by Connie Cook
When the cafe reopened as "Judy's," nothing was recognizable. The place had a slick, modern feel. Everything was chrome and Formica. Glo's tables and chairs had given way to booths with padded seats, and at the counter were chrome and vinyl stools that twirled around and around to the delight of the very youngest customers. The well-worn hardwood floor was replaced by black and white tiles in a checker board pattern, and Judy had installed a jukebox.
The menu no longer featured Jim's hearty, home-cooked Texan fare but burgers and french fries that came out of a freezer.
"Trust a city girl to fix what ain't broke," the locals grumbled, but the place drew the younger set. And the older customers continued to eat there out of habit.
Judy Brower didn't know Ruth personally, but she'd heard enough about her to peg her as a handful and a potential troublemaker. She was pretty sure she didn't want Ruth to work for her, and Ruth was pretty sure she didn't want to work for Judy, either, though she would have.
But the personal feelings of either or both of the women didn't matter in the end. When Ruth stepped into Judy's Diner to ask about a job, all the openings had already been filled. Just like everywhere else that Ruth tried. "No, I'm afraid we're not looking to hire right now. Maybe try back next month," was all Ruth heard on every side.
Two weeks of joblessness stretched into three.
Ruth stayed busy. Nearly every day, she pounded the pavement in search of gainful employment. She kept the garden weedless. She cleaned. She baked. She even took up sewing again. She'd forgotten how she used to enjoy it. But she couldn't stop worry from creeping over her in unguarded moments.
Mom began saying things, like, "I should really send Pat a letter. Just mention to her, find out if her offer is still open," or, "I can't go on living off your savings. It isn't right. It isn't fair to you."
"I don't know why I'm still hanging on to those acres that I'm leasing," Ruth said one day, going over accounts with her mother-in-law. "It would make a lot more sense to sell off some land."
"But you love your farm. Don't sell on my account," Mom said.
"Why would it be on your account? And I wouldn't be selling the farm exactly. We'd keep the farm house, of course. It would just be selling off the part we don't use, anyways."
"But if you sell outright you'll lose the income from the lease to Johnny."
"But we'd have a lump sum to tide us over for awhile. Just to help out while I'm in between jobs. Just so you stop worrying over that savings account."
"But ..."
"Please stop saying 'but.' It makes sense for me to sell. There's no reason I shouldn't sell it. Johnny keeps asking me to let him know if I'm ever interested in selling. I don't know why I haven't taken him up on it yet."
"Because you love your land, and you'll hate to part with it, that's why."
"But that's silly. I'm not using it. Johnny farms it, anyways. I never plan to farm it myself. Why shouldn't Johnny own it? And if it keeps you from making comments about how I can't afford you and it's time you were moving on, then that would be worth a whole lot more than the land is worth."
"Well, if that's how you feel ... " Mom couldn't help being pleased at Ruth's words. It was so nice to be wanted. If only she could believe that she was also needed.
But after the next storm hit, there was no more talk of her leaving. There was no more feeling of being unnecessary.
Like the last storm clouds, the precursor to the next battering winds to be faced started off smaller than a man's hand. In fact, this cloud was no bigger than a small lump.
* * *
Ruth climbed out of the bath and pulled a towel around herself.
When she was dry, she reached for her clothes and dropped the towel.
The bathroom mirror revealed what Ruth considered her one true beauty – her body. For just a moment, she paused to look solemnly at herself in her natural state, revelling in the sight of the young body, straight and strong but slim and supple. She'd never managed to convince herself that she had any real beauty of face, but she couldn't deny the beauty of form she possessed. She compared her slim strength to Lily's curves that already showed signs of wanting to turn into Mrs. Turnbull's rolls, and the comparison gave her a small measure of exultation. Graham preferred a woman's shape to be on the slender side, she knew.
She took her eyes off the image in the mirror and pulled on her brassiere. She reached around to fasten it at the back and then adjusted it at the front. It rolled up and took a little extra adjusting. As she absentmindedly tugged the fabric into place, her fingers noticed an unfamiliar rising in her smooth flesh. Then her mind noticed it.
"That's funny," she said to herself.
Chapter 20
Ruth wasn't long in the hospital after the surgery. They needed the beds and so discharged her as soon as possible.
On the morning she left hospital, Dr. Lindstrom greeted her with a bedside manner that was a shade too boisterous for Ruth's mood.
"Lucky you found the lump when you did," he said. "The cancer was all contained in the one breast, so there will be no need to remove the other one. I don't anticipate any more problems. I'm confident we got it all this time. Just keep an eye out for infection in the incision. Get right back in here if there's any sign of infection. And make sure you call my office as soon as you get back to Arrowhead or even before you leave Camille if you like. We've got to get your regular check-ups scheduled. Of course, you'll have to be monitored for some years; well, the rest of your life, really. But I don't believe you have any cause for worry. The surgery took care of it. There's no need for further immediate treatment."
"Lucky," he'd called her. Yet he'd also told her she was the youngest breast cancer patient he'd ever had. Ruth felt anything but lucky. She felt dazed. She felt stunned and beaten. And she felt sore.
* * *
The next morning, she woke in a drugged state when Mom crept into her room and placed a cool hand on her forehead, checking for fever.
"Ruth, I'm sorry to wake you. You were having such a good sleep. But two aspirins every four hours for the first twenty-four after leaving hospital, the doctor said. We've got to keep down the inflammation. How do you feel? Are you in pain?"
Ruth mumbled something even she couldn't understand and swallowed the pills dutifully, sipping water while Mom supported her head up.
"I know, Dear. Just rest now. I'll look after everything. Why don't you stay in bed? For today, at least? It's been quite the ordeal. You don't need to get up."
"I do," Ruth swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "I do need to get up. I can't just stay in bed." Her voice was cracked and croaky. She knew it must be late. It must be about ten. She foggily remembered Mom coming into the room at 6:00 to give her aspirin. She couldn't remember taking aspirin in the middle of the night, but she must have. Mom would have seen to it.
She had to get up, get moving. She panicked at the thought of another day in bed.
"Shhh, shhh! Not right now, anyway. Lie back, get your strength back, at least. Maybe after breakfast you can get up. I have breakfast on a tray for you. I'll go get it," Mom said.
When Ruth's legs crumpled under her slight weight, landing her back on the bed, she knew better than to argue. She had to submit meekly to Mom forcing her down gently, picking up her legs and sliding them back under the covers.
The weakness must have been an effect from the sleeping pills. She was certainly getting up after breakfast, however.
When her mother-in-law left the room, she faced the moment she'd been dreading with an irresistible, fascinated dread. She had to look.
In the hospital, she'd been unable to look. Really look. There had been people around her at all times – nurses in and out, the odd visitor, a patient in the bed next to hers. Even while alone in the bathroom, the incision had been dressed. She didn't dare remove the dressing for a look, and when the nurses changed the dressings, all she could do was catch a glimpse here and there.
But now she had to know.<
br />
She unbuttoned her nightgown and slid it off her shoulders, propping herself up on her elbows. Then, cautiously, because the wound was still extremely tender when brushed, she peeled back the dressings and gazed on a sight that caused her mind to revolt.
It wasn't just the ugly reddish-purple line or the unsightly stitches. It was the freakishness of it. It wasn't her at all. This new body couldn't be hers. On the one side, the breast – young, firm, full, and rounded. And on the other side ... the other side, looking as it looked.
Of course there were aids – contraptions – for women like her, designed to disguise her condition from the general public. Her mother-in-law had already purchased one for her. But contraptions wouldn't work for the one person who mattered.
It was over. Even if Graham came back to his senses and came back to her, he'd leave again as soon as he saw her like this.
She could envision the horror and repulsion – horror and repulsion against his will – that would cross his face. He'd never be able to touch her again.
She knew Graham well enough to know that the beauty of a well-formed heart and spirit couldn't compete with the beauty of a well-formed face and body.
It seems to every woman at some point in her life that a woman is nothing without her beauty – that her very womanness is tied up in her beauty.
In that instant, she felt the urge to give in overpowering her.
All her life, she'd fought it. But now, she could become a person like her mother if she chose.
How strange it is that bitterness can be tempting! How odd it is that there are desires in us, beckoning to us to give up on life and hope and happiness and give in to the process that will warp our souls into gnarled, twisted things. Of all the evil passions and desires, the desire for hatred is surely the strangest. The leaning toward wallowing in illicit pleasure is at least understandable. The leaning toward wallowing in illicit pain is mysterious.
But whatever the reason for the temptation, the fight against it is wearying, and for Ruth, it had become exhausting.
She could feel herself giving in. She had no will to fight anymore. She knew if she couldn't find the will to fight, the newly-introduced ugliness of body would seep inward into her soul. But she looked deep inside herself and could find no will to fight. It had all been too much.
Of course Daddy left Mother, she said to herself, the bitterness already gaining a foothold. Even before he left, she was already this person. Her poison drove him away. It drove everyone away; everyone but me. And now I'll become her because I have no will left to fight it. She brought her aloneness on herself. But I haven't. I haven't deserved it. I haven't deserved any of it. It's just NOT FAIR!
The quiet voice inside her mind, always calm in the eye of every storm, the one that never would mind its own business (or perhaps always minded its own business), spoke into her thoughts.
She had a choice. It came to her very clearly. She could choose death, or she could choose life. If she gave in to the true cancer that threatened her true life – if she let it eat away at her from the inside like the worms who ate the king of old – she knew she'd be just as dead as he was, even while she walked and talked and breathed and went about her empty days. She saw it clearly, and seeing it as clearly as she saw it, she could only choose life. And so she did.
"Oh, GOD!" she screamed.
The glass of water beside her bed she took and threw with all her strength at the closed bedroom door before she was even aware it was in her head to do such a thing.
I have no strength left. There's nothing left in me that can fight. I barely have strength to cry for help.
"Oh God!" she said again but in a small voice.
That's all the strength you need. The cry for help is what I've been waiting for.
It was so clear it may as well have been audible.
Yet Ruth felt nothing. She didn't feel a release. All she felt was anger and rebellion. Yet, despite her feelings, her choice had been made. Like a plant on a windowsill, her will turned toward the sunshine.
The door opened cautiously.
Mom's worried face came around it.
"Ruth, what happened? I thought you'd fallen. I heard a crash, and I thought I heard you call out."
"I threw the glass of water at the door. And I got mad at God and screamed at Him. Don't step on the broken glass. I'll sweep it up when I get up," Ruth said matter-of-factly.
Mrs. MacKellum often had a hard time knowing what to say to her daughter-in-law.
She settled on, "I've brought breakfast for you."
Ruth sat up and started to eat. She was surprised to find she could. She was startled to learn she could still feel hunger, but hungry she was.
Mom watched her closely, the concerned look still on her face. Ruth had to laugh at the wary eye Mom cast on her.
"The eggs are very good, thank you. You don't have to stay. I'm all right now." Ruth couldn't understand why, but it was suddenly true. There was a calmness inside she hadn't felt in months. Maybe it was a result of the outburst.
"If you're sure ..."
"I'm sure."
"If I can bring you anything else ..."
"No, this is fine, thank you."
Mom cleaned up the broken glass while Ruth ate. She was nearly out of the room when Ruth said ...
"Mom!"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I mean it. You're one of the kindest people I've ever known."
Mom smiled at her, and Ruth's eyes welled up. It wasn't like her at all. She wasn't a crier. Even when she was a child, she cried seldom. She hadn't cried when her father had left or when Graham had left. Why should she cry now just because someone showed her a bit of tenderness?
You're not in this alone, the quiet voice said.
I know, she answered it. Mom is a gift.
I'll never leave you nor forsake you, the voice spoke back.
When she finished breakfast, Ruth felt as if she could sleep a little more. So she did.
* * *
Two nights later, as Mom made her way to the bathroom late at night, from behind Ruth's bedroom door she could hear painful gasps like the desperate attempts for air of a drowning person.
Mom tapped lightly on the door.
"Ruth, can I come in?"
There was no answer, only another of the horrible drowning noises.
Mom went in.
Ruth was sitting up in bed with her knees pulled to her chest, rocking back and forth and sobbing in a manner that Mom had never before heard, even from a child. It seemed to her that twenty-three years of stored-up tears had finally breached the dam and poured forth in an unstoppable torrent.
"Ruth!" Mom went to her and sat on the bed holding her, trying to calm the wracking sobs so Ruth could at least catch her breath.
"It hurts. It hurts," was all Ruth could manage between gasps.
"The incision?" Mom said, alarmed, jumping up, ready to go to the phone immediately.
"I ... hurt ... in ... side!" she forced out.
"Under the incision?" Mom asked, still not understanding.
"My ... heart ... hurts."
Mom rocked her back and forth and made little shushing noises. The privilege of doing so was unutterably sweet. Yet it was unutterably painful to witness Ruth's pain.
"I ... wasn't ... enough ... for him," Ruth gasped out.
"I ... feel ... like I'm ... not worth ... anything. I feel ... worthless," The last word rose into a keening wail.
"You mustn't tell yourself such things. You mustn't believe that even for a moment," Mom said sternly.
"He ... doesn't ... love ... me. I wasn't ... good enough!"
Mom had nothing to say. Her position was a terrible one. Her anger at that moment toward the son of her womb and of her heart was white hot and terrifying.
Eventually, Ruth exhausted the sobs and lay in a bundle on the bed, drawing shuddering breaths.
"I just had to get that
out of my system. I'll be all right now," she said at last. "I think I can sleep. Go back to bed."
Mom kissed her forehead and silently left the room with the sensation of an enormous rending. There would be no more sleep for her that night.
Chapter 21
"Would you like to come to church with me this morning, Ruth?" her mother-in-law asked her tentatively. Since Ruth's demonstration of grief, she'd felt helpless. She knew Ruth needed more support than she could give her.
Yet she knew that Graham scorned church-attendance. In casual conversation with Ruth upon one occasion, the subject of church-going had arisen, and Ruth had mentioned that her mother had also been opposed. For these reasons, Mrs. MacKellum shied away from asking Ruth to join her in her faithful, weekly attendance, imagining Ruth to share her mother's and her husband's antipathy.
To her surprise, Ruth accepted at once. But if Mrs. MacKellum had known what she was letting herself in for by asking Ruth to church, she might have thought twice.
* * *
The congregational singing was uninspired, the choral singing was sharp, and the piano was flat.
Looking around at the well-scrubbed, well-fed, well-dressed Arrowhead upper class that filled most of the pews, singing familiarly (albeit joylessly) a hymn she'd never heard before, Ruth felt like the only uninitiate in a meeting of an old fraternity.
Ruth couldn't decide if she regretted her decision to come or not. She'd accepted in a moment of an awareness of sharp and almost painful yearning. But that moment of awareness had been replaced by sinking doubt. Would she find anything here but stale crusts of companionship and fellowship?
Reverend Harper's text was found in Isaiah 53. Ruth knew the passage well. She found the frail pages quickly in the aged, fragile Bible from which her mother had read to her every day in her childhood and which she had read to herself nearly every day since.
Time for a new one, she thought as she always did every time she opened its frayed cover. But something about its very age aroused in her a resistance against replacing it. It was an old friend.