Condemn Me Not

by Dianne Venetta

  No, Claire thought, absently wiping a dust bunny from the base of a lamp. Not everyone could do that. Simone may be able to buy a beautiful house and fill it with beautiful things, but could she fill her daughter’s heart with beautiful thoughts and beautiful emotion?

  Recalling their recent confrontation with the girls, Claire thought willful and resentful were better descriptions when it came to Mariah’s heart. Simone might think hovering over a child all day was over-protective, but Claire preferred to think of it in terms of guidance and love. Doubt peppered her chest. Rebecca was going to college, yes. But she also was leaving home to move far, far away.

  Startled by the sound of the phone, Claire swiped another spot of dust and made a mental note to get back in here and clean this dresser. She hurried to the night table and plucked the phone from its cradle, the ring vibrating within her hand. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Atkins?”

  “Yes, speaking,” she said, not recognizing the voice.

  “Hello. I’m calling from Dr. Sorenson’s office. We have your lab results.”

  “Oh yes, thank you,” she replied. Claire had completely forgotten about the blood work, the tests taken only days before Rebecca and Mariah announced their big news. “And?”

  “If you have a moment, the doctor would like to speak with you.”

  The doctor? “Yes, certainly.” Protocol, she thought. Claire imagined nurses weren’t permitted to reveal such personal information, what with all the privacy laws in place. She sat on the edge of her bed and waited, lifting the trim of her pillow sham so that it fanned out for better presentation. She flattened the material against her headboard and wondered briefly what he might tell her. Most likely she was anemic and needed more iron. She’d been low on her last visit. And anemia would account for her fatigue. She’d been so tired of late, so drained.

  Could be stress. She’d been working toward Rebecca’s graduation, adjusting her mind to the fact this would be their last summer together. The Rhode Island School of Design was only a short drive, but she wanted to spend some quality time with Rebecca before she left, just the two of them. In preparation, Claire made reservations for a tiny cottage on the Cape, believing the week of salt air and warm sunshine would do them good. They could rise early and stroll along the water’s edge, have lunch in one of the many cafés and then browse the myriad art galleries and shops that littered the peninsula.

  “Mrs. Atkins?” came the familiar voice through the line.

  “Yes, Dr. Sorenson.” Claire fiddled with the coiled telephone cord. It was the only non-remote handset in the house. “I understand you have my results?”

  “Yes.”

  And? she wanted to ask, but waited for him to open the discussion.

  “Can you come into the office this afternoon?”

  The office? Alarm fired through her. “Certainly,” she answered, without regard to her schedule. “But what for? Did you find something?”

  “Yes,” he replied quietly. “You have leukemia.”

  Claire’s world buckled. Three words, and everything changed. You have leukemia. She clutched the handset, unable to move. You have leukemia. There would never again be a moment as long as this one. A moment filled with shock and disbelief, panic and uncertainty. She had leukemia. She had leukemia?

  But how was that possible? She was only feeling tired, not ill. She was getting older, her bones were achy. She was stressed, burned out—not sick. Working twenty-four-seven for a family will do that to you. Claire hadn’t had a vacation in months. Scrambling after the kids during spring break, Easter, senior prom…

  She’d barely had a break since Christmas. Life had been a madhouse. Rebecca was graduating; Jimmy and Joe had football and dances, a trip to D.C., another to the beach. Four months had passed in the blink of an eye and she was tired, that’s all. Leukemia? How was it possible the disease had infiltrated her body without her knowing it?

  In stunned detachment, Claire walked into the doctor’s office an hour later, bewildered by the fact that she was about to get an education in a subject she never expected the first need to understand.

  Jim rose from his seat, and quickly came to her. Scooping her into his arms in a powerful hug, he whispered, “We’re going to get through this. Don’t worry. You’re going to be okay.”

  Suddenly sapped of strength, Claire surrendered to his embrace. She folded her soft body into the solid warmth of his arms, his chest, the familiar scent of cologne mingled with a hint of exhaust clinging to his clothes. He was strength. He was courage. The office disappeared around them. Whatever Jim said, she believed him. So long as she had him by her side, she could do anything.

  # # #

  Rebecca’s eyes filled with a teary fear. “Are you going to die?”

  “No, honey,” Claire said firmly, “I’m not going to die.” It broke her heart to lie or lead her child to believe something she couldn’t guarantee to be true, but the doctor said this wasn’t a death sentence. It was a trial.

  “Technology and research have come a long way,” Jim intervened, his hand closed securely around hers, as they sat together on the sofa in a united front. Rebecca sat suspended from the edge of her chair. The boys stood rigid behind her. “First we’ll undergo chemotherapy. It’s strong medicine, but it will give us the best chance to knock out the cancer cells and increase the odds for a long and healthy life.”

  “Will you lose your hair?” Rebecca asked, a slight quiver to her lips.

  Claire nodded. “Maybe. And if I do”—she tried to smile—“it’ll give me a chance to buy some great scarves.”

  Rebecca didn’t find humor in the light-hearted comment. Instead, her expression became more pained.

  “We’re going to beat this disease,” Jim said again, and Claire liked the way he continually spoke in terms of “we.” Never “you,” or “mom,” but “we.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’ll have to be careful around people with infections,” Claire directed to Jimmy and Joe, trying to keep them in the conversation. The boys were too quiet, as though unable to comprehend what was happening, or simply numb to it all. Her heart twisted. Only fifteen—this was a lot for an adult to digest, let alone teenage boys. “Because my immune system will be compromised. But they’re making great strides in research and therapy and the prognosis gets better every day,” she added quickly. Claire wanted to erase the despair she saw in their eyes and replace it with hope, because without hope there was no chance for positive outcome. Dr. Sorenson had been clear, describing the differences between those patients who survived and those who didn’t. It was all about attitude.

  “Can’t you get a second opinion?” Jimmy asked, his eyes softening to a submissive hue that was so unlike him, so gentle for the boy who was all action and energy.

  Claire understood. He was strong and fearless, quarterback of his football team, skateboarder-extraordinaire. Where he laughed at his own injury, he couldn’t with hers. “We will. Of course we will, but I trust Dr. Sorenson. If he says I have leukemia”—the word caught on her lips—“then I have leukemia.” Though the word still felt foreign to her lips, Claire was determined not to shrink away from it. Leukemia. I have leukemia. But foreign or not, the only way she was going to beat this disease was to face it—head on.

  SIMONE AND CLAIRE

  “Claire,” Simone spoke her name in a rush of urgency as she hurried in. She flew across Claire’s kitchen, wrapped arms fully around her dearest friend and hugged her close. “Are you okay?” she asked, squeezing hard, as though they couldn’t be close enough.

  Grateful to be held firm within the warm and loving arms of her friend, Claire replied, “I’m fine.” It was the third time she’d said the words today, and if she said it enough times, she was certain to believe it.

  Simone drew back, worry scoring her tawny eyes with pain. “Are you sure? Do you need anything?”

  A cure, Claire mused wryly. But glad to have her best friend by her side, she simply replied, “Just yo
u.”

  Simone took Claire’s hands into her own and bound them together. Her grip was strong, determined. “We’ll beat this. You know we will.”

  “I know.” Quiet, accepting Twenty-four hours into the diagnosis, the weight of it was still settling in. Dr. Sorenson ordered more tests, more blood work and she had another appointment with him tomorrow, but for now she needed support. Claire needed people to listen as she expelled her fears, her concerns, and there was no better person than Simone.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “It was late. Jim was with me and we spent the night explaining to the kids.”

  Simone nodded. “That’s what Mariah said. She was texting Rebecca last night and said she was pretty broken up about it.”

  “She is.” They all were. Feeling the slew of tears coming on, Claire held them in check, stuffing the pain into the recesses of her heart. “But there’s no time for self-pity. There’s only time to fight.”

  “Agreed.” Tugging Claire to a seat at the kitchen table, Simone brushed the mound of red-bordered graduation party invitations aside, and said eagerly, “Now tell me what you know. This morning Mariah was sketchy and didn’t know much of anything. And I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly. “I was so caught up with meetings today, this was the first chance I could get away.”

  “I know,” Claire said, grazing the wall clock with a cursory glance. It was three o’clock and not a moment too soon. She didn’t want Simone to feel guilty because she couldn’t come as soon as she had wanted. Simone had called, told her she loved her, and said she’d be here the first minute she could. It was good enough. Claire had been passing the time addressing envelopes for the girls’ big day. Less than three weeks away, these were supposed to be out days ago, but to say she had been side-tracked was an understatement. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

  Claire relayed as much detail as she could, shared as much knowledge as she could, knowing Simone’s attentive ear would make her feel better, her sharp mind would devise some plan of attack.

  “So you don’t have to lose your hair,” Simone said.

  “I might not. Therapy has come a long way, but if I do, I’m okay with it.” It beat the alternative, anyway.

  “We’ll go shopping.” Simone threw her shoulders back, ramming her posture into a stiff line against the wooden chair. Seated at Claire’s informal dining table, Simone was all business, yet seemed out of place in her charcoal gray suit, the only pop of color a burgundy red camisole popping up between the V of her coat. The attire was in stark contrast to the sunny shade of her walls, white calico lace curtains and blue-checkered valence. But that was Simone. The woman took charge, without regard to location. “We’ll buy you a wig,” she decided. “Do you want to stick with your same color?”

  “Oh God, no!”

  Simone smiled. “Good. I like the idea of mixing it up.”

  Claire laughed. “No, no, I mean no wig!”

  “You’re not going to do the bald thing, are you?” Simone scrutinized Claire’s head and face, delivering an instant assessment. “I mean, more power to women who shed vanity in the face of crisis, but I think I prefer you with hair.”

  Claire chuckled, her heart swaying like a pendulum. “Me, too. But it’s all so new. I don’t really know what’s out there.” And she hadn’t made any decisions. “I don’t want to look like my Great Aunt Ethel.” Claire made a face of distaste. “Her wig was straw blonde and just as dry-looking.”

  “Don’t worry.” Simone patted Claire’s knee, then lightly touched the curls of hair falling around her face. “Technology has really improved. I’ve seen wigs I would’ve sworn were the woman’s natural hair. If you do need one, we’ll get you a wig that feels soft and looks like your current style. No one will ever even know the difference.”

  “Actually,” Claire said. “I was thinking about wearing scarves if I lose my hair. It may only thin, I’m not sure. Besides, I’m not interested in hiding my illness.”

  Simone cocked her head, skepticism circulating in a whir of thought. “We’ll see. But with your facial structure and soft features, you could pull it off.”

  “My soft features?”

  “You always were the pretty one,” Simone replied, matter-of-fact. “Big brown eyes, high cheekbones, shapely full lips and nice square jaw...” Admiration snapped in her eyes, pulling a smile onto her face. “You’re as photogenic as they come.”

  Claire laughed and gathered the unaddressed envelopes into a pile. “I don’t know about that, but thanks for the compliment. I’ll take them when I can get them.” Which was fewer and far between as she got older. Unlike Simone, whose body was sculpted by dedicated gym attendance, her curves had only grown more generous. Apparently vacuuming and dusting weren’t contenders for the Olympic lineup.

  Which was fine with her. She collected the invitations and tapped them into an even stack, placing them beside the envelopes. Jim loved her just the way she was. Claire didn’t need compliments from anyone else. Her gaze sharpened on the woman sitting before her. She reached for Simone’s hands and gave them a light squeeze—glad her friend was here, glad they had abandoned their petty fight after shopping with Teresa, glad they had made amends. Though it was par for the course. She and Simone always had been a stormy pair, and nothing riled them up faster than talk of raising their kids.

  “So what’s next?” Simone asked.

  “Chemotherapy. Dr. Sorenson said the first step is more blood tests, to determine the extent of the damage to my liver and kidneys. My treatment will depend on how far the disease has already progressed. Once we know what we’re up against, we attack it with every tool in the arsenal.” She sighed. “And then we wait.”

  Simone recoiled. “Wait? We can’t wait, we have to fight. Aren’t there things you can do, foods you can eat?” Her intensity ratcheted up a notch as she pushed, “Should you exercise more—what? There has to be something you can do other than wait.”

  “You’re so predictable,” Claire said, affection swelling warmly within her breast. Wait was a four letter word in Simone’s dictionary. The woman needed marching papers, action—and lots of it. “The doctor said I’ll need to eat right and get plenty of sleep, but then we’ll have to wait and see. It depends on how my body reacts to the medicine before we’ll know what we’re up against.”

  “What about your art? Wouldn’t it be good to take up painting again? You know, as a hobby,” she added, but Claire caught the nuance behind the statement, the inference that art wasn’t her job, but a hobby, an idle pastime. “I’ve read that doing what you love lends well to the healing process. It worked for Todd.”

  “I remember,” Claire said. She remembered his battle with cancer, but Simone’s inference to her painting cut her mood a degree. Where she didn’t come out and say as much, Claire couldn’t help but feel the slight. Art is your hobby, because you didn’t make it your career.

  “Seriously, Claire. I think it will be good for you,” Simone continued. “You haven’t picked up a brush in years. Don’t you miss it?”

  Of course she missed it, but between kids, school, housework, Jim and the business, she didn’t have time. When was she supposed to paint—in between dishes and her dash to the school pickup line? While she vacuumed, folded the laundry? How about a Picasso-inspired self-portrait made from tomato sauce?

  Claire wasn’t painting, because it wasn’t realistic for her lifestyle. Torn between desire and defense, she looked at Simone. “I do miss it... But my job is at home, focusing on the house, the kids. I don’t have time to paint.”

  “How dare you want to spend time away from your kids, Mrs. Atkins,” Simone said, tongue in cheek evident, but then she jabbed a stiff forefinger to the table top, the diamonds on her wedding band sparkling beneath the bright overhead lighting. “You need to make time. If this illness teaches you anything, it should teach you that life is short.” Simone grew serious. “You need to make time for the things you love.”

  Life
is short. Was there an echo lingering in her house she didn’t know about? First Rob and now Simone. Life is short. Life moves fast. Carpe diem. “But I am doing the things I love,” she said.

  “Cooking and cleaning?” Simone’s brow gathered in disapproval. “I mean it, Claire.” She pushed back from the table. “You need to do something for you. Life doesn’t have to be about your family all the time. It can be about you, too, you know. You’re allowed to have a life outside of them.”

  “I know that,” Claire said, anger stirring at the insinuation that she had no life. Now Simone sounded like Rebecca. She peered at the red and white invitations, thought of the task she had been performing when Simone arrived. “And I do things for myself.”

  “Name one.”

  The haughty tone grated on her. “Cooking. Like Mitchell, I enjoy creating dishes, trying new things.”

  “Name another,” she said, unimpressed.

  “I read.”

  “What else.”

  “How many more do I need?” Irritation crackled through Claire. “I cook, I read, I take care of my kids. I enjoy my life, Simone, even if you can’t understand it. I find joy in caring for my family. They are what gives me strength, particularly important at the moment,” she emphasized. “I’m making time for the people I love, not things.”