Reunion

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  “That’s great.” Relief softened his eyes. “I’ve been praying all day that maybe it really has been just the flu or bronchitis, and that even this afternoon you’d start to feel better. And if you’ve talked to God, then—” he looked at her nightstand and his expression became a mix of horror and shock—“Elizabeth . . .”

  She saw out of the corner of her eye what he was looking at. It was the bloody tissue, the one she’d used just before he got home. “Yes.” Her voice was calm, measured. “I’ve been coughing up blood.”

  “But I thought—” he looked at her and then back at the tissue—“I thought you felt better?”

  “I do.” Her heart ached at the look in his eyes and she felt a certain understanding. The fear was gone, yes, but this journey would still be marked with sorrow. It would be her job to help John and the others feel the same peace God had given her.

  She reached for his hand and searched his eyes, praying he might find the peace she’d found. “I’m getting worse, John. We need to tell the kids.”

  “No!” He stood up, staring at her. “What’s this about?” He brushed his hair back, paced to the door, and turned around. “This morning you were sure you had the flu, and now you’re dying? Is that all the fight you’ve got?”

  Thunder rocked the room; she waited until it died down. “I’m still fighting, still praying for a miracle. But the truth is, unless God changes something fast, I don’t have long.” She paused. “That’s what God and I talked about.”

  “So that’s it?” John tossed up his hands and huffed. His voice was tense, fearful, bordering on angry. “What about chemo or a second opinion or radiation? We can postpone Ashley’s wedding, Elizabeth, but you can’t give up.”

  She held out her arms and waited.

  Minutes passed while the storm outside raged every bit as hard as the one raging within John. Then finally the clouds in his eyes broke. First anger, then fear fell from his expression, until all that remained was sorrow. He went to her, dropped onto the bed beside her, and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Her eyes stung, but she wasn’t going to cry. Not now when she was still basking in the peace of surrendering her will. A series of hard coughs shook her body, while John soothed his hand along her back.

  “How long—” he lifted his eyes to hers and waited while she coughed again—“how long have you been coughing up blood?”

  “Like that?” She looked at the tissue on the nightstand. “Just today. But it’s happened twice in the last hour.”

  John gave a slow nod. Then he buried his face in her shoulder and stretched out alongside her. “Tell me about you and God.”

  “It was a verse I saw today.” Three more coughs tore at her. “A verse from Luke: ‘Not my will, but yours be done.’ ”

  She felt him stiffen. “Earlier . . . after you got sick again I saw that verse and thought of you.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She inhaled slowly. Her lungs rattled in a way John could certainly hear, too. “I read it today and I remembered something my dad said.”

  “Your dad?” He cuddled against her, clinging to her. “You mean the man who hated me?”

  She managed a sad, small laugh. “This was before he hated you.”

  “Okay, go ahead then.”

  “Anyway—” another cough—“he told me that knowing God’s will was like getting in the car and letting God do the driving. You, the passenger, never have to worry about a thing because God’s at the wheel. No matter how scary the ride gets, God’s in control, and in the end he’ll get you home safely.”

  “Hmmm.” John hesitated. “Lots of wisdom for a mean guy.”

  “Right.” She breathed in the smell of him, the sensation of his body against hers even with her sweats and the lumpy sheets and his clothes separating them. “That’s what I thought.”

  They were quiet, holding on to the moment. “The Scripture? That’s why you felt better today?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her bones ached again, and she made a slight shift of her body. “I’m not afraid anymore.” She exhaled and let herself relax against him. “You can’t believe how good that feels.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She could feel his heartbeat, feel it pick up speed. “What are you thinking?”

  “You think you’re dying, Elizabeth? Is that why you want to tell the kids?”

  “Thinking something doesn’t mean I’m giving up.” Again her words were slow, filled with a peace that had been missing for so many weeks. “It means God’s giving me a glimpse of the road ahead, and I think the kids should know.”

  He slid back so he could see her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “About dying?”

  “Right.” His voice was no longer urgent, but clearly he wasn’t satisfied with her first answer. He pursed his lips and then relaxed them. “Do you think you’re . . . you’re . . . ?”

  The answer became more certain in her heart as he searched for the right words. But the strangest thing was this: She felt even more at peace now than before. She lifted her hands and framed the sides of his face. “I still want to pray for a miracle, and I promise, as soon as Ashley’s wedding is over I’ll go for another round of chemo.”

  “But . . .”

  “But yes, John, I think I’m dying. And I’m not afraid even a little; you know why?”

  Tears flooded his eyes and his chin quivered. He cleared his throat so he could find a way to speak. “Why?”

  “Because no matter what happens now, God’s driving.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The meeting took place the last Friday in June.

  John invited them for seven o’clock and from the moment they arrived, he was sure they knew something was wrong. They never received an invitation to visit without an invitation to dinner. Their conversations with each other were short and hushed, and John saw Kari and Ashley exchange curious looks more than once.

  After everyone was there, John said, “Let’s have the kids go upstairs for a movie.”

  Ashley led the way, and Cole, Maddie, and Jessie traipsed up the stairs behind her. “Let’s watch Cinderella, okay, guys?” Maddie was the leader among the three cousins.

  “Cinderella’s for girls.” Cole’s voice trailed as they reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway.

  “’Cept the prince!” Maddie’s voice squeaked with sincerity. “He’s a boy!”

  The happy noises faded and John gestured toward the family room. “Let’s all sit down.”

  Kari and Ryan took the loveseat near the window, and Brooke and Peter sat at one end of the sofa; Landon saved a spot for Ashley at the other. John helped Elizabeth to the front of the room, where he eased her into one of two overstuffed chairs near the fireplace.

  He took the chair next to Elizabeth’s and sucked in a quiet breath. God . . . give me the words. Elizabeth had asked him to do the talking, and he was of course willing. Now it was a matter of getting through the night without breaking down.

  Normally with this many of them gathered together, conversations would be breaking out across the room—laughter and the sharing of anecdotes from the week. Not tonight. If anything, they each seemed lost in their own world, nervous about whatever the meeting might involve.

  Ashley bounded down the stairs and ran lightly through the dining room. She took her spot beside Landon. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No.” John made a light cough. “Kari could you call Erin and Luke three-way, please. You know their numbers, right?”

  The tension in the room doubled. “Sure, Dad.” Kari did as she was asked.

  John caught a glimpse of Elizabeth. Her cough was worse, but she was using the sleeve of her sweater to muffle the sound. When she looked up, he tried to see past the gaunt hollows of her cheeks and the dark smudges beneath her eyes. He focused on her eyes, eyes that were as filled with peace and serenity as they’d been four days ago.

  She was coughing up more blood with each
day, and he’d had a phone conversation with Dr. Steinman. “The blood . . . it’s related to the cancer, right?”

  The doctor sighed. “John, you know the answer. She’s end-stage. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  “What about chemo?” Again John had known the answer, but he had to ask, had to know if there was something they could do, something other than watching the days pass knowing they were her last.

  “We could try it; it might buy her a few weeks.”

  “But she’d be sick, right? The whole time?” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Worse than before. She’d be bedridden the whole time.”

  The memory of the conversation faded and John looked at Elizabeth again. She was up, able to walk beside him still, though not as fast as a week ago. But this had to be better than putting her in bed, violently ill. Especially if the miracle they were praying for didn’t come through.

  And John had his doubts. Not about whether God heard them. He did, of course. A dozen miracles in their family alone proved that much. But what about now? The idea that God would let her get worse even after the surgery was hard on him. Too hard to spend much time thinking about. It was enough that Elizabeth felt peace; his would have to come later.

  Kari held up the phone. “I have them both on the line.”

  “Good.” John leaned forward. “Put them on speaker, okay?”

  Kari pushed a button on the phone. “Hi, guys. You there?”

  “I’m here.” Erin sounded anxious, her voice giving expression to the way they were all obviously feeling. “Hi, everyone.”

  A round of halfhearted hellos passed around the room, but Elizabeth hung her head and bit her lip.

  John took her hand in his. “Luke, you on?”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “Reagan’s here beside me.” A muffled sound came across the line. “What’s up, Dad? Everything okay with Mom?”

  “I was about to ask the same thing.” Erin paused. “It’s hard not being there in person.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that, too. I just felt we couldn’t have this meeting without all of you here. And this—” he looked at Elizabeth, checking on her, making sure she was holding up okay—“this is the only way we can all be together for now.”

  “Dad . . . we’ll all be there next week, right? Getting ready for Sanibel Island.”

  John held his breath. There was no turning back now, no way to let them go on believing everything in their world was going to be okay. The truth had to come out, and after the next few minutes, nothing about their family would ever be the same again. He exhaled. “That’s what we need to talk about.” He tightened his grip on Elizabeth’s hand. “Your mother and I have decided to hold the reunion here at the Baxter house.”

  Relief flashed in Ashley’s eyes. “I think that’s a good call. We have a lot going on this month, and with Mom still getting her strength back—”

  “Ashley.” John held his hand up. He had to get the next part said or he wouldn’t say it. He’d run from the room and down the driveway or behind the house and across the stream, as far as he could get away from the stark reality of what he was about to say. “We didn’t cancel the trip to Sanibel for convenience.”

  The room was silent.

  Elizabeth inhaled and coughed twice.

  When she was finished, John met the eyes of each of his kids and their spouses. “Your mother’s cancer is . . . it’s worse than we hoped, worse than we told you before.” Every word felt like a blow to his gut, a crippling blow that threatened to drop him to his knees. It wasn’t really happening, was it? He wasn’t really telling them that Elizabeth was dying, that they were about to lose their mother. He squinted for a moment and then looked around again. “They didn’t get all of it when they operated.”

  “We know that, Dad.” Kari dug her elbows into her knees and looked from him to Elizabeth and back. “What’s changed?”

  “Her tests show the cancer’s in her lungs.” John’s voice was raspy now, strained with the emotion.

  Around the room he measured their reactions. Kari hooked her arm through Ryan’s, her mouth open but silent. Ashley hung her head and gripped Landon’s knee as his arm went around her. Brooke folded her arms and hunched forward some. Peter’s hand was on her shoulder.

  Elizabeth coughed again and kept her gaze down somewhere near her feet.

  “Anyway . . .” John massaged the muscles in his neck. His head was spinning and he felt sick to his stomach. “Her doctor thinks it’s even worse than that. He thinks maybe it’s spread to her pancreas and her—” His voice broke. An ocean of sorrow welled in his throat and he couldn’t say another word. He planted his elbow on his thigh and placed his fist against his brow.

  As he did, he felt Elizabeth beside him, felt her hand on his shoulder, her soothing fingers near the base of his neck. She meant to comfort him, but her touch only made him sadder than ever. Not because of the news they were telling the kids, but because the news was true. And in far too few days, her hand on his shoulder wouldn’t be a comfort to him.

  It would be a memory.

  * * *

  The moment her husband’s composure broke, Elizabeth made a decision. No matter how hard it would be to tell the kids the truth, it would be worse to watch John suffer through the process. She closed her eyes for just a moment. Okay, God . . . it’s me. We can do this.

  “What your father’s trying to say is that the cancer’s throughout my body.” She looked around the room and gave each of her daughters a sad smile. “We’ve made some decisions and we want you to know.”

  A stream of tears started down Ashley’s cheeks.

  “Mom . . . can you talk a little louder; it’s hard to hear.” Erin’s voice was high-pitched, as if she was crying, too.

  “Yes, sorry.” Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Dr. Steinman says it doesn’t matter what I do at this point. He sees my condition as terminal.”

  There it was. The death word out there for all of them to hear, in case they had any doubts where this conversation was headed.

  “So, what’s the treatment?” Luke’s voice was less urgent than matter-of-fact.

  Elizabeth felt a tug in her heart. He was so like his father. “Any treatment we’d do would leave me very sick and bedridden until the end. It wouldn’t save my life. Do you understand that, Luke?”

  “I understand, but what if they’re wrong?”

  “Mom, you know they’ve got lots of options now.” Brooke slid to the edge of the sofa, eyes pleading with her. “There must be something they can do.”

  “There is.”

  “Good.” Kari dabbed her fingertips beneath her eyes. “Tell us what it is.”

  “It’s the same thing I’d like each of you to do from this point out.”

  John let his hand fall to his legs and he looked at her. He was more composed now, ready to field questions if she couldn’t. She gave him a quiet nod; she could do this. Since her moment of peace with God, she could do it maybe even better than he could.

  The room was silent, each of them waiting for whatever it was she wanted them to do. She coughed once and then willed herself to stop. “I’d like each of you to honor my decision not to seek treatment. The cancer is in my lungs, my pancreas, my lymph system, probably my liver. It’s an aggressive cancer.”

  She paused but not long enough for any of them to protest. “Dr. Steinman said my condition is terminal either way—with or without surgery or chemo. The difference—” another cough—“the difference is how I’ll be able to spend my time.” She gestured to the chair and each of those sitting around her. “Sitting up and in conversation with you.” She looked at John and put her hand over his. “Taking walks together, sharing memories.” Her eyes found the others again. “Or sick and flat on my back, too weak to leave my bedroom.”

  Brooke’s eyes were red. Hayley sat in her wheelchair a few inches away, quieter than usual, as if even she understood how serious the situation was. “When they say terminal,
what are they meaning? Two years? Three?”

  Elizabeth felt her expression soften. “The doctor gave me three or four months.”

  “Three or four—” Kari covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes betraying her shock.

  “Mom . . .” It was Luke’s voice. “Did you say three or four years?”

  Ashley answered for her. “Months, Luke. She said three or four months.”

  Kari was the first to move. She crossed the room and knelt near Elizabeth’s feet, holding on to her legs and hanging her head. “Mom . . . no! Please, no.”

  A few seconds later Ashley and Brooke joined the small circle, and Elizabeth felt their grief like a wall around her. Across the room, Peter and Landon and Ryan stayed motionless, staring at the ceiling or down at the floor. Anywhere but at Elizabeth and her daughters, clinging to each other, crying.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and savored the moment, memorizing the way it felt to have her arms around her daughters, remembering how they’d always come to her when they were upset ever since they were little girls. They clung to each other now, comforting one another as the reality settled in. Elizabeth had expected more of an argument, an insistence that she have surgery or seek treatment, whatever might buy her more time.

  Instead they had honored her request, believed that if their doctor father hadn’t seen a benefit in surgery or medication, neither could they. She was dying; the facts were out in the open for all of them to deal with.

  Erin’s voice broke the silence. “You could still respond to chemotherapy . . .” Erin was obviously crying. Her nose sounded stuffy, her voice tinny.

  “No, dear. Dr. Steinman doesn’t think it’ll do any good.” Elizabeth ached to hold her, to have her be part of the cluster of girls gathered at her feet.

  “Okay, but—” panic colored Erin’s tone now—“but they have other drugs, newer drugs, right?”

  “Erin, dear?” She spoke loud enough so both Erin and Luke would hear her. “The only thing that would change my diagnosis now is a miracle.”

  “Then we’ll keep praying.” The sound of Erin’s sniffing came over the phone.