She took the bottle, crossed the room, and finally exhaled the smoke. It seemed to settle over the dresser drawer, where her latest baby was still screaming.
“Whadya want, kid?” Candy swept the baby up and into her arms. “You’ve got a nice bed, warm blankets.” She pressed the bottle against the baby’s lower lip and right away she began sucking. “Hmmm.” The buzz was growing stronger. “Didn’t I feed you this morning?”
The baby sucked at the bottle with all her might, so urgent and desperate that the sight of her made Candy laugh. Or maybe it was the pot making her laugh. Either way she was glad the kid had stopped screaming.
Candy laid her on the sofa and used a worn-out pillow to prop up the bottle. The joint wasn’t half gone, and Candy wanted to finish it. Better to get a good solid buzz than drag it out over a couple hours.
She took drag after drag, and suddenly she realized the baby was crying again. “What is it now?” Her words were slurred and the floor was no longer steady. She turned and saw what was wrong. The bottle was on the floor, empty, and the baby had worked the old pillow up over her face.
Candy laughed. “Still hungry, huh?” She moved the pillow, picked up the baby, and put her over her shoulder. “You and me both, kid.”
She grabbed the bottle and walked the baby into the kitchen. The buzz was intense now, one of the better highs she’d had that month. But still she was able to mix up another four ounces of formula. She stared at the microwave and tried to remember. Fifteen seconds? Or was it twenty-five?
The kid was screaming again.
Candy lowered her to the crook of her arm. It must’ve been twenty-five. The baby liked her milk warm. She heated the formula, headed back to the sofa, and put the bottle to the kid’s lips. As soon as the formula touched her mouth, she jerked back and screamed even louder than before.
“Okay, so I was wrong.” Candy chuckled and shook the bottle for a minute or so to cool it down.
This time the baby made only a few faces and uncomfortable squirms, but she took the milk. Candy grabbed a bag of chips from the counter and put the baby back on the couch, the bottle propped by the pillow again. She almost finished the bottle when she started fussing and arching her back.
The moment Candy picked her up, a stream of vomit came from the baby and splashed across Candy’s shirt. Candy swore out loud and set the baby back on the couch. “Now look what you’ve done, ya brat.”
She left the baby and went to the closet to find a clean shirt. While she was cleaning herself up, she heard the baby making sick sounds again. “Hold on,” she shouted. “And don’t get any on the couch!”
The weed was still working its magic on her, but who could enjoy a good buzz with a fussy baby? Candy mumbled a few more choice words and headed back to find her.
She was lying on her back, a pool of vomit gathered around her lips and chin. A gurgling sound came from her throat, and suddenly fear knocked the wind out of Candy. “Hey!” She grabbed her and smacked her back.
After a few seconds, the baby did several loud coughs. Once she was breathing right, the screaming started up again.
Candy took off the kid’s damp undershirt and used it to wipe her chin and neck. She shouted over the child’s screams. “Bedtime for you, little girl.” Then she marched her across the room to her bed in the dresser drawer.
Candy couldn’t possibly have been more frustrated. Everything about her situation was Dave’s fault. Dave’s and Scary’s. But still, here she was, with a month before her oldest two kids would be dumped at her front door and a newborn screaming in the corner.
It was enough to make her crazy.
Things had gone from bad to worse so fast Candy wasn’t sure what to do. Her mother had taken the older girls, but she’d made things clear to Candy. They could stay with her only for a month. After that she was joining some Christian cruise line, where she would work in the kitchen and travel the Bahamas for the better part of a year.
“I love those girls, Candy, but they deserve a real family,” her mother had said the last time they were together. “Get yourself a life, Candy. Clean up and make a home for those babies. Otherwise do the right thing and give them to someone who will.”
Candy hated her mother’s lectures.
They were her kids; she could do whatever she wanted with them. The thought rolled around in the stoned areas of her mind. Of course, she couldn’t really do whatever she wanted with them. She couldn’t sell them, that’s for sure.
What had they been thinking, anyway? You couldn’t blackmail people into giving you money for a kid. The plan had been doomed from the beginning. For a while there, it looked like she and Dave and Scary were all going down. They’d sat in jail almost two days before the judge made up his mind.
Dave had pinned the whole scam on Scary, and Scary, well, he pinned the whole thing on Dave. Candy gave the judge a teary-eyed song and dance about wanting the best life for her baby and about how Dave and Scary had convinced her they could find a better home for the child if they asked for more money.
The judge looked like he wasn’t sure about her, but being that she was eight months pregnant, he told her to go home and take care of herself until the baby was born. He left her with a warning: “If I see you in court again or hear you’re putting your baby in jeopardy in any way, I’ll take her away from you and prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law.”
The judge’s warning played in her head again, swirling about and climbing the walls of her brain the way thoughts sometimes did when she was high. He was all talk; he wouldn’t take her kid away.
Though he’d been pretty serious about Dave and Scary. They were still in the slammer facing trial later that month. Whatever happened, they better get out soon. Without them, she had no idea how she’d get the drugs she needed.
Candy put her hands over her ears.
The screaming lessened, but it still gave her a headache. What she needed was more weed, something to pass the time until the kid got old enough to farm out. If her mother wouldn’t take the girls, someone would. She could get connected with that church her mother was always going to. Someone there would watch the girls—at least during the daytime. There were always nice old grandma-types at churches, right?
An idea started to grow in Candy’s brain.
A grandma-type lived right next door. Maybe if she took the kid there now, the old lady would take care of her for a while. Until she could figure out what to do next. She stood up, swayed a few times, and made it across the apartment to the bathroom. Her vision was blurred a bit, but she squinted and got a decent look at herself.
She was heavy and her T-shirt and jeans didn’t fit great. Also, her skin still smelled of baby puke. But she didn’t look like a pothead. Not really. Potheads had narrow, bloodshot eyes, and hers looked pretty normal. It was important that she not look like a pothead if she was going to ask the neighbor for help. She would have to make up some sort of story, something about needing a job and trying to make a life for herself and her kid.
Now that Candy knew what she was going to do, a sense of freedom and purpose came over her. She held herself a bit straighter as she went back to the dresser drawer, picked up the baby and a half-empty pack of disposable diapers, and knocked on the neighbor’s door.
The old woman answered after the second knock. She stared at Candy and the baby. “Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Candy.” Her words sounded right to her, but Candy wasn’t sure if the old lady would think so. Words would have to be at a minimum. She pointed to her right. “I live next door and . . . well . . . I need to get out and find some work.” She smiled. Grandma’s liked it if you smiled. “Trouble is, I can’t bring my little baby, and I was wonderin’ if you’d watch her for me for a while.”
The woman was wearing a necklace with a cross on it. Just like Candy had hoped, a churchgoing lady. How could she say no? Candy tilted her arms so the woman could get a good view of her kid. She was a screamer, but she was also a looker. Ev
eryone who had seen her said so.
“She’s a beautiful baby.” The grandma-type brushed her knuckle against the baby’s cheek. “What’s her name?”
“Her name?” A chill ran down Candy’s spine. What had she named the kid? She’d written something down in the hospital, something with a C in it. But now . . . now she hadn’t used it in a few weeks and she wasn’t sure. She smiled at the old lady. “Clara. Her name’s Clara.”
“I’m Nancy.” She looked at the baby again and held out her arms. “Here, let me have her.”
Candy turned the baby over to her neighbor and started backing away but Nancy stopped her. “How long? Two hours? Three?”
“Yes.” Another step backward. “Thanks. I’ll get so much more done now.”
The minute Candy was back in her apartment she flopped down on the couch and savored the sound.
Silence. Pure, wonderful silence.
Another plan began to form and she sat up to think it through.
An hour later she had her things packed into a duffel bag. She walked to the closest bus stop and climbed into the first bus that came by. The buses were easy in Austin, and after she got to the main station, she’d bum a ride to Dallas. One of Dave’s friends was there, some guy who dealt for a living. Lots of space, lots of drugs, lots of free time.
She pictured the old grandma trying to find a way to keep the kid quiet. Two or three hours? Candy laughed to herself. The woman wouldn’t see her for two or three days. Maybe longer. And by then Clara—if that was her name—would’ve gotten over the stomach bug or whatever was making her cry. If so, Candy would consider taking her back.
Welfare paid better the more mouths you had to feed.
Chapter Nineteen
The scene was eerily similar to the one back in March, when Elizabeth and John first found out about her cancer. But this time, the stakes were higher.
Elizabeth was exhausted, with barely the strength to sit in the chair beside John. “Why do we have to be here?” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Can’t he just call us with the results?”
“It’s easier this way.” John eased his arm around her shoulders. His tone told her there were things he wasn’t saying. “We can talk about a recovery strategy better in person, with all of us here.”
“I wish he’d hurry.”
John kissed the side of her face. “Me too.”
The worst part about fighting cancer was the waiting. Eight weeks of chemo, then two weeks of waiting. A day of testing, ten more days before the results came. She was thin and tired and achy all the time, and the cough that had come on a week ago was worse than ever.
Still, they were praying for a miracle, and the test results were the only way they’d know if one was being worked in her body or not. Elizabeth hated herself for doubting, for fearing whatever tomorrow might bring. But the longer she felt sick and the worse her symptoms grew, the more terrified she became.
Certainly God knew that. He had to know that she wanted to be planning a reunion and a wedding, not a recovery. And since the answers she and John were praying for weren’t coming easily, Elizabeth was more afraid than ever. So afraid that she’d slipped into a denial, a way of telling everyone she was feeling fine, that everything was going to be okay.
But she wasn’t fooling anyone.
A door opened behind the big wooden desk. Dr. Steinman entered with a folder under his arm. A strange sense of déjà vu came over Elizabeth, and she glanced at the door behind her, the one that led to the hallway and the outside world. If she could only get up and run out the door, tear down the hall and never stop, maybe she could keep this moment from happening.
“Elizabeth . . . John.” Dr. Steinman took his place at the desk and laid open the file.
She gave a last look at the door and turned to face the doctor. John tightened the grip on her hand.
“I’ll get right to the point.” He sighed and held up a single sheet from the file. “I’m afraid the results aren’t what we were hoping for.”
Not what they were hoping for? Panic shot a burst of adrenaline through Elizabeth’s system, and she leaned forward. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. Beside her, a moan sounded deep in John’s chest, but he said nothing.
Dr Steinman shook his head. His eyes met hers and held. “Elizabeth, your cancer has spread. We did a biopsy of your lymph nodes, as you know, and every test came back positive for cancer.”
“No . . .” She said the word so softly no one heard her, not even John. The scene kept playing out before her, the doctor’s words coming at her like so many bullets. She closed her eyes, desperate for a way to outrun the news, to stop the doctor’s pronouncement before it got worse. No, God . . . no! Why is this happening?
“Elizabeth?” The doctor sounded tired, as if the blow he was delivering was aging him several years in as many minutes.
She opened her eyes. “Go ahead.”
Beside her, John was staring at his lap, his eyes vacant.
The doctor sighed. “On top of that, we compared the ultrasound and X rays we did the Monday after your treatment ended with an ultrasound and X rays we did yesterday.” He set the first piece of paper down and picked up another. “We knew after the surgery that your cancer was in your lymph system. With this type of aggressive cancer, the lymph system often deposits cancer cells throughout the body. It appears that’s what has happened in your case, Elizabeth. The cancer has spread to your lungs and possibly to your liver and pancreas as well.” He pursed his lips and met her eyes again. “The CAT scan looked clean, so that much is good news. So far the cancer hasn’t spread to your brain.”
Good news? Elizabeth wanted to throw something at him, pound her fists on the wall, and break something on the floor. The cancer hadn’t spread to her brain? That was the good news? She sucked in a quick breath and then another. The panic swelled within her, suffocating her. Another inhale and another.
“Elizabeth, breathe out, honey.” John had his hand on her shoulder. He gently pushed her head down, the way she’d seen him do for the kids before. “It’s okay, Elizabeth, breathe out. Blow on my hand.”
She pursed her lips and tried, but only a whisper of breath came out.
Dr. Steinman was on the other side of her now, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. She was hyperventilating, letting panic have its way with her. She sucked in another breath, and then, above her pounding heart, above the sound of Dr. Steinman’s voice, above the panic screaming at her from all sides, she heard the only sound that could possibly restore her sanity.
The sound of her husband praying.
“Dear God . . .” His words were hushed, meant for her ears and God’s alone. “Please . . . give Elizabeth your peace, a peace that passes all understanding. Let her remember that you are a God of miracles, that you haven’t ever stopped loving her and that you have a plan, even now.”
John’s words wrapped themselves around her like a shield, a cocoon. One breath at a time she could feel a change coming over her. The muscles that had refused to exhale only a moment earlier could now do so. Breathe out, she told herself. Out . . . out . . . out . . .
“How’re you doing, Elizabeth?” Dr. Steinman had returned to his place at the desk.
How was she doing? Didn’t he realize how ludicrous he sounded? Hadn’t he just answered the question himself? She wasn’t doing very well. She was dying, in fact, right? Wasn’t that what he had told her? She lifted her head and looked at him. Why was she mad at him? It wasn’t his fault. She felt her anger melt away like April snow. He was simply the messenger and he was waiting for an answer.
She gripped John’s knee as she sat a little straighter. “Better, I guess.”
“Good.” The doctor put the file back together. Then he looked from her to John. “You understand what I’m saying, right?”
The muscles in John’s jawline flexed twice. He inhaled sharply. “I assume you’re going to give us a treatment plan?”
Elizabeth wanted to kiss him. T
hat was her John. You tell him, honey. Neither of them would ever settle for a death sentence—not now with Ashley’s wedding and Kari’s baby and Erin’s and Luke’s visits on the horizon. Definitely not.
“I . . . uh, well . . .” Dr. Steinman’s face went blank and he fumbled a few seconds more. “Look, John, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“I want a treatment plan.” John’s tone was sharp, pointed. “We didn’t come here to make funeral arrangements, so please, tell us what to do next. That’s your job.”
Dr. Steinman lifted his hands a few inches off his desk and dropped them again. “We could operate on her lungs, and possibly her pancreas.” He opened the file again. “The liver isn’t operable without a transplant.” His eyes scanned the sheet. “Any surgery would mean more chemo and radiation—” he looked at John again—“which her cancer isn’t responding to, frankly.”
Elizabeth glanced at John, waiting for his response. But he was quiet, tense. He had one hand over hers and the other clenched in a tight fist. When he spoke again, some of his earlier fight was gone. “We’d like a day to talk it over, if that’s all right.”
The doctor released a slow breath. Exasperation showed in his eyes, and his voice was filled with a quiet pleading. “Please, John. Think it through. Quality of life has to mean something.”
John made a tighter grip on her hand and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, Elizabeth met his eyes and a pain took up residence in her heart. No matter how confident and authoritative John sounded, he was dying inside, dying every bit as much as she was.
He spread his free hand out on the doctor’s desk and leaned forward. “If we didn’t operate . . .” His mouth hung open. The next words seemed to take all his effort. “How long would she have?”
It was the question Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to address, not now or ever. But there it was. Out on the table for the doctor to pick up and run with. She leaned into John, praying for a miracle. Begging God for another chance, a different diagnosis.
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