“That means the world to me. You’re so good to me, Cara.” Mopping her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “That’s enough moping around. I came here to take care of you, and look at me. I’m being silly.”
“No, you’re being a realist. Besides, all your hormones are probably going nuts right now.” I hesitated. I wanted to ask her if she’d talked to Lou yet, but I decided to give her time.
“Okay, I’ve told you my latest tragedy. Tell me all about what happened last night.”
I brought her up-to-date on the events of the night before. Considering her relationship with Lou, she seemed surprisingly unaware of what had happened. This confused me, because usually they share everything. Sometimes even too much because little bits of my personal life are brought up in conversation. I kept giving her openings for mentioning him. Finally, I couldn’t take the suspense.
“Skye, didn’t Lou tell you about what went down? I’m sure he’s aware. It was such a big sting. Didn’t they call on the Stuart police for help?”
She stared at the back of my bathroom door. Finally, she said, “Y-yes. He came over after everything went down. When he arrived, I was sick again. He got it into his head that he should take me to the hospital because I’ve been puking so much.”
“So you told him?”
“Since everyone knew at Pumpernickel’s, it seemed like a moot point.”
“Hurrah!” I couldn’t keep the thrill out of my voice. This was going to be so freaking cool! I could just imagine Lou bouncing a baby on one knee. I splashed the water with glee, but she just kept staring at bathroom door.
“Come on!” I said. “Tell me everything. How did he react? What did he say?”
“He asked me if I was sure that he was the father.”
48
I rarely cuss. My dad taught me that if you start cussing the words will sneak up on you and you’ll embarrass yourself. “History is filled with moments when important men showed their true colors by cursing when they thought they wouldn’t be heard. The best habit is one that doesn’t fail you in a pinch. It’s better not to allow those words to take up residency inside your head, so you don’t let them escape in a moment of forgetfulness.”
But I had a lot of choice words to say about Lou. He had danced around his relationship with Skye for months. Being coy, never openly proclaiming her his sweetheart. Once when MJ asked him if he was going to buy Skye a diamond for Christmas, he got all huffy and told her to mind her own business. Another time, when Sid called her “your girlfriend” to his face, the big cop had glared at the boy.
I hauled myself out of my tub and let fly with the sort of language my parents would have never approved of. Skye handed me a towel and pivoted to rest her hands on the countertop. Between sobs, she choked out, “It’s okay. I still want this baby. No matter what Lou says or thinks. Financially it’ll be a struggle, but I’ll manage. To be fair, I guess the pregnancy took him by surprise.”
I bit back a snarky comment. Why is it that when women get pregnant after having sex with a man, the man claims to be “surprised?” It’s like this bizarre variation on NIMBY, not in my back yard. Oh yeah, other men get women pregnant, but not me.
“What’s wrong with him? How dumb can he be?”
Maybe Lou slept through Human Biology 101. Or flunked it. More likely, he willfully ignored it, as many of us try to do. Point being: If you have sex, you run the risk of a pregnancy occurring. No matter how much you aren’t expecting a baby as an outcome, it’s still a possibility. To pretend otherwise is wishful thinking. Scratch that. Delusional thinking.
“Maybe I’m being unfair to him,” said Skye. “He never made a commitment.”
“Uh, when you go to bed with someone, you’re making a commitment.”
“That’s your Roman Catholic upbringing.”
“Maybe. Possibly. Okay, yes.”
I was furious with the Lou. I wanted to march right into the Stuart Police Station and throttle him. Instead, I toweled off quickly, walked into my bedroom, and tried to pull on a pair of jeans. Not the wisest move. Forgetting my messed up arm, I lurched to one side and fell on my bed with my pants around my ankles. In response, my mattress and box springs groaned.
“Mom? You okay in there?” Tommy yelled through the closed door.
“Never better!” My weird position—supported on my good elbow, pants half on and half off—gave Skye a case of the giggles.
“Were you really planning to go commando? You’ve always struck me as a panties and bra type of girl.”
“No. I was too angry to think,” I said as she hauled me to my feet. Between us, we managed to get me dressed. “What am I going to do without you, Skye? I can’t even get my clothes on!”
“How about if I move in for a while? I can sleep upstairs.” She shivered. “In fact, I really don’t want to be alone in my apartment right now.”
“You don’t think Lou would come and yell at you, do you?” The thought horrified me.
“No, but I don’t need to look out my window and see customers coming from Pumpernickel’s or deal with Lou. If he ever shows up at my door. Which he won’t. He’ll probably act like he doesn’t know me.”
“That jerk.”
She sighed. “At least he didn’t hit me.”
We’d no sooner gotten the bathroom picked up, when my cell phone rang. I recognized the number as being a call from Honora.
“Cara, dear, how are you? We heard about the kerfuffle you were involved in last night.” Although she spoke deliberately, there was a certain breathlessness to her voice. Was it just because she was worried about me? Or was there more to it? I wasn’t in the mood for problems. Especially at the store.
“My arm’s a mess, but I’m okay,” I said, not even trying to sugarcoat it. “Fortunately Skye came over to help me take a bath and get dressed. Thanks for holding down the fort. It’s not too busy there, is it? I hope not. I really don’t think I can handle working today.”
“No one expects you to, dear girl. It’s actually pretty quiet. EveLynn is here, but I’m keeping her in the back so she doesn’t bother customers. You know how she gets.”
I did indeed. “Any word from Binky?”
“Only a quick conversation. She’s fine. Evans is, too, and she’s singing your praises. Yours and Dick’s.”
“Where’s MJ?”
“She said she had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh, no. I totally forgot! Okay, got to go. Call me if you need anything.” And I ended the call without waiting for her response.
Skye had been watching me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s MJ. We have to go. To her doctor. The one she took you to. Spalding. We need to leave. Now. Come on,” and I grabbed my purse. Before Skye could ask any questions, I told Tommy and Sid, “I’m on my way out the door. I’ll call you later to see what you might want from the grocery store, okay? If MJ phones, tell her I’m on my way.”
“I’ll pull up my car.” Skye tucked her purse under her arm and headed outside.
Jack realized something was up. He came rip-roaring after me, nipping at my heels. “Tommy! Come grab him!”
“Mom, what’s the rush?” My son scooped up the Chihuahua.
“MJ needs my help. Our help,” I amended my comment, as I slammed the door in his face.
On the way to Spalding’s office, I shared MJ’s secret with Skye. “I know she won’t want you to know, but I don’t see any way around it. Not right now. After all, it’s not like I can drive myself to her appointment. I don’t even know where Spalding’s office is. Gosh, I don’t even know if Spalding is his first name or his last.”
“His last name, but everyone calls him just that. Spalding. How long have you known about this?” Even under pressure, Skye drove carefully. I liked that about her.
“Not long. She’s totally panicked. Her mother died of breast cancer. Besides, she sees herself as all alone.”
“Join the club,” said Skye, under her breath, but I s
till heard her.
49
Spalding’s office turned out to be in Greenwich, a professional office complex off of Military Trail in Jupiter. The length of the drive had me squirming in my seat. “If we’ve missed her, I’ll just…”
“Apologize and move on,” Skye completed the sentence for me.
“Or not.”
“We’ll get there. He’s often running late. He was for my visit. Getting upset won’t help any of us.” She slowed and turned carefully onto Chimney Sweep Court. I have no idea what bright spark thought up the English-sounding names for this stretch of Military Trail. Must have been a true Anglophile. The spot’s surrounded by seaworthy and coastal references, and then—bam—suddenly we’re visiting the British Isles.
As with most professional complexes, this one seemed deliberately designed to be difficult to navigate. A prominent round-about sent us spiraling in a circle. The building numbers were confusing. At last Skye found an empty space, threw her Mustang into park, and we both bailed out at the same time. As we trotted toward the entrance, we passed MJ’s pink Cadillac, looking anachronistic and oddly feminine among a sea of SUVs and Land Rovers, the new favorite choices of the Treasure Coast elite.
We must have looked a sight. Me with my arm in a sling. Her with a pair of red-from-crying eyes. The elevator couldn’t come quickly enough for us, so when it opened and we discovered we’d called the freight car, we shrugged and hurried inside. Leaning against the padded walls, I crossed my fingers and said a prayer that we’d arrive in time. In my mind’s eye, I saw MJ as she’d been that day when she told me about her mother. For the most part, MJ managed to be unfailingly resolute. Occasionally abrasive. Often brusque. Totally opinionated. But all this covered up a soft spot that she took great care to protect. The possibility she’d have to have a mastectomy had peeled away her carapace. When people work that hard to be tough, it can be exhausting to get past their defenses. Usually, they’ve been hurt before—and they aren’t certain they’ll survive if it happens again.
I didn’t want MJ to fall apart.
Selfishly, we needed her at the store.
Unselfishly, I cared about her.
If being tough was the only way she could survive, then I would put up with her stepping on my feelings and offering opinions I’d rather not hear. I could suffer through her rough handling if that’s what she needed to function.
And what if the news was bad? Would she totally come undone?
My mother had handled cancer by pretending it wasn’t happening. She had refused to slow down. She only went to the doctor, because my father insisted. I never saw her cry, although Poppy told me that she did…to him. I never knew whether she was being tough because she thought it would save us (Dad and me) grief, or because she hoped to keep herself from falling to pieces. In the year and a half since she had died, I’d come to the conclusion that I didn’t want to leave this world the way she had. I wouldn’t spend my last days lying and faking people out. Mom’s pretense kept me from talking with her honestly. I couldn’t help her because I couldn’t reach her, and she couldn’t help me because she refused to acknowledge the truth. If she’d been more forthcoming, perhaps we could have found a halfway point, a spot midway between sorrow and love, where we could have drawn strength from each other and moved toward the end together, rather than watching the distance between us grow.
What would MJ choose?
Or would she have any choices?
A solid walnut door stood between us and our friend. Theoretically at least. I wasn’t sure if MJ was still in the doctor’s office or if she’d be willing to see us.
“Ready?” I asked Skye.
“You bet.”
We instinctively squared our shoulders, preparing for the challenge ahead. But when the door swung open, we stared into an empty waiting area. Soft music flowed in from invisible speakers. The aqua and grey tones instantly soothed us. Comfortable seating abounded, as did current copies of popular magazines. In one corner, a trendy coffee maker offered a pleasing selection of brews. The scent of coffee and hazelnut filled the air. A textured glass window blocked the view of the inner workings of the office, although we could make out the shapes of heads bobbing around. A clipboard was attached to a narrow ledge, and it bore a simple directive: Sign In.
But no MJ.
“You don’t think we missed her, do you?” I asked Skye.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“There was only that one bank of elevators.”
“Right.”
I rapped on the glass. When the window slid open, I explained to a young woman in dreadlocks, “We’re friends of MJ Austin’s. I promised her I’d come to this appointment with her, but I was unavoidably detained.”
To underscore my point, I displayed my bandaged arm. The dark skinned woman raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t act impressed. Just thoughtful. As if she was considering what to tell us.
“See, MJ was expecting us. Even though we’re running late. Could we join her now?” I tried not to whine, but my voice did sound pitiful. My face flushed as I realized that I had lied. MJ was not expecting Skye. However, I didn’t care. Without Skye I couldn’t have made the trip. Besides, Skye was a part of our team, and she needed to know whatever MJ was going through. In addition, hadn’t MJ brought Skye here—and heard about her medical concerns? Wasn’t turnabout fair play?
The thoughtful brown eyes on the other side of the window regarded me suspiciously. Her stern expression seemed totally at odds with the pattern of tumbling kittens on her pink scrubs.
Skye gently moved me to one side. “Elizabeth? It’s me. Skye. From yesterday. Remember? I was here with MJ? We don’t want her to go through this alone. I know Dr. Spalding is going to talk to her about her mammogram results, and what’s going to happen next. We’re only here to support her. Can you help us?”
Elizabeth’s protective stance softened. “Hey, girl. Yeah, maybe. Let me check and see if it’s okay. Be right back.”
Although Elizabeth slid the glass shut in my face, I didn’t care. We were finally making progress. Sort of. I sure hoped that MJ would be okay. It would have been awful if she thought I’d deserted her when she needed me.
Skye’s hand patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Elizabeth will take care of it. She’s a sweetheart. Protective of the doc, but a real sweetie.”
I hoped so.
When footsteps marked her return, and the window opened, Elizabeth’s face re-appeared. “I’m coming around to get you and take you back to the doctor’s office. It’s good that you came when you did. You’re just in time.”
Words tumbled past me as the doctor explained the radiologist had found a mass in one of MJ’s breasts. I heard: “Biopsy. Alternative treatments. Lymph nodes. History of cancer. Density. Biopsy. Stage One. Mastectomy. Reconstruction. Radiation. Chemo.”
Very little of what we heard made any sense. Skye nodded and asked good questions, while I tried to sound like an intelligent person. Between the pain in my arm and my exhaustion, I was having trouble concentrating. Fortunately, MJ didn’t notice that I wasn’t myself.
She sat frozen, perched on the edge of her chair. Her face was blank. Her eyes unfocused.
“MJ? Have you heard anything I’ve said?” Dr. Spalding asked. As we waited for a response, our friend blinked.
“MJ?” I put a hand on her forearm.
“What am I going to do?” She turned wide eyes on me. “Who will take care of me? No one will want me. No man. I’ll be a freak.”
This response brought a swift rebuttal from Dr. Spalding “MJ, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve known each other for years. We’ve even dated! Did you think I was only interested in a handful of flesh? For crying out loud. You’re probably the sexiest woman I know, and even if you were wearing a tent dress, you’d turn heads.”
“But I’m sexy because I feel sexy. And I won’t. Not when my hair falls out and I’ve got a big ugly scar where I had a beautiful…girl.” She raised bo
th hands to her chest.
“Didn’t you hear about the reconstruction?” Skye slid an arm around MJ’s shoulders. “As for your hair, it might not fall out. You could always wear a wig. That might be fun.”
“Have you lost your mind?” MJ snarled at Skye. “There’s nothing sexy about a wig.”
“That depends on who’s wearing it,” said Skye. “And what the wig looks like.”
“You supply the sex appeal,” I said. “It’s not your hair or your clothes. MJ, this is a shock. Give yourself time. You don’t need to fret over every detail.”
“I’d hardly call one of my breasts a detail.”
Now I was ticked. Maybe it was cumulative. I’d had a rough couple of days. Sure, MJ had received devastating news, but there was hope on her horizon. My mother had been diagnosed as Stage 4 cancer, and she never had a chance. But MJ did. She had more than a fighting chance, and she was wasting her energy by fighting with us.
I could not keep my mouth shut, so I said, “How about this? The surgeon can remove your breast, we’ll take it to a taxidermist and have it mounted?”
“Better yet, we can put it in a frame. No, on second thought, mounted is best because you can hang it on a wall.” Skye put a finger to her cheek as she thought this through.
“Right. You can show it off to any prospective dates? That’ll give the men a chance to preview coming events. Or they can climb up on a ladder and take your boob for a test drive. Most guys can only concentrate on one at a time anyway,” I said this with a total deadpan delivery.
MJ looked at me with horror. But only for a tick. Then she burst out laughing, and so did we.
“You want that on a mahogany plaque or a maple one?” asked Skye.
“What should the personalization read? MJ’s left? Or what’s left of MJ?”
“You know most surgeons charge extra for staying within the lines when they cut. Maybe if you use a Magic Marker and draw a guideline, Dr. Hershowitz can just trim around the edges.” Dr. Spalding chortled with laughter, too.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 146