’t everyone just forget that nasty little fact?

  Her day continued like all the others: woodwinds first period, brass next, followed by her dreaded hour with the percussionists. Of all musicians, drummers were a different breed. She would never really understand them. Today, however, the drummers knew all about her little secret, and as soon as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, belted out Happy Birthday as only those who make music by striking things can do.

  After the rambunctious serenade fell away to fitful silence, she thanked her students, ignored their requests that she tell them her age, and continued her class as she always did. Forty-five minutes later, when she waved them into silence and told them to pack their gear, one of the drummers raised his hand.

  “Yes, Elijah?”

  “Were you in The Vanguard, Mrs. Richards?” he asked the question slowly, as if he wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking or whether there was such a thing.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I was indeed. The Des Plaines Vanguard.” She knew what was coming next. Everyone in the room knew. Bill Sanford, Elijah’s father, had marched with The Cavaliers. The Park Ridge Cavaliers and The Des Plaines Vanguard were fierce competitors during her teenage drum and bugle corps years.

  “My dad was a Cavalier.”

  “Yes, I know. He was playing with the enemy.”

  “He said they were better.”

  “Really? He said that?” She pursed her lips in something that wasn’t a smile, but might have been mistaken for one. Usually the exchanged stopped here. None of the ways she really wanted to answer were appropriate. On this day, however, she could not stop herself. “Well, you tell your dad The Cavaliers wore green for a reason.” She paused for effect. “Envy is a powerful thing.”

  Elijah frowned and looked at a friend. “Huh?”

  The buzzer sounded.

  “Saved again,” she muttered under her breath as the kids scurried out of the classroom banging their sticks against the walls and slapping a beat along the white board.

  Drummers.

  Jazz band rehearsals passed in a bluesy haze just before lunch, and her concert band class early that afternoon marched by. When the clock hit 3:30 p.m., she made a beeline out the door straight to her car. For a moment she felt guilty, fumbling in her purse for her keys and then dropping them on the pavement as if she were a nervous petty criminal accused of doing something wrong. Music was her calling—not her vocation. There was nothing she loved more than lingering, as she nearly always did, in the band room with some of her favorite students. There, Sandy would spend an hour or more strumming her guitar, singing with her “kids,” and teaching them everything from music theory and harmonies to why the Beatles were better than the Stones. But not today.

  Sandy was unlocking her blue Dodge Caravan when a woman’s voice shouted, “Mrs. Richards!” She turned to her right and watched as a woman she did not know walked quickly toward her from two rows away. “Hi, I’m Marilou Sanford, Elijah’s mom,” she said rather breathlessly when she stepped within a few feet of Sandy, using one hand to brush back the long strands of raven hair that had fallen across her cheek. “He is one of your percussion students. I think you knew my husband Bill years ago.”

  “Sure, hello, Mrs. Sanford,” replied Sandy, who marveled at the woman’s youthful appearance. How could she be that young and fit and have a teenaged son Elijah’s age? Sandy prepared herself for what was coming next. Parents don’t chase teachers down in the parking lot to extol their virtues in the classroom. The flippant exchange she
had with Elijah about The Cavaliers and The Vanguard leapt to mind. “What can I do for you?”

  Marilou hesitated, smiled, and then bit her lip before replying, “I—we—my husband and I, and of course, Elijah … just wanted you to know—our family is praying for you.”

  Sandy tilted her head back slightly and raised her eyebrows. “Praying? For me?”

  “I know how close I am to my daddy, and we heard yours is in for testing,” she continued. “We’re praying God will place his healing hand on him and make him healthy again. And that He will pull you close and relieve your anxiety regarding your daddy’s health.”

  Daddy. Sandy caught a trace of a Southern accent and recalled something about Elijah’s mom being from Alabama. “Yes, well. Thank you, but …”

  “And that God uses this challenge with your daddy’s health to pull you both closer to Him.”

  “My daddy,” Sandy stumbled on the word. “Right, well …” She really didn’t know what to say. She shifted the books she was carrying from her left arm to her right and stood ramrod straight, her rigid body language screaming her discomfort to anyone paying attention. “Thank you, Mrs. Sanford, but my father is fine. He’s like a tank. He’s old and battered, mostly from self-abuse, but I’m sure he’ll be okay.” She flashed a fake grin. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste prayers on Tom Loucks.”

  For an uncomfortable moment Elijah’s mother stared without replying or moving, processing the chill buried within Sandy’s response. “Mrs. Richards,” she began softly, “prayers are never wasted. God hears them. All of them.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “And He can use all things for His good purpose.”

  “Yes, well, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I have to run.”

  Sandy climbed into her Caravan and drove away, glancing into the rearview mirror to catch a final glimpse of Elijah’s mom, mouth agape as she drove away. Her facial features spoke volumes: how could her son’s teacher be so cold and rude? When she caught her own reflection Sandy quickly looked away. The bags under her eyes were dark and pronounced. Stifling back a sob, she eased her Caravan to the side of the road, shifted into park, and flipped down her visor to study her face in the mirror. It was all she could do to keep from crying. “Am I depressed?” she thought, looking deeply into her own eyes as if they might hold the answer. “What is wrong with me?” she asked aloud. She was never rude or short with anyone, let alone a student’s parent, but something had changed. And this was the first time she fully recognized it.

  Sandy dabbed a white Kleenex against the tears gathering in her eyes and blew her nose. When she glanced at her watch and realized the time, she eased her way back into traffic, heading out Route 102 toward Kankakee. It was time to meet Tom Loucks’ doctor.

  She arrived at Riverside Medical Center hoping to secure a parking place close to the entrance. Finding none, she pulled into the adjacent lot and walked the long path to the building housing the physicians’ offices. “Why can’t they just tell me the results over the phone?” she mumbled aloud as she stepped around an elderly woman heading in the same direction.

  “What my dear?” asked the woman. Sandy waved the question away without breaking stride, passing through the automatic doors to stand in front of the tall black sign with white lettering on the lobby wall boasting an over-sized list of physician names. Her frustration level mounted when she realized the names were organized by floor rather than alphabetically. Her father’s doctor, Andrew Albright, MD, was on the fourth floor.

  “My name is Sandy Richards,” she said once inside the office. “I’m here to see Doctor Albright about my dad’s test. His name is Tom Loucks.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Richards, the doctor is waiting for you,” answered the young receptionist. “You can go inside.” She gestured toward a door just beyond the desk.

  “Waiting for me?” she said in surprise, and more loudly than she had intended. “Since when do doctors wait for patients?”

  “The doctor will see you now, Mrs. Richards. He is right through there.”

  Sandy stepped toward the door, which opened on cue to reveal a nurse, who escorted her down a long hallway to an office at the end. “Mrs. Richards to see you, Doctor Albright.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Richards,” said the doctor, who stood from behind his desk and extended his hand. Sandy shook it briefly. “Please, have a seat,” he continued, gesturing toward a faux burgundy leather wingback chair facing his own desk. With his full head of hair, soft round face, and white medical coat, he looked strikingly like Doogie Howser. “Great,” she thought as she settled into the chair.

  Dr. Albright pulled his own chair up, rested his arms on his desk, and laced his fingers together. His lips were pursed, tightly. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Richards,” He sighed before continuing. “I am sorry your mother wasn’t able to make it, but your dad authorized for me to speak with you.” He paused to clear his throat. “This is hard, so I’ll get right to the point. Your father has lung cancer. I’ve already brought in another colleague for a second opinion.”

  It took her a moment to process the full extent of the words. Several seconds passed in uncomfortable silence. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Your father has stage four lung cancer. It has already spread to his liver and to his brain.” His words rushed together like one lengthy syllable, few of them making any sense to her. “Because of the type of cancer, how far it has progressed, and where it’s moving through his body …” He stopped long enough to slide a box of tissue from the distant corner of his oversized desk to within Sandy’s reach. “It’s inoperable, Mrs. Richards. There is really nothing we can do for your father other than keep him as comfortable as possible. I am very sorry.” His slight shrug coupled with the painfully serious look on his face went hand in hand with his prognosis.

  “It’s inoperable.” The words reverberated in her head—six syllables as loud and irritating as cymbal crashes, soon reduced to five. Inoperable. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she gripped the arms of the chair to steady herself.

  Lingering silence pervaded the room. “Okay,” she finally replied. “You can’t operate. How will you treat him?”

  Dr. Albright cleared his throat once more. “Well, as I said, there is no treatment, per se. We will certainly try to make him as comfortable as possible.” He paused a moment. “Mrs. Richards, your father has been—I’m unsure of the precise word—ignoring, hiding, masking his condition for a long time.”

  “Comfortable,” she repeated staring vacantly at the wall of medical reference books lining the shelves behind him.

  “What I’m trying to communicate is that your dad doesn’t just have stage four cancer. He is at the end of stage four. Frankly, I have no idea how he has been able to hide the pain he must be experiencing. We have never seen anything quite like it.”

  The doctor caught her stare and looked into her eyes, his gaze kindly, understanding. He recognized her inability to accept reality. He had seen it before, dozens of times. “Mrs. Richards, are there any other family members here with you? Or anyone else we should talk with? A husband, a sibling, perhaps?”

  “I understand,” came her whispered non-reply. Her words were slow. Measured. “I don’t need … anyone. You just said my … father … is dying.” She paused, folded her arms across her chest, and stood up from the chair—ramrod straight. “I will take him home.” It sounded more like a command than a simple statement.

  “Home?” Sandy’s reaction didn’t really surprise Dr. Albright. Everyone reacted differently to news like this. “Isn’t there someone I can call?” he asked as he followed her lead and stood up. “Perhaps your mother? You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m the only one who can handle this,” she replied.

  “I think perhaps your mom …”

  Sandy cut him off mid-sentence. “My mom’s health isn’t up to it, or she would be here.” Her voice trailed off before she haltingly continued. “I know this is
all on my shoulders, but I’m not … I’m not sure what to do next. What do I do once I take him home?”

  The doctor gestured toward her chair, and together they sat back down. “Your father is too frail and too sick to go home.” Sandy’s eyes opened wide, as if comprehending for the first time just how ill her dad really was. “Often patients come in looking relatively healthy on the outside,” he continued, “but once they get the diagnosis their bodies quickly catch up with reality. He needs to be in a nursing facility and, in my opinion, receiving hospice care. Do you know what hospice is?” She nodded slowly but didn’t respond.

  “Is there someone I can call, Mrs. Richards?”

  She shook her head. “No. I just need to figure out how to tell my mom. That’s all. For me, that will be the hardest part of all of this. I’ll figure out the rest.”

  “We will keep your dad here and coordinate hospice care with you,” said Dr. Albright as he stood and walked out from behind his desk. “At this point there is nothing you need to do in that regard, and we will be in touch with you for paperwork and other information.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” She turned to leave, but stopped and asked, “How long does he have?”

  He shook his head. “We can never determine with any great accuracy. It could be a few weeks, a month.” He shrugged. “He could have several months. It’s hard to predict with real certainty.”

  “Several months,” she repeated as she walked toward the door.

  Chapter 2

  “How did your mom take the news?” Steve asked his wife of seventeen years, as they pulled back the comforter and readied for bed.

  “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to tell anyone.” Sandy sat down and pushed a lock of hair behind her left ear with one hand while slowing brushing her hair with the other. “I could tell by the look on mother’s face. She already knew what I was going to say.”

  “You should have called me. I should have been there.”