Mama's Comfort Food

by Rhett DeVane

  Note: you can use either cooked sweet potatoes or canned sweet potatoes for this recipe. If you use the canned, be sure to drain the syrup thoroughly. Reduce the brown sugar to 1 teaspoon. This will keep the biscuits from being overly sweet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Karen sat at the kitchen bistro table sipping warm herbal tea. A stealthy movement in the dim light caught her attention. “Mom?”

  Joe Fletcher shuffled into the kitchen, his squinted eyes adjusting to the light. “You okay, baby?”

  She smiled at the sight of her father in bold tropical print summer pajamas.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me either. Your mother is sawing logs, so I thought I’d get up and have a cup of warm milk and maybe read for a bit.”

  “Byron’s snoring, too. I could hear him clean through the wall in my bedroom. Nice pajamas, by the way.”

  Joe glanced down. “Bright, aren’t they? Your mother tried branching out into men’s lounge wear last summer. Didn’t quite fly. She has this newfound passion for wild color combinations. I suggested sleepwear ought to be in calming tones. Well . . . ”

  He threw his hands into the air. “It’s a good thing I don’t sleep with a night light on, or this outfit would keep me awake for sure.” Joe slid a mug of milk into the microwave for a few seconds, then joined his daughter at the table with his cup and a plate of gingersnap cookies.

  “This reminds me of back in school when you and I used to sneak midnight snacks,” she said.

  “We’re the night owls of the family, eh?” Joe’s expression grew solemn. “You know, your old man was a pretty good counselor in his day. If you need to talk, he can surely listen.”

  Karen eased the porcelain tea cup into the matching saucer. “I spoke with my boss today.”

  “Hmm.”

  “He’s come up with a rather novel idea—a way to justify keeping me on Georgia Metro’s payroll. I’m unsure about going along with it.”

  Joe took a sip from his mug. “Why?”

  “He wants to film my cancer treatments—the final chemo, surgery, and radiation. We would make a documentary to release in October for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”

  “And you don’t feel right about it?”

  Karen shrugged. “I’ve always been the one behind the camera—exposing other people’s lives, prodding for information.”

  “You do such a good job of interviewing on camera, Karen.”

  The porcelain cup trembled slightly in her hands. “That’s altogether different. I’m drawing them out. This would be me on film. My emotions, my pain . . . my family’s reactions.”

  “I see.”

  “So, there’s more than me to consider.”

  “I would be all right with it if you are, honey. I’m sure your mother will feel the same if it helps you in some way. We can ask her.”

  “I will.” Karen blew out a long exhalation.

  “Is that all that’s eating at you, baby?”

  “No. Will also called to give me a heads-up. Trisha Truman, one of my coworkers, sold the story of my little deception to a national gossip magazine. Also, an article is due out today in the Atlanta paper.”

  Joe frowned. “Oh, my.”

  “Right. It will ruin me professionally. Any credentials I’ve struggled for, my achievements—all will pale in the light of the ugly truth. I’ve lied to the public for years about my identity.”

  “I don’t understand why this woman would do such a thing.”

  “Trisha’s had it in for me since the first week she started at Georgia Metro. Jealous of my position—whatever. And she has the hots for D.J.” Karen shrugged. “Of course, that makes little difference now. She’s won. He’s free game now that I’m out of the picture.”

  Joe reached over and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Now, honey. You don’t know that for a fact.”

  “You should have seen the look on his face, Daddy. He was devastated. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for the pain I’ve caused him. He didn’t deserve it. He’s done nothing but love me with complete abandon and cater to my every whim.”

  Joe felt the heaviness of shared grief. “I’d love to be able to wave my hands and take all of this away from you, baby girl.”

  Karen placed her hand over his. “I know, Daddy.”

  “Would you think about seeing a counselor, besides me?” He hesitated. “As much as I want to help, I’m not very objective when it comes to my only daughter.”

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Sometimes, I think I am truly going nuts.”

  “About the mixed identity issue?”

  Karen shook her head. “No. I know it’s difficult for you, or anyone else for that matter, to grasp. But I never really believed I was British. Mary Elizabeth was a persona I put on every morning—like an outfit or a fancy pair of shoes. I always knew I was plain old Karen Fletcher underneath.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. It became just another thing to do each morning—shower, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and become Mary Elizabeth Kensington. It didn’t get overwhelming until I allowed Donald to get close.”

  “And you couldn’t drop the disguise at the end of a day.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “If I tell you something, will you think I’m a true lunatic?”

  “Sugar plum, you forget where your dear old dad worked for nearly forty years. My patients at the hospital were clearly delusional—not to mention the times I counseled patients in the Forensic Unit. They were mentally ill and had perpetrated heinous crimes such as rape and murder.”

  “I dim in comparison. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Joe smiled. “Unless you come after me or your mother with a butcher knife, I’d have to say that. Yes.”

  Karen hesitated for a moment. “It’s like . . . the cancer . . . getting it was almost a relief.”

  Joe sipped his milk and waited patiently for his daughter to continue.

  “My life was spinning more and more out of control. Work was hectic, the pace of Atlanta was insane, and I was moving toward permanence with Donald.”

  Karen twisted the paper napkin in her hands into a sweaty tube. “I longed for you guys, missed home so terribly. But how could I return? I had slammed and dead-bolted every door behind me.”

  “And like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, you had the power to come home all along,” her father stated.

  “I see that now. It took the cancer to provide a reason strong enough to justify leaving everything behind.”

  “You regret it?”

  She looked thoughtful. “No. That’s the crazy part. The most awful things have happened. I’ve lost everything. And I’m lighter and happier in some ways than I’ve been in longer than I can recall.”

  “The feelings you expressed are not that unusual, Karen. Elvina Houston brought a library book by for me to read—on dragon boating. Ever heard of such?”

  “No.”

  “Neither had I. The book, How to Ride a Dragon, tells the stories of twenty-two breast cancer survivors from Canada. These dragon boats are long row boats from China that are fashioned to resemble a dragon—head at one end, tail at the other. They are crewed by twenty-two women—one sitting in the bow beating out a rhythm on a drum and a steersperson who stands on the back, with the remainder at the paddles. The book explains the legend behind the sport. Throughout the narrative, the women share their stories of diagnosis, treatment, their emotions and physical pain, and how they came to participate in dragon boat racing. It’s all very symbolic of facing down and defeating the dragon of cancer.”

  Joe took a long sip of milk. “The thing that struck me: a number of women expressed the same feelings as you just did, almost to the word. Some of the women saw cancer as this awful interruption to their busy lives. But the others, like you, perceived the diagnosis and ensuing treatment and surgery as a gift of s
orts. They, too, had lives that were difficult and terribly off-kilter. It’s a fascinating book. You may read it if you’d like.”

  Karen dipped her head. “When you’re the one with the disease invading your body, it’s hard to fathom you’re not alone.”

  “It’s personal to you. But there are many more who are battling cancer all over the world.”

  They shared the silence, each lost in private thoughts.

  “How about your young man?” Joe asked in a soft voice.

  “Donald is the one thing I’d keep about my old life if I could.” She turned the engagement ring around on her finger. “That’s left up to fate now.”

  “Sometimes, my precious girl, true freedom comes from relinquishing control.”

  Byron stumbled into the dimly-lit kitchen, narrowly missing a collision with a wheeled butcher block cutting table. “Somebody throw a party and forget to invite me?”

  Joe reached over and pushed a chair away from the table. “Here, we saved a spot for you.”

  Byron yawned and scratched his stomach. “I want popcorn. Anybody else want popcorn?”

  Joe glanced at the oak clock on the far end of the counter. “At four o’clock in the morning?”

  “Why not?” Byron rooted around in the pantry and emerged victorious with a bag of microwaveable kettle corn.

  A few minutes later, he plopped a large pottery bowl brimming with the hot popped kernels in the center of the table. The three Fletchers fell into an easy discussion of local affairs that ended up focusing on Florida State University Seminole football. Rabid fans since the time they were toddlers, Byron and Karen speculated about the upcoming season.

  “They should never let the players graduate,” Byron stated emphatically. “There we were in the late ’90s, national champions, and now, we’re practically starting over!”

  “I haven’t kept up with the roster since your grandmother passed away,” Joe said. “Piddie was such a dyed-in-the-wool Seminole fan. She knew every player by name, number, and position. She and Elvina used to nearly come to blows during football season.”

  “Elvina must have rooted for the Florida Gators,” Byron said.

  “Didn’t stop them from watching the games together on Elvina’s big screen. They got along all right until the two rival teams played each other. Those two ladies wouldn’t be on speaking terms for a good week after that game every year.”

  Evelyn appeared at the end of the kitchen counter. “Have mercy! Has my family gone mad? I could hear y’all carrying on over the sound of my Enviroescape White Noise Dream Machine. From the looks of it, I’m the only one in the house who was intent on sleeping!”

  The chastised Fletchers exchanged sheepish glances. Byron and Karen said, “Sorry, Mom.”

  Joe patted the seat on the chair next to him. “Sorry, hon. There’s another chair here if you’ll join us.”

  Evelyn frowned at the nearly empty bowl in the middle of the table. “Popcorn? At this ungodly hour?”

  Byron raised his hand like a guilty first-grader. “My idea, Mama.”

  “Small wonder you have stomach problems.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Well, as long as I’m up at chicken-thirty, I might as well start a pot of coffee.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for food used to comfort. My friends have brought me dish after dish of their favorites over the years. Sadly, when I’m taking the chemo, everything tastes like mashed-up cardboard. It’s just the thought that someone made their best feel-better food and bothered to bring it over. I know most of the recipes had to have been passed down from their own mothers.”

  Margaret Bronson

  Chapter Twenty

  The waiting area for the oncology practice of Doctors Alex Keegan and Whit Johnson was decorated in subtle tones of teal, pale peach, and a creamy beige that reminded Karen of cappuccino. Framed photographs by a locally renowned artist depicted tranquil North Florida seaside scenes. Lush green tropical plants and whitewashed rattan chairs upholstered in thick cushions created the illusion of a high-end beach rental house rather than an oncology office. Karen chose a recent copy of Southern Living and settled into a soft chair next to an older woman who looked like a combination of Aunt Bea from Mayberry, RFD and Mrs. Olson from a 1960s coffee commercial.

  “Excuse me for bothering you, but you look so familiar,” the woman said. “Are you from Tallahassee?”

  “Chattahoochee originally—although I’ve been away for a number of years. Maybe you’ve seen me here before.”

  “That’s probably it. Everyone starts to look familiar when a person reaches my age.”

  Her smile was genuine: the expression of a come-have-milk-and-cookies, next-door neighbor. The woman extended her hand, a soft grandmotherly sort of hand. Karen instantly thought of Piddie.

  “Forgive my ill manners. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Margaret Bronson.”

  “Karen Fletcher. Pleased.”

  “How do you like Dr. Johnson? Or, do you see Dr. Keegan? They’re both such angels.”

  “Dr. Keegan. He’s fantastic. Of course, I would like to not know him, but . . .”

  Margaret reached over and patted Karen’s hand.“I know exactly what you mean. He and I go way back. I was one of his first patients over twenty years ago when my breast cancer first showed up.” She smiled. “Things surely have changed. You should have seen the carpet back then. Pea green—ugliest shade in the known universe—particularly if you were feeling a little nauseated. The chemo was given with you sitting in a hard-backed chair. They have big cushiony recliners now.”

  “Today’s my last chemo before surgery. And I still have radiation treatments to go after that. Bet it feels good to be closer to the aftermath stage. I didn’t realize they followed a person for so long.”

  Margaret’s face darkened briefly. “Actually, I’m back in chemotherapy. The devil has reared his ugly head once more.”

  Karen could think of no reply.

  “All I asked the good Lord for all those years back was to see my children grow up. I’ve been granted that and so much more. My first great-grandbaby was born two weeks ago. Here, I have a picture. Would you like to see her?”

  “Sure.”

  Margaret fumbled in an oversized straw purse and removed a small bound leather brag book. “Here she is! Christina Hope Bronson. She’s named after me—my second name is Christina—but my grandson and his wife are going to call her Hope.”

  “She’s beautiful. Look at those big blue eyes!”

  “Yes, and her great-grandmamma loves her to absolute death.”

  She thumbed through the remaining pages, pointing to snapshots of her three grown children and a host of grandchildren.

  “Sorry to bother you with all that. My Charlie used to fuss at me about going on and on about my babies.”

  “Not at all. Your husband must be very proud, too.”

  “He was. He passed just last spring. Heart troubles. But he didn’t know much by then. He had late stage Alzheimer’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “I took care of him as long as I was able. Had to move him into a memory care facility for the last four months of his life. It just got too much for me to handle—and the kids, they have their own lives. All the stress was what made the monster rear his head and come after me again, I think. Not that I would have done a thing differently. Charlie was there with me every step of the way when I was sick, and I meant to be there for him.”

  “Your cancer came back after he died?”

  “Not right away. It was six months, almost to the day. I felt a little odd, sore spot—kind of a lump—and mentioned it to my doctor. He ordered a chest x-ray, and there the beast was, his ugly mug smiling back at the radiologist. ’Course, they called it an ‘area of concern.’” Margaret chuckled. “These medical types have so many ways of sugaring up the words. I knew before they actually said cancer that it had come back.”

  Karen frowned. “I thought a person was out of the woods pretty much after five
years had passed.”

  “Oh no, honey. Just because you remove a breast and have chemotherapy and radiation, you’re not assured it won’t recur at some point. Mine came back in the chest bone—the sternum I should say—and now I’m dealing with it. Cancer is a disease that you always live with. You never really let your guard down, not for a second. Never let the monster know you believe in his power.”

  Karen felt her spirit sink to a new all-time low.

  “Oh dear, I’ve upset you. Me and my big mouth. Let me put it another way. The secret to outlasting the threat of cancer is positive living.”

  Karen rolled her eyes. “That word again. I don’t mean to sound like a terrible person here, Margaret. Heaven help me, I’m so tired of being told to think positively!”

  Margaret waved her hands. “No, no. You’ve misunderstood me. I didn’t mean to think positive; I meant to live in a positive way. There’s a big difference.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Well . . . let me think of an example. Okay, say you’re standing on the side of the street. You think to yourself, I can cross this road. Positive thinking. But you haven’t bothered to see if there are any cars coming or looked around for a button to press to trip the light. You just strut out there and wham!—a truck smashes you flatter than a flitter. Now, there you are again. Same road—you still wanting to cross. You’ve studied the traffic flow and know when the signal will halt the cars. You hold your head up high, your legs carry you, and before you know it, you’re safely on the other side. Positive living.”

  Karen regarded her with a bemused smile.

  “Clear as mud? I can see by the way you’re looking at me. You see, it’s one thing to go around saying that you’ll be healthy and live a long life. It’s entirely another to really live each day as if it was the greatest gift in the universe. Love your family. Kiss babies. Play with abandon. Make a chocolate cake and lick the icing off your fingers one by one. Sit and watch a sunset.” She leaned closer and smiled. “Cancer tries to rob a person of all that. Arm yourself with knowledge, but live positively so that it can’t have the power to steal from right under your nose whatever amount of time you have been granted.”