Immediately concerned, Adrienne asked, “What? What on earth could make you apprehensive here? You told me just yesterday we were in God’s country, remember?”
“My one big fear is that living with me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, you will get fed up and send me packing.” He had mustered just enough sincerity to make her throw back her head and laugh.
“You dog!” Adrienne hooked her arms around his neck and they both rocked with shared laughter. Suddenly, the daunting task of opening all these boxes and unpacking a new life didn’t seem so awful.
“Come, help me get these books on the shelves. And later I want to go and take a look at that splendid Gothic church down the way. We could go there Sunday?”
She considered, her face tilted. “The one on the main road?” He nodded and she frowned. “There’s no handicapped ramp there.”
“There’s one in the back. I saw it as I was rounding the bend in the road.”
“In the back? How inviting,” she said with sarcasm.
“Now, now, Adrienne,” he chided gently, wanting to interest her in a possible new project. “At least they’re trying. Don’t you think you could help expand their consciousness to see why a ramp in the back of the church is not . . . very welcoming?”
He saw her face flush, her shoulders straighten. “You bet I could! Sure. Let’s go on Sunday. What do you want me to do now?” She knew what he was doing; it didn’t take much to play along but, oddly enough, she did feel energized. And it helped to push away the insecurities that always seemed to be hovering in the background, as annoying and taunting as a gnat.
He pointed to the boxes of books and she began sorting through them and filling up shelves.
The small old man pushed the door open to the sanctuary and welcomed the smell of incense and aging wood; this had been his spiritual home for more than fifty years.
He needed the guidance of a higher authority every day, but especially on this one. Dr. Milton M. Meade was facing one of the hardest tasks a doctor has to face—telling a patient bad news.
Lord knew, this had happened many times since he had begun practicing medicine in this river village a half century ago. He made it his practice to rise early, eat a small breakfast, and come here to pray before he opened the doors of his office. When there were far fewer years to tote around, he had served in all the church offices diligently. Some would say too diligently; hadn’t this old doctor been the reason more than one rector had left?
Oh, well, it didn’t matter now. He had reached that place in his life, mellowed by years of being too right and too wrong, realizing the simple importance of doing what he did best . . . and letting the rest slide where it may.
Age had taken much from his body in these last years, putting boundaries on his practice. Now in his seventies, this had forced him to become semiretired. Hard to believe that only ten years before he had still made house calls. It was at that time, with a lot less trepidation than he had ever thought possible, he had also turned over the running of the church to younger people. That said, these solitary moments inside his sanctuary were the most important part of his day. It was here he felt the presence of his wife, dead now three years. What felt more real to him were all those years they had worshiped in this very pew, holding hands. God, where had that time gone? It had rushed right by him like the waters that rushed by this county before flowing into the bay that emptied into the Atlantic, never to be seen again. All those years gone, in the snap of fingers.
On his knees, eyes closed, his heart heavy, he put his petition to the Lord and asked for guidance in how to tell a young person whose time was stretching out in front of him what that future would probably hold.
Lord, have mercy. Most merciful God, give my mind the words to say what needs to be said, with the wisdom that only You can provide . . .
The doctor was finishing up his morning hours in a brick one-story office as weathered as he was. He had built it behind his home the year he started practicing medicine, when most of the things in his medicine bag were herbs and tinctures to make patients feel better.
In his long career, he easily recalled the immense importance of antibiotics, of the inching toward the future of medical miracles and now the explosive growth of biochemical engineering and genetics. What he had seen in his lifetime was incredible. And with a memory that age couldn’t touch, Dr. Meade held all those threads at his fingertips. But everything he knew wouldn’t help him this day. He walked out into the small waiting room and found what he expected, the strong, handsome young man who was the boy he had kept healthy for all of his twenty-eight years.
Dr. Meade couldn’t look Gregory Jamison in the eyes. Instead he waved him through the door with a quick greeting. “Come on in, Gregory. Good to see you, son.” Dr. Meade led the way past the main examining room with its long tables, shelves, and counters that had seen thousands of tests conducted.
Since he had cut back his time, Dr. Meade did no testing there. He sent vials away to licensed laboratories. This is what he had done for Gregory Jamison three months ago. He had sent out the blood to be tested under the name of John Doe for privacy.
Dr. Meade had tried to talk him out of it. Presymptomatic testing for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis was of no useful benefit, since there was no treatment available—as of yet. There was no sense in it, he insisted, but found deaf ears. He pointed out in a lengthy diatribe to the boy that the test would only confirm if he had the defective gene, meaning his chances of developing it were fifty-fifty or less. Even if he did get it, he might die of something else because no one could predict when it would happen. There were just too many variables, but Gregory wouldn’t listen.
Gregory had hoped for the best until he saw Dr. Meade; alarm bells buzzed and his throat tightened.
The bottom line was, he had to know. Not only for himself, but also for his fiancée, Melanie. Just her name caused a smile to crease his face, even while waiting for the disaster to be confirmed.
“Well, Dr. Meade. You said the results are back. So. What do they say?”
The question hung like an insurmountable fence until Dr. Meade removed his glasses, sighed heavily, and simply said, “I’m sorry, son. God knows, I’m so very sorry.”
Gregory Jamison didn’t crumple, didn’t dissolve into a wash of tears, but sat there in the chair and understood within himself that he had known it all along.
“God.” He could barely think. “Dammit.” He had just uttered the most profound and sincere prayer that had ever passed his lips.
“You have to realize, Gregory, this may very well not even be a problem until you’re seventy or so. Think of that! You’ve got your best years ahead of you. And all the while, research is finally getting within spitting distance of doing something. Are you listening to me?” Dr. Meade had seen the eyes darken, seen the young man look aimlessly out the back window toward the rose garden.
“How many years have you been cultivating that garden?” Gregory’s voice was toneless.
Dr. Meade thought a moment, aware of the regret and stillness in this young man’s question. “Forty years, give or take a few. Why?”
Gregory blew out a deflated sigh. “Your roses are older than I am.” His smile was brief before he looked directly at the doctor. “You can’t tell me with any certainty that what happened to my uncle won’t happen to me. Can you?”
Dr. Meade wasn’t letting him get away with that. “Statistically speaking, I most assuredly can! And don’t forget what I said about research. And there’s another thing. Just think, my boy, you can relish every minute you’ve got and take comfort in the fact that you have time. Time! Your uncle, God rest his soul, didn’t know what hit him. If he had, don’t you think he would have lived his life a little differently?”
“Would it have mattered?” Gregory didn’t think so. He wondered if his uncle had lived and played so hard because he knew his life was going to end so quickly.
The doctor shrugged. “I would think so,
but no, I don’t know for sure. The point is to stay as healthy as you can. You work out; you take care of yourself. Your mother, whenever she sees me here or at the grocery store, tells me how fantastic that business of yours is doing, the one you and your friends started. You’ve got a lot of things going for you. Don’t give up!” The doctor was firm.
Gregory’s nod was a faint, tiny movement. “Right. I’m not going to give up.”
He was incapable of keeping the most important question facing him silent.
“What do I tell Melanie?” Startled that he actually heard himself say those words out loud, his white face colored.
“Does it matter?” Dr. Meade asked sharply, sternly implying that it should not.
Gregory, slumped back in the chair, looked at the ceiling and then passed a trembling hand over his brow, raking back the hair that had fallen into his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, it really, really matters.”
Melanie, with dark hair, luminous eyes that engulfed him, lips that entranced him. Melanie, who played hard and loved hard, who had stolen his heart the first time he’d caught sight of her.
As soon as Gregory knew there was a blood test he could take to find out if ALS was in his future, he agonized for several months over whether to take it. The agony of not knowing, he finally decided, couldn’t be worse than knowing.
He looked out at the roses through the window. Forty years? Would he have that long before it was over? Would he have even half that long?
Melanie loved him too much to wait for their wedding vows, something he was perfectly willing to go along with. She loved him so much, wanted him so much, and since he fully intended to spend the rest of his life making her happy, he didn’t think it mattered. But now? Dear God, if she wasn’t willing to wait for something as wonderful and sacred as their vows, how on earth would she ever be able to wait for him . . . to die?
She couldn’t. And he wouldn’t let her. It was his burden.
He shuddered as he watched his future shattering and falling around him, invisible boulders that no one could salvage.
Chapter Eleven
The next year held no surprises for the Whittaker family, lulling everyone into the deceit of complacency. Collective lives rolled fluidly into busy futures. They were content.
Gordon didn’t see Elizabeth anymore as a patient and at odd times throughout the year would think of her and wonder how she was doing. He saw her and Michael occasionally at church or a social function, and she looked wonderful. As he did for all his patients and friends, he hoped for the best.
He did see Carol often but not regularly. She made several trips with her mother, which pleased Julia to no end. She also made a few quiet trips to New York; there was talk of possibly creating a network series. She wouldn’t say much about it, but often when her car was parked in front of her house and he was driving home, he could see a third-floor light on and knew she was in her office, writing. Gordon was glad she continued to see the therapist. He also knew she wasn’t happy, that she had problems to work out. Gordon kept his attention focused on his practice and patients so completely, he didn’t have to face the fact that he, too, was unhappy.
Michael was anticipating the upcoming holidays with the eagerness of a kid. Completely different from a year ago, Christmas would still be quiet, a family affair, but this New Year’s was going to be different. It would include plenty of friends, lots of food and champagne. A real celebration because Michael knew he had much to be thankful for.
Elizabeth’s health was perfect; he began to believe it had been indeed what Elizabeth insisted: an aberration, a moment out of time that was past and gone.
Long before they sent out formal invitations, they agreed it shouldn’t be too big. The problem was, they had too many close friends. A guest list of no more than six or seven couples quickly swelled to twenty.
“Let’s have it catered; you don’t want to be in the middle of all that work,” he suggested.
Elizabeth would have none of it. “Nope. I know exactly what I’m going to do. Don’t worry.” There would be lots of heavy hors d’oeuvres, plenty of wine, desserts, and champagne for midnight. “It’ll be a piece of cake. So to speak.” Her sputter of laughter, as always, was contagious.
“Are you sure?” Michael tried to be serious, but she almost bristled at the doubt she heard.
“I’m positive. It’ll be wonderful, and you will be so proud of me,” she declared, chin up.
What else could he do but reach for her and whisper how he was always proud of her and then hug and kiss and love her? And then there was always the loving back that melted him like butter
Several days after the big party, Michael leaned back in the large executive chair in his office, feeling deflated. The top of his desk was clear, there was nothing left for him to do, but he didn’t move. He was staring blankly into space, reliving New Year’s Eve.
He had offered to help her with the cooking, offered to buy additional frozen gourmet items so she wouldn’t have to do so much, but other than discuss the menu and let him purchase the champagne, she refused everything else.
Michael also tried to get Elizabeth to at least let the housekeeper help with the preparation. All Elizabeth would agree on was to hire people to serve.
Michael’s jaw tightened; he wondered how things could have changed without any warning. Elizabeth was always the detail person, holding all the strings in one hand that tied their parties together perfectly from start to finish.
She had thrown herself into cooking, arranging all the flowers, and making sure everything was perfect. And everything was perfect, but he hadn’t known that the physical cost to her was too great—she was exhausted before the party even started. That was something he didn’t know until the day after, when she finally admitted how awful she had felt. From the very first guest arriving until the moment the last one left, she had been the smiling, glowing hostess offering the bounty of her home, the epitome of graciousness. He never had an inkling.
She looked breathtakingly beautiful; everyone had been charmed by her smiles. He heard over and over again how impressive his wife was—his brave, valiant wife, who glowed with good health. Somehow, it had become common knowledge she had been ill and what the diagnosis was. If he had heard once, he’d heard a million times about how young and vibrantly healthy she looked—he got quite a lot of hazing about robbing the cradle. That was fine. He loved it that Elizabeth was not only beautiful, but she glowed with vitality. She was still everything he wanted; she was everything he needed. But something changed that night.
Shortly after midnight when the last of their guests departed, his wife disappeared. After he locked the door, he also discovered the servers were nowhere to be found.
He walked into a kitchen that was chaos. Sinks were filled with empty trays, plates, and cups and glasses, not to mention silverware. Garbage that had been bagged had not been taken outside, there was still food left in the dining room on the long sideboards and open bottles of champagne in ice buckets.
Dismayed, he looked at what had been left for someone else to do. With all the parties they had ever given, he couldn’t remember a time when something like this had happened. Wondering what was going on, he went to find her.
Surprise rendered him motionless at the bedroom door; she was curled up in the middle of the bed, sound asleep.
This had never happened. Always after a party they’d sit and relax, talking and relating bits and pieces the other might have missed. His eyebrows rose at the dress carelessly dropped on the floor, shoes—high heels—kicked off a few feet away. This was not like his fastidious Elizabeth. Something was wrong, but he could see nothing good would come from waking her. Obviously, she needed sleep.
Sighing, he closed the door and quietly went back into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves.
It was after two o’clock in the morning when he finished wiping down the last granite countertop. Very quietly, he got ready for bed and slipped soundlessly under the covers.
She didn’t move.
Elizabeth’s memory of the evening differed greatly from Michael’s.
An hour before the doorbell began ringing, she was at the dressing table, puzzled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ever been so tired. And she had done nothing to cause this fatigue. The day had been exhilarating—putting finishing touches on the food, the tables, making certain everything was perfect.
Now all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and close her eyes. It made no sense, none. It has to get better, she assured herself, adding a little shadow to her eyes, then applying red lipstick carefully. Of course I’ll be fine. Thank You, God, for letting me be just fine. This will be a wonderful night . . .
Moments before guests were due to arrive, she sat on a foyer chair, waiting, wondering how she was ever going to get through this evening. Michael came from the kitchen, gave her a great big hug and whispered, “Everything smells wonderful! You’ve outdone yourself.” She managed a weak smile, and then the doorbell chimed and he turned his attention there.
“Come in, come in. We’re so glad you could come.” Michael was the smiling and handsome host and Elizabeth, now standing beside him, kept a serene smile on her face, floating on the fringes of the social graces instilled in her a lifetime ago.
That’s how the whole evening unfolded, with her being gracious and Michael being the life of the party. Going through her paces like a trained racehorse, Elizabeth smiled with her mouth and at times with her eyes.
She never stayed in one place long enough to engage in a lengthy conversation. That would require thought, which would require energy that had been left behind somewhere.
In the dining room, at the long tables brimming with excellent food, it was easy to limit conversation by having something in your mouth. It was also easy to encourage others to do all the talking. A frank question, a complimentary sentence, and all she had to do was nibble and nod and look interested. It was a relief.
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