Hidden Blessings

by Kim Cash Tate

  Lance gazed at the Woodses’ home as he came up the tree-lined walkway, remembering the first time he’d seen the inside of such a house. His schoolmate had laughed when Lance called it a mansion. “This is small compared to a few streets over,” his friend had said.

  Lance had wondered what he’d say if his friend saw where he lived. Only once did he invite friends over—and only because they insisted—and he took them to a great-uncle’s condo, where he sometimes stayed. No one saw his real environment. Even he wanted to forget it at times.

  Lance noticed that the grass at the Woodses’ home was under-watered and overgrown, and weeds choked the flower beds. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the owner had taken an extended vacation and left the house unoccupied. He rang the doorbell, then rang it again. Seconds later he looked at his watch. Hadn’t he said Wednesday evening at six? He’d had a late-afternoon photo shoot and had come directly after.

  The door was opened finally, partially, by a young Caucasian woman with multicolored short hair. She wore shredded denim shorts and a crop top with a great deal of midriff showing. She blew a bubble beyond her dark red lips. “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking for Trey Woods.” Lance stepped back and checked the number by the door. “Is this the right house?”

  Another bubble stretched big and wide, then popped to reveal an amused smile. “So you’re the babysitter?”

  Lance was confused about everything in this picture. “Excuse me?”

  She stepped back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. “Trey, get the door,” she called. “Trey!”

  Lance shook his head. He’d been intrigued by Mr. Woodses’ offer and told him he’d take a look. But based on the first thirty seconds . . .

  The door opened again. A guy with a white T-shirt, low-riding jeans, a lopsided Afro, and scraggly facial hair stood before him, holding a bag of Doritos.

  Lance blinked. “Trey?” He hugged him. “Hey, it’s good to see you.”

  “I look a little different from that youth group kid, huh?”

  Lance smiled. “Only a little.”

  Trey had always been the best-dressed kid in youth group. Clean-cut, nice jeans or khakis, collared shirt. But he’d filled out, too, more muscle on his over-six-foot frame.

  “Come in, I guess,” Trey said.

  Lance could hear music from the lower level when he stepped inside. He glanced at the young woman as she looped her arm through Trey’s. Next to him, she was short, but the hair, the combat boots, and the gum she hadn’t stopped popping made her a spunky short.

  “I’m sorry,” Lance said, extending his hand. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Lance Alexander.”

  She shook with a firm grip. “Molly.”

  “Good to meet you.” Lance shifted his gaze. “How are you, Trey? I’ve been praying for you.”

  “Look, I don’t really want to hear about your prayers. I’m not gonna pretend I’m up for this.” Trey dug out a chip and popped it into his mouth. “I know what my dad is up to,” he said, speaking through the crunch. “He’s bringing in an overseer, and if I don’t shape up, he’ll kick me out. But it’s his house, so do what you feel.”

  “Trey, I’m not planning to be anybody’s overseer.” Even as he said it, it was clear to Lance that the house needed overseeing, if not the residents. He could see stains on the living room carpet, a hole?—he did a double take to be sure—in the hall off the entryway, and junk in various forms everywhere. “I’m just here to check out the place because I need somewhere to stay.”

  Trey shrugged. “Knock yourself out.” He motioned to Molly, who followed him down the hall.

  Lance stared after him. Trey’s attitude and conversation were more foreign than the new look. “So . . . I should just show myself around?”

  Trey turned, walking backward. “Yeah, pretend it’s an open house.”

  Trey opened a door. The music got louder, and Lance heard another voice before they disappeared, closing it.

  He blew out a sigh. Mr. Woods had practically begged him to move in. Said he trusted Lance—with his house and his son—and believed his presence would make a difference. But Trey probably had people in and out of the house—at all hours, no doubt—and that wasn’t how Lance wanted to live. He’d grown up like that and had come to appreciate home as a place of peace and quiet. He could continue praying for Trey, get together with him from time to time if he was willing, but he couldn’t see himself living here.

  The front door opened behind him and two guys walked in, strolling past Lance and heading directly downstairs. They proved his point.

  Lance didn’t need to see more. He headed for the door, but the sound of angry voices rose suddenly, making him pause. If a fight was breaking out, especially with a woman present, he couldn’t walk away. He walked toward the lower level as the voices grew louder. The new arrivals had left the door open.

  “You’re paying up,” one guy said. “Today.”

  “Timmy, why are you tripping?” The voice was Trey’s. “Just pay them their money.”

  “Do you not understand the nature of this rip-off?” another voice said. “They charge half the price on the street for the same product. Why do students get the overinflated prices? And I buy in bulk! Squeeze somebody else.”

  “I warned you yesterday,” the first guy said. “Remember what I told you, Timmy?”

  Lance heard a sound like a punch as Molly shouted, “Dillon, stop!”

  Lance hustled downstairs, where the smell of weed hit him. In the dim light he saw a guy on the floor, arms raised to block the next blow. Trey was mediating still—“Timmy, just give them the money”—while the other two stood over him.

  Lance entered the fray, stepping between them and raising his phone. “My finger’s on emergency, and I’m calling the police if you don’t get out now.”

  “Man, you can’t call the police,” Trey said. “That’s so lame.”

  Lance would’ve said so, too, back in the day. If Trey only knew . . . His first instinct was to knock these dudes out.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I get my money.” The main aggressor stepped toward Lance. He was a big guy, but Lance was taller and more muscular. “It would take a few minutes for the police to get here anyway,” the guy said. “If I were you, I’d head back upstairs.”

  Old wiring kicked in. Lance closed the gap even more between them. “Or what?”

  Timmy broke just then, scrambling to his feet and running out the back door. The other guys took off after him.

  “Trey!” Lance called.

  Trey stopped, turning slightly, poised to keep going.

  “Why are you caught up in all this?” Lance asked. “This isn’t who you are.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Trey said. “You never knew the real me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SOFT NOTES OF A CELLO SET OFF A TIDAL WAVE THROUGH Kendra’s body. She took a deep breath, staring at a court opinion on her desk that blurred before her. She’d assigned a special ringtone to her doctor so that her expectations wouldn’t rise and fall with each call. But the call she was waiting for was a roller coaster unto itself. She picked up the phone, closed her office door, and braced for the ride.

  “Kendra Woods.”

  “Miss Woods, this is Dr. Matthews’s office,” the woman said. “Are you available to speak with her?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth was cottony. “I’m available.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Kendra walked to the window and looked down at the hustle and bustle of sidewalk travel, people moving inside of normal. She hoped to join them once again. Maybe she’d been wrong, paranoid even. She’d read so much online that when her gynecologist prescribed antibiotics to rule out infection as a cause of her bruise, Kendra pushed back.

  “But what if it’s inflammatory breast cancer?” Kendra had said.

  Dr. Matthews had touched her shoulder. “I don’t want to jump to the worst case. There’s no swelling or t
enderness or pitted orange appearance, which often present with IBC. Let’s rule out the infection first, then do additional tests if needed.”

  “I’m getting married in less than three weeks, Dr. Matthews. Please. I’d rather start the additional testing now.”

  Kendra had had a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy two days later, and kept it all to herself as she waited for this call.

  “Kendra?”

  She sat in one of the guest chairs on the other side of her desk. “Hi, Dr. Matthews. You have my results?”

  “My first thought was to have you come in, but I knew you’d want to know right away.”

  She stared at the pattern in the carpet.

  “Kendra, I’m so sorry. It’s inflammatory breast cancer.”

  She continued staring.

  “We need to schedule a CT scan and a bone scan to see if it’s spread. I’ve already checked with radiology, and they can see you this afternoon at three o’clock. From there, we’ll have a better sense of your treatment options. This is an aggressive disease that requires an aggressive plan . . .”

  Kendra knocked on Derek’s office door and entered when he gave a shout. He faced the computer, typing furiously.

  “Oh hey, babe,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I forgot you have an administrative court deadline today,” she said. “We can talk later.”

  He switched screens to check an online court opinion, then switched back to his document to finish a sentence. He glanced up briefly. “What’s the latest fire?”

  Lately they’d been putting out several a day. “No fire this time.” Her stomach clenched. “Well. Not wedding related.”

  He swiveled his chair toward her. “What’s going on? You don’t sound like yourself. Sit down.”

  She did, closing the door first, trying to figure out how to have a conversation that didn’t seem real. Just say it.

  “Sunday morning, before you picked me up, I saw this spot on my breast, like a bruise.” She clutched a notepad in her hands, not sure why she’d brought it. “I didn’t want to say anything because you know I can be a hypochondriac.”

  “True. You and Google are dangerous. You’ll convert a single symptom into a rare disease within a few clicks of the—babe, what’s wrong?”

  Kendra doubled over as the news hit, as if the doctor had just repeated it. Derek was at her side, rubbing her back. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  “That’s what I have, a rare disease.” Hearing herself say it made her nauseated. She swallowed and focused on breathing.

  “What are you talking about? What rare disease?”

  “Inflammatory breast cancer.”

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “I hadn’t either.” She gathered herself. “I had some testing done, including a biopsy, and the doctor just called with the results.”

  “What? When did you have tests? Why didn’t you tell me before now,” Derek said, “so I could be with you?”

  “I wanted to hear that it was nothing, just an infection, and move on.”

  “So what does this mean?” he asked. “What happens now?”

  “I go for more tests this afternoon,” she said, “to see if it’s spread.”

  “To see if it’s spread?” He stood and leaned against the desk. “I’m not understanding. Why would that be the next thought? Wouldn’t it have to be an advanced stage for that to happen? You’re not even sick.”

  Her body twitched. “That’s the thing. I . . . I am sick. The nature of inflammatory breast cancer is that once it’s diagnosed, it’s already advanced. That’s why they scheduled further tests right away.”

  Derek’s gaze moved into the distance, for an eternity it seemed. “What time is your appointment?” he said finally. “I’m going with you.”

  “You’ve got a deadline today.” She never would have expected him to go, or even asked.

  “I’ll work it out.” He took her hand and pulled her up. “I know it’s scary, but we’ll get through this. Together. I love you, babe.”

  Derek pulled her closer, embracing her, and Kendra felt herself trembling. Over the last few days she’d researched every facet of this disease, imagined endless scenarios, and gone to bed with a million what-ifs. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how afraid she was, afraid of enduring this alone . . . the way she had moved through all the hard things of life alone.

  But she needed to get used to a new way of thinking, a new way of operating. She had a man—a soon-to-be husband—who loved her. His words were like a balm—We’ll get through this. Together.

  As scary as this was, knowing Derek would be with her today and every day ahead made all the difference.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LANCE HAD BEEN AT THE WOODSES’ HOME OFF AND ON SINCE Wednesday evening. Once Timmy and the others ran, he’d debated for a moment what to do, fearing what might happen if they caught him. He’d never forgive himself if he simply left and Timmy ended up hurt. But just as he’d resolved to call the police, Molly emerged from the lower-level bedroom. She’d slipped inside during the ruckus and made the call herself.

  As it turned out, a neighbor called as well, after the guys caught Timmy and beat him down in the neighbor’s yard. Between then and now, Timmy had pressed charges; Trey had gotten hauled down to the station; Timmy’s parents had come from Nebraska, shocked that drugs were involved; campus police stepped up an ongoing investigation; and somewhere in the midst, Lance felt the divine nudge that he really needed to move in.

  And today was moving day. Sort of. Lance had stopped by yesterday to get a house key and clean up the lower level. He planned to drop off a few things this morning before a photo shoot and return later with a team of friends to help with bigger items.

  He entered through the door to the lower level, arms filled with clothing, appreciating the living quarters he would have. He had a bedroom, his own bathroom, and a living area with a sectional sofa, a large-screen television, and a desk to set up his computer. He spent a great deal of time at the computer, editing photos and—

  Lance stopped on his way to the bedroom. What were Trey and Molly doing down here, sprawled on the sofa asleep? Empty beer bottles, fast food trash, and Doritos chips were on the floor. And was that weed he smelled?

  Lance gaped at them. “Are you serious? After everything that happened this week? And I just cleaned down here yesterday.”

  Neither moved. Lance dumped his clothes in the bedroom, walked back out, rolled the vacuum near the sofa, and turned it on.

  Their heads popped up, Molly’s freshly dyed red.

  “What are you doing?” Trey rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Now that I’ve got your attention”—Lance shut it off—“why are you getting high down here?”

  Trey let his head fall on the arm of the sofa. “I live here, in case you forgot.”

  “Actually,” Lance said, “as of today, the lower level is my own personal space, according to your dad.”

  Lance had talked to Mr. Woods after the Timmy ordeal, and he not only was pleased that Lance was moving in, but hoped the extracurricular activity in the home would be curbed, at least somewhat.

  “I’m sorry. I thought he told you,” Lance added.

  “My dad says a lot of things, mostly lies.”

  Lance let that one sail. “Anyway, I asked why you were getting high down here after what went down this week.”

  “What about it?” Trey asked.

  Molly stared back and forth between them, mascara smudge marks around her eyes.

  “I thought you might see it as a wake-up call,” Lance said.

  “And what was I supposed to awaken to?”

  Lance sighed. “To understand that marijuana isn’t the harmless recreational drug you think it is. There’s a whole world associated with it.”

  Trey looked at him. “Who said I thought it was harmless? You’re the one who needs a wake-up call.”

  Lance glanced at Molly and back to
Trey. “Can we talk privately somewhere?”

  “Why? I don’t care if Molly hears.”

  “I know you’re in pain, Trey. I hate that you lost your mom and got hit with all the stuff about your dad.” Lance sat down on the sofa. “But you don’t have to make these kinds of choices. There are people who can help you through.”

  Trey half laughed. “What, you picked up some pop psychology from somewhere? Nobody can ‘help me through.’ You don’t know the half of my pain.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know everything you’re dealing with.” Lance felt he was talking to a wall. “But God knows. He sees you. And I know that you know because you were the one who always carried your Bible around, always memorizing passages of Scripture. Whatever it is, Trey, please give it to God. He cares about you.”

  Trey stared downward, and Molly moved closer to him, taking his hand.

  “You okay, Trey?” Lance asked.

  Trey just stared at a single spot on the carpet, and when he looked up, Lance was surprised to see tears in his eyes.

  “I wish it were true, that God cares about me.” He looked at Lance, his eyes hardening. “I used to think it was. But what do you do when you realize it’s not?” He stood, his hand grasping Molly’s. “Huh? What do you do when part of your pain is the realization that God doesn’t care about you?”

  He led Molly upstairs, and Lance remained where he stood, replaying Trey’s words.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS THE SHAKING THAT UNNERVED HER. SHE COULDN’T STOP the shaking.

  “I’m sorry.” Kendra held herself, trying to focus on the oncologist. “I can’t . . . stop.”

  Derek moved closer and draped an arm around her. Their chairs, upholstered with fabric in a pattern of brightly colored leaves, were positioned across from a doctor Kendra had met minutes before . . . who’d pronounced her fate quickly.