Reunion

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  “Whether we operate or not . . .” Dr. Steinman closed the file and angled his head. His eyes were damp. “Three months, John. Maybe four. Not more than that.”

  Three months? Four? The numbers swirled in Elizabeth’s mind, and she buried her face in John’s shoulder. Panic, fear, desperation, none of them could reach her. Not when her entire existence was numbed by the figures. Sixteen weeks? At best? Was that all she had left?

  Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her face, making the sleeve of John’s shirt wet. She wasn’t crying, not really. She was too numb to cry or feel or react. Rather her body was grieving all on its own, the tears leaking from her eyes without any weeping or sobbing or emotions.

  Sixteen weeks?

  John was saying something, going on about taking a day to decide and not giving up, about wanting the best for Elizabeth, and how they were willing to fight the cancer whatever the cost. And the doctor was responding, something about recovery time and weight loss and statistics.

  Elizabeth let their words blur together.

  In the aching, desperate places of her heart she was no longer sitting in a doctor’s office receiving a death sentence. She was eighteen, dancing in John’s arms at the University of Michigan summer mixer. But then the image blurred and she wasn’t wearing a summer dress, but a simple white wedding gown and John wasn’t teaching her to dance, but telling her he loved her. Forever and ever and always, he would love her.

  But they weren’t in a church anymore; they were in a hospital and Brooke was in her arms. Tiny and red-faced and making the small bleating sounds of a newborn. Elizabeth held her close yet when she looked again it wasn’t Brooke at all, but Luke, and John was saying, “I knew God would give us a son one day, a son we could call our own.”

  John’s words were still filling the room, but the two of them weren’t in a hospital; they were walking beside a Realtor, leading all five kids through a freshly painted farmhouse just outside the city limits with views of trees and creeks and rolling hills and wheat fields as far as the eye could see. And John was saying, “We’ll take it!” And he was framing her face with his hands and whispering, “We’ll raise our children here, Elizabeth, and when they’re grown, we’ll have grandchildren here—the Baxter house. And one day we’ll be buried—”

  “Elizabeth.” John’s tone was sharp, flooded with concern.

  She blinked and looked at him. His eyes were intense, his expression fearful, the way it had been when Erin got lost at the mall one December. She glanced around and gave her head a slight shake. Where were they? Why was John . . . ?

  The answers came at her almost in sync with the questions.

  “Elizabeth, can you hear me?” He wasn’t angry, just afraid. The way he looked so often these days.

  “I’m sorry. I . . . I guess I didn’t hear you.” She sat up straighter and rubbed her eyes. “I was thinking back.” She looked at the doctor’s desk. “Are we done?”

  “Yes.” John breathed out and took both her hands in his. “Did you understand what the doctor was telling us? About the cancer?”

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t. Instead she looked into his eyes. “We need to go home.”

  He angled his head, looking straight into her soul, telling her what his words could not. That he was sorry, that this was never how he’d pictured it ending, that he would do anything to change the facts, to turn back the hands of time and find a way to the place where she was well and the tomorrows spread out before them like the never-ending stream behind their house.

  After a minute, John’s voice strained, he pointed toward the door and said, “I’ll get you a chair.” He had turned to leave when she stopped him.

  “John!”

  He spun around, more fear in his eyes.

  “No chair.” She met his eyes. “I want to walk with you, beside you.”

  At first he looked as if he might disagree, insist on the wheelchair because of her condition. But he knew her heart even now. He went to her, looped his arm through hers and, as always, he led her. Through the office, down the hallway, outside and toward the parking lot.

  They were halfway to the car when she stopped and hung her head. “I can’t, John.”

  “Okay, stay here.” He was about to run back for a chair when she shook her head.

  “No.” She turned to him and searched his eyes. “I can’t be dying, John. I’m not ready. I love you too much.”

  As he studied her face, Elizabeth watched his expression fill with frustration, regret, futility. Then, in painful slow motion, he took her face in his hands the way he’d done so often over the years. His eyes grew watery as he gave the slightest shake of his head. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. I wish it were me.”

  “John . . .” She clung to him, grabbed handfuls of his navy pullover, and pressed the side of her face against his. The tears started up again, and this time they came from a place in her heart even she hadn’t known about. A deep, anguished place that had somehow always known their story might end this way, a room Elizabeth had never dared to enter, with feelings so raw and terrifying they threatened to take her life there on the spot.

  He smoothed his hand over her knit cap, down her back along the bones that stuck out more all the time. “Elizabeth, hear me.” His words were determined, spoken through clenched teeth. “We can’t give up. You have to fight it.”

  She sobbed, and the sound was louder than she intended, more like a series of deep coughs, each one shaking her, hunching her over as she held on to John. “I’m sorry. I . . . want to. I don’t . . . know how.”

  They stood there that way, holding each other so they wouldn’t fall, until her sobs became shallow jagged breaths, until the tears gave way to a round of sputtering coughs, and John started them moving toward the car again.

  The feel of his body at her side, his legs still strong as they moved in rhythm with hers, brought a strength Elizabeth hadn’t felt all morning. But still every step seemed to rattle off her prognosis. Cancer. Spread. Other organs. Liver. Pancreas. Three months. Four. All the while the doctor’s words acted as a backdrop, a running feed that colored every other aspect of her condition. Whether we operate or not . . . whether we operate or not . . . whether we operate or not . . .

  The tears still fell from her eyes, but a new sort of peace filled her heart. Why would she agree to a surgery if half her organs were already affected with cancer? She was already bone thin. More surgery? The ordeal might leave her bedridden for the remainder of her days.

  An image grew in her heart and filled her mind. Ashley on her wedding day, standing at the altar in their family’s church, Pastor Mark marrying Ashley and Landon while everyone they knew or loved filled the building. And where would she be? In a hospital bed, too weak to even get dressed?

  No, she wouldn’t have it. Yes, they’d asked for a miracle, and God could still give them one. She was still afraid to die, still certain that somehow she’d survive even this type of cancer. But they’d also prayed for wisdom, hadn’t they? As long as she was breathing, God could change her condition. But the doctor had given them all the wisdom they needed at this point.

  Whether we operate or not, three months . . . maybe four.

  They reached the car, and John helped her inside. When he climbed in beside her, she searched his eyes. God . . . let him understand what I’m about to say. Please, God.

  “John . . .”

  “I know.” He slipped the key in the ignition and started the engine. “We can talk at home.”

  “No.” The calm in her voice surprised even her. “Please. I have something to say.”

  He shifted sideways and slipped his fingers between hers. “Okay.” A knowing filled his features, and he almost winced as he waited.

  Elizabeth tilted her head and willed him to see it her way. “I don’t want another operation, John.”

  His shoulders fell an inch and his expression wilted. “What if the doctor’s wrong about the liver? Lots of people function with one lung,
and the pancreas can be removed.”

  “It’s in my lymph system. You and I both know that means cancer cells could show up anywhere, anytime.” She lifted her chin and gazed at the sky for a moment. “Open me up now and I might never get out of bed again.” Her eyes locked on his. “I can’t have that happen. God can cure me with another round of chemo or radiation; he can give us the miracle we’re praying for. But we asked for wisdom, John, and Dr. Steinman gave it to us. The surgery won’t make a difference, so why have it?”

  John exhaled and dropped his head into his free hand. For a moment he rubbed his thumb and forefinger along his brow, his anguish echoing with each breath. “How . . . how can you give up?” His hand fell away and he looked at her. “Lung cancer, Elizabeth.” The fight was gone from his voice. “Surgery isn’t optional. It’s the only way around it.”

  “If it was only in my lungs I’d agree.” Her words were slow, tender, revealing none of the fear that still tore through her. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “You heard him, John. Surgery won’t help.”

  “But . . .” The word hung on his lips and died there. His arms came around her, pulling her close once more. “You’re not giving up?”

  “No.” She whispered the word against the side of his face. “Never, John. I’m not ready to go. I’m still scared to death.” Her throat felt thick and she waited until she could speak. “I told you, after a few weeks I’ll do more chemo, radiation. Whatever. But don’t—” her voice broke—“don’t let them operate. Please.”

  His hold on her grew tighter, but after a minute he relaxed and breathed against her hair. The way his body felt against hers, the tone of his voice, all of it told her he’d known all along that this was the logical decision. But he spoke none of that and said only, “Okay.”

  When they pulled apart, Elizabeth studied his features. His expression shouted of resignation and defeat, but deep in his heart she could see that he agreed. That he was almost relieved by her decision.

  “One more thing.” She held her breath. This request was maybe even more important than the first one.

  He looked at her, waiting.

  “I don’t want the kids to know.”

  John raised one eyebrow and stared out the windshield. “How?” He looked at her again. “They’ll find out. They’ve been asking about your tests since the day you finished the chemo.”

  She was determined. “We tell them we’re optimistic, that I’m going in for more chemo in a few weeks, and that we should all keep praying.”

  “You think that’ll be enough for Brooke? Come on, Elizabeth, she’s a doctor. She’ll want specifics and so will the rest of them.”

  “We’ll tell them the truth; the surgery went well, but they didn’t get all the cancer, and they’re not sure how far spread it is.”

  “The truth?” John bit the inside of his cheek and narrowed his eyes. “The truth is you could be dead before the end of summer, Elizabeth. How can we not tell them that?”

  Dead before the end of summer? Before their thirty-fifth anniversary? Elizabeth swallowed, grabbing at her next breath. Fear and panic joined hands and suffocated her, but only for a few seconds. “It is the truth.” Elizabeth leaned against the car door. She lifted her hands and blew out through pursed lips. “They didn’t get all the cancer, and they’re not sure how far spread it is.”

  He sank back. “If we tell them that much, we might as well tell them the rest.”

  “I can’t have them know the whole truth, John. That I could die.” Sorrow mixed with anger, and her tears came again. “How can Ashley plan a wedding when you and I are planning a funeral? Tell me that, John. Tell me one good reason why I should tell them I have three months when God could still take the cancer away tomorrow. Or don’t you believe God can do that, John?”

  “Yes, I believe.” For a single heartbeat he remained motionless. Then everything about him softened and his jaw dropped. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s the same way I felt about our son, the boy we had to give up.” Sweat beaded on her forehead and she was exhausted. But she had to explain herself. “Why tell the others, when to do so would only cause confusion and pain? If we couldn’t find him, they never would’ve found him either. They’d spend a lifetime wondering about the brother they didn’t know.”

  He nodded. “You’re right.”

  She sobbed twice and squeezed her eyes shut. “So why would we tell them? For what? We had no choice about that child, John; he belonged to someone else long before he was even born.” Her eyes opened and she searched his heart, his soul. “We have no choice now, either. None of us knows the number of our days. This—” she waved her hand about the inside of the car—“this is Ashley’s season of love and happiness and everything she’s ever dreamed of. I . . . will . . . not . . .” She sucked in three quick breaths. “I will not ruin it for her, John. I won’t.”

  “Elizabeth—” he cupped her hand with his—“I won’t either.”

  His words told her he agreed with everything she’d just said, that comparing this to what had happened thirty-five years ago was the quickest way to make him understand. They hadn’t had a choice about the boy, and they didn’t have a choice about this. Telling the kids would only borrow tomorrow’s pain, and there was no sense in that.

  John pulled out of the parking lot and headed for home, silent, probably as struck by what she’d said as she was.

  Plotting and planning and family discussions wouldn’t be enough to find the child they’d given up, any more than plotting and planning and family discussions would be enough to make her cancer mysteriously disappear.

  It would take a miracle.

  Elizabeth corrected herself as she settled into the seat and stared out the window at the busy street. It wouldn’t take one miracle at all.

  It would take two.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ashley couldn’t put her finger on it.

  She’d spent the past hour having tea with her mother, sitting at her parents’ dining-room table going over details of the wedding. It was the second week of June, and her mother looked better than she had in months, more color in her face, more energy.

  But something wasn’t right, the same something Ashley had sensed a dozen times since their father told them the test results. The surgery was successful, but they hadn’t gotten all the cancer; they weren’t sure how far it had spread. The information had felt a bit hazy at the time, but her mother was committed to taking more treatment. At first she’d planned on starting the chemo next week, but because of the wedding she was waiting until the end of July.

  “That way we can have our reunion on Sanibel Island,” she’d told them.

  Ashley had compared notes with her sisters and Luke, and all of them were nervous. Nervous about the idea that somewhere the cancer still remained in their mother’s body, nervous about her postponing her treatment, nervous about taking a trip to Sanibel Island, so far from her doctors.

  But they kept praying, and every day she seemed to get a little better.

  “Okay.” Her mother made a check mark on the notebook she’d been keeping. “You’ve got a cake picked out and ordered.” She leaned back in her seat and took a sip from her teacup. “How ’bout the RSVPs? Do we have a head count?”

  “That was next.” Ashley sorted through a portable file she kept for the planning of her wedding. As she did, she caught another glimpse of her mother, relaxed and drinking tea.

  Despite the unsettling concerns in her heart, Ashley smiled at the image her mother made. If only she had a canvas and a paintbrush handy.

  When Ashley drank tea she liked it in the biggest mug she could find, steaming hot and half full of cream.

  Not her mother.

  Elizabeth collected teapots, dainty china containers with intricate ribbons of gold and other precious metals. She never made just a cup of tea; she brewed a pot. And when it had steeped the proper amount of time, when it was neither “too hot nor too tepid,” as Elizabeth
said, she would pour a fine brown stream into a delicate teacup.

  In some ways the picture of her mother reminded her of her friend Irvel from Sunset Hills, and her love for tea, even until the end. But that was the only similarity. Her mother was still young, still vibrant, still fighting the disease and winning—if her improved appearance was any indication.

  Ashley pulled out a stack of small white cards and laid them on the table. “More than two hundred people coming so far.”

  “We invited three hundred.” Her mother set her cup down and flipped a few pages in her notebook to a list of names.

  “Right. But they have another week to get their responses back.”

  “True.” She ran her finger along the edge of the paper. “How about the Cummins family, your father’s partner?”

  “I doubt it; they’re busy with family issues. At least that’s what Dad said.”

  “Fine. I’ll put doubtful by their names.” Elizabeth ran her finger down a bit farther. “Landon’s Aunt Kathy from Indianapolis and her family—any word from them?”

  “Landon says they’re coming for sure.”

  “Good.” She made a mark by the name and continued down the list.

  They kept up that way until they had a rough idea that two hundred and fifty guests would attend the event. But all the while, Ashley couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow they shouldn’t be talking about wedding guests and cake designs, but whether her mother needed more tests, more treatment. Not after the wedding, but before it.

  The angst stayed with Ashley even after she left the Baxter house. Landon had the day off. He was picking Cole up at school and they were meeting at the park. He was already there with Cole when she pulled into the lot and climbed out of her car.

  She started toward them and stopped.

  With all the worrying about her mother and the details of the wedding, she hadn’t stood back and realized the miracle their lives had become, the three of them. Her two men hadn’t spotted her yet, so she watched them unnoticed.

  Cole was on an old lopsided merry-go-round, clinging to the metal bars while Landon ran alongside it, picking up speed. After a few seconds, he stood back, grinning. Then, when Cole passed by the next time, Landon jumped on and scooped Cole onto his lap. Together they held on as the merry-go-round circled another ten times before slowing to a stop.