by Terri Osburn
“What is it?” she said, nodding toward the chair at the corner of her desk. The color had returned to her cheeks, and though she’d lost weight and wore wigs to cover her now bald head, she no longer looked as frail as she had at the beginning.
I took a seat. “It’s about Thursday. I can’t cover the Fleming meeting.”
She stopped typing. “Why not?”
“I have something I need to do that afternoon.”
“Reschedule your something.”
A month ago I’d have done exactly that, but not today. “I can’t do that, and we can’t move the meeting either. The Flemings are driving in that morning, and only staying long enough to tour the venue. You’ll have to meet with them.”
Amanda leaned back and crossed her arms. “Last time I checked, I was the boss here, and I’m saying you can’t have the afternoon off.”
With a white-knuckle grip on my coffee mug, I scooted forward in my chair. “I’ve been running this business by myself for weeks. You won’t bring in anyone else, and you won’t let Marquette take on more responsibility. I understand that you’re going through something right now, but, Amanda, I never ask you for anything. I show up. Always. I don’t think one afternoon is too much to ask.”
Her jaw twitched as she stared at me with narrowed eyes and for half a second I thought she might actually fire me on the spot. But whether she liked it or not, she needed me. Even if she wasn’t going through cancer, she couldn’t afford to let me go. I busted my ass for this place, and a huge amount of our new business came from recommendations made by my clients.
Returning to her typing, she said, “Fine.”
That’s what I thought. “Thank you.”
She didn’t respond and I returned to my desk feeling like a super woman. Roberta had given me a homework assignment to find small ways to put myself first. I felt pretty certain I would be getting an A at our next session.
Chapter Sixteen
The day I’d met Jacob on the boat had been stressful and nerve-racking and had nothing on this nondescript Thursday afternoon. As in the past, I was at my old high school to help a friend break down her classroom. Sporting a bright-green visitor sticker on my faded Pirates T-shirt, I did my part—packing workbooks into plastic totes, removing pictures of Emily Dickinson, Charlotte Bronte, and Alice Walker from the pegboard, and sanitizing desks that had probably been in use since I’d been a student.
All while trying to muster the courage to visit the history teacher at the far end of the hall.
Lindsey and I had debated whether or not she should tell him I was coming. Or ask if he wanted to see me. Both felt like too much pressure. I’d decided to wait until the day and if I had the courage, I’d walk down to his room. Courage turned out to have nothing to do with it. Knowing he was so close had me wired and I couldn’t imagine not going to see him. That may have been why I’d pushed Lindsey to rush through the cleanup so I could do exactly that.
None of this meant I felt confident about how Jacob would react to seeing me. He’d made no effort to contact me since the day after the date, and Lindsey said he hadn’t asked about me beyond checking that Monday to make sure I was okay. A word that meant something new to me these days. Dad was right when he’d said there was nothing wrong with not being okay, but what Roberta taught me was that struggling didn’t make me flawed.
It made me human. Amazing how much better your outlook gets when you accept that.
“I can’t fit anything else in this tote,” I said, wiping my hands on the back of my jeans. “Do you have another one?”
“Look in the metal cabinet in the back,” Lindsey replied. “How much more is there?”
I counted the copies of The Great Gatsby. “Fifteen of these and twelve of Ethan Frome.”
She carried a box from her desk to the counter where I was working. “There’s room in here for those.”
We packed the books away, and then Lindsey wrote a description of the contents on the side. Clicking the cap back onto the marker, she looked around. “Is that everything?”
“Unless you have more crap hidden somewhere.”
That earned me a smack on the arm. “This isn’t crap,” she growled. “This is what I need to educate future generations.”
“What you’re doing is boring them to tears.” Every book I’d packed up today was dark, dreary, and always had someone die at the end. Most often whatever female character dared to have an opinion of her own. “Why can’t you teach something newer? Something not depressing or problematic?”
“Because I have to teach the classics, and classics are depressing and problematic.”
“These kids should get to read a love story. A real one. Not that Romeo and Juliet or Wuthering Heights stuff where no one gets to be happy.”
Lindsey carried the newly packed box over to the others already stacked in the corner. “Feel free to come to the next meeting and make that suggestion to the school board. Now,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face, “speaking of love stories, don’t you have someone to go see?”
Butterflies fluttered to life in my stomach. “Be honest with me. Do you really think this is a good idea?”
She crossed the distance between us and brushed something off my face before examining me from several angles. “Now I do, yes.”
I patted my cheeks. “What was that?”
“Just a smudge of dirt. I don’t see any more.”
Glancing down, I spotted a line of dirt across my thighs. “Why didn’t I think of this? Linds, I’m a mess. My jeans are dirty. There’s dirt on my face.”
“Not anymore,” she cut in.
“Seriously, how can I go see him looking like this?”
She waved the question away. “You look adorable, as always. Just go say hello and ask him what he’s doing for the rest of his life. It’s that simple.”
When did my best friend become such a comedian? “What if he says not spending it with you?”
Lindsey shrugged. “Then you say have a nice life and go about your business. Either way, you can’t not give this a shot. You like him, right?”
“I do.”
“Then go for it. I need to use the bathroom, and then I’ll hang out here until you’re done. If he suggests you two go out for drinks or something, just text me and I’ll know not to wait.”
That was not happening when I looked like this. “If we go out again, it won’t be while I’m wearing nine months worth of English classroom funk, thank you.”
“You need to be more spontaneous,” she argued.
“And you need to start worrying about your own love life. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that all of you are so far up in my business while ignoring your own empty dance cards.”
Nose scrunched, she asked, “Who says dance cards these days?”
“Roberta would call that deflecting. You need to find your own Jacob.”
“I don’t date teachers.”
Lindsey had made this baseless declaration before. “That will always be weird, and you know that isn’t what I meant.”
“There’s nothing weird about it. I want to be able to vent about my day to my significant other without having some competition over who has the worst students or who has the most papers to grade.”
Pointing out the obvious, I said, “Why not just find someone who wouldn’t see it as a competition?”
“I’ll put that on my boyfriend order form. Now go before he leaves and you miss him.”
Shaking my hands to cool my suddenly sweaty palms, I took a deep breath. “I can do this. I’m just saying hello, right? How hard can that be?”
“Not hard at all. Especially when you know the guy already likes you.” Lindsey shoved me into the hall. “Room 105, down there on the left.”
Staring past the empty metal lockers, I nodded as if accepting a dangerous mission. “I’m ready.”
She gave me another gentle push. “Go get him, tiger.” When I gave her a what the hell look, she added, “I don�
��t know where that came from. Just go.”
As Lindsey headed off in the other direction, I made my way down the hall with my heart beating in my ears. What was the worst that could happen? He could tell me to go to hell. Or slam the classroom door in my face. Both of those I could survive. They would suck, but I’d survive.
Shoulders back, I picked up my pace while reminding myself to breathe.
Two doors away from Room 105 my cell phone rang. I’d promised Marquette that I would be on call so I checked the screen to find the name of a local hospital. Why would a hospital be calling me?
Tucking into the alcove of a closed door, I answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, I’m calling from the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center downtown. Is this Becca Witherspoon?”
My heart rate kicked up a notch. “Yes, it is.”
“Ma’am, I have you down as the emergency contact for a Ms. Amanda Crawford. She came in unconscious through our emergency room a few minutes ago.”
Since when was I Amanda’s emergency contact? “What happened? Is she all right?”
“The doctors are with her now, but we don’t have a lot to go on. Is there any way you could come to the hospital?”
Stuttering, I said, “Yes, yes, of course, I can. I… I’m in Carnegie right now but I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I panicked at the idea of having to wait for a car, then remembered I was with Lindsey. I needed to find her. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I’m sorry. I have no other information right now.”
“Right.” I stepped out of the alcove to go in search of Lindsey and realized they probably didn’t know about Amanda’s condition. “She’s going through cancer treatments right now. Could that have anything to do with this?”
“What kind of cancer?” the woman asked.
Feeling like the worst person ever, I said, “I don’t know.”
A moment of silence came down the line before the woman said, “You’re her emergency contact but you don’t know what kind of cancer she has?”
I did not need this stranger questioning my relationship with my boss. “I work for her,” I said, as if that cleared up everything. “I’m with a friend so as soon as I find her, we’ll be on our way.”
I ended the call and started to jog down the hall, trying to remember where the bathrooms were, when Jacob rounded the corner.
“Becca?”
Too freaked out to stop and explain, I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” he said, blinking in confusion. “Why are you here?”
“I was helping Lindsey but I have to go. I’m sorry.” Another twenty yards down the hall I found the bathroom and sprinted inside. “Linds? Are you in here?”
“Becca?” came a voice from the second stall down.
“I just got a call from UPMC. Amanda’s in the emergency room, and I need to get there.”
The toilet flushed a second before she said, “What’s wrong with her?”
“I have no idea. They said I’m her emergency contact and they need me to come down there.”
The stall door opened and she hurried to the sink. “Since when are you Amanda’s emergency contact?”
Another question I couldn’t answer. “I don’t know, but I’m probably the worst one ever. I couldn’t even tell them what kind of cancer she has.”
“That’s her fault, not yours. The keys are in my purse in the classroom so we have to get that first.” She snagged two paper towels from the dispenser. “Did you talk to Jacob?”
Impatient, I shifted from foot to foot. “The phone rang before I got there but I saw him in the hall on my way here. I told him I couldn’t do this right now.”
“Did you tell him why?” she asked, her eyes wide.
The memory of me sprinting away from our date while saying I can’t do this flashed through my mind. “Oh, no. I was too panicked about Amanda. He’s going to think it’s the date all over again.”
Grabbing my hand, she dragged me out of the bathroom. “We have to find him.”
“Lindsey, there’s no time. I have to get to the hospital.”
“Then we’ll yell it through his door on the way by.” She stopped long enough to snatch her purse from her desk and we were off again. At Jacob’s classroom, we burst inside only to find the room empty. “Shit,” Lindsey mumbled. “Where is he?”
There was no time for this. “I’ll have to explain later. We need to go.”
Looking around for I had no idea what, she ran over to the chalkboard and wrote Call Lindsey in big letters. “That should do it,” she said. “Let’s go.”
We took the hallways at a full run as I sent up a string of silent prayers that Amanda would be all right.
The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever and for once I didn’t mind Lindsey’s aggressive driving. How she didn’t get a ticket was nothing short of a miracle. Hopefully, there would be more of those today and Amanda would be all right.
“I’m Becca Witherspoon,” I said as I rushed to the desk directly inside the emergency room doors. “I got a call that my boss is here. Her name is Amanda Crawford. Who do I need to talk to? Can I see her?”
The woman behind the desk offered a calming smile. “I’ll let them know you’re here. Have a seat and someone will come out and get you.”
“Thank you,” I said, but didn’t bother taking a seat. Instead, I paced the area, which was nearly empty. A man and a young boy occupied two chairs on the far side. The boy stared at a phone, while the man twisted his baseball cap over and over in his hands.
I had a fresh understanding of how he must have felt and added another prayer to my own that whoever he was here for also made it through.
“She’s going to be okay,” Lindsey assured me. “Amanda is tough, right? Maybe she just had a dizzy spell.”
“Dizzy spells don’t land you unconscious in the emergency room,” I pointed out.
“Miss Witherspoon?”
I spun to find the source of the voice. “That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Patel. Can you come with me, please?” said the heavyset woman wearing a white doctor’s coat over her blue scrubs. “Your friend will need to stay here.”
“I’m good,” Lindsey said, nodding for me to go along. “I’ll be here when you come back.”
I followed the woman and once we passed through the large double doors, she said, “Ms. Crawford is awake and alert. You telling us that she’s going through cancer treatments helped us discover the issue.”
I didn’t feel particularly helpful considering I couldn’t give them any other information. “What was it?”
“The treatments made her anemic. Many of the symptoms she was experiencing are the same as a heart attack so that’s where we were going until we heard from you. Then we ran a test and thankfully found the simpler answer.” She pushed through a large tan door. “Ms. Crawford, your friend is here.”
I’d never called Amanda my friend before. After eight years of working together, I should have. We might not hang out on the weekends, but we spent a great deal of time together and though a bit private—or excessively private—she was still a good boss and a good person. The fear of losing her had been real, and not because I feared for my job security.
“Hey, Becca,” Amanda said. She was lying on a gurney with a long tube coming out of her left arm. “Sorry if I freaked you out.”
Not what I expected her first words to be.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’ve been better.”
Dr. Patel patted her on the leg. “She’s going to be fine so long as she keeps an eye on how she’s feeling and doesn’t ignore any other episodes in the future.”
“No one likes a snitch, Doc.”
“This has happened before?” I asked, feeling like the most horrible person ever for making her take that meeting so that I could talk to a man. Such a stupid reason to send my boss to the hospital.
“According to Ms. Crawford,�
�� the doctor said, “she’s been having dizzy spells for a couple of weeks but didn’t mention them to her oncologist.”
Amanda held up her hands. “Dizziness is a side effect of chemo. I thought it was normal.”
“Now you know that yours is a sign of something more serious.” Glancing my way, the doctor said, “We’re going to keep her overnight to make sure the transfusion does its job, but you can take her home tomorrow.”
“She can’t take me anywhere,” Amanda said. “Becca doesn’t drive.”
“I can still get you home,” I defended. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate you taking care of her. I’ll make sure she doesn’t ignore anything else.”
As the doctor left the room, Amanda stared at me with brows arched high. “You’re my keeper now?”
“You obviously aren’t doing a very good job of keeping yourself.” I fluffed her pillows. “Why didn’t you tell me that you made me your emergency contact?”
The high and mighty expression faded as her gaze shifted to her feet. “I didn’t think there would be any emergencies. I had to pick someone, and you’re the only person I could think of.”
Not the most feel-good explanation ever. “I might have been more helpful if I had more information,” I reminded her. “They asked me what kind of cancer you have and I couldn’t tell them. It’s your right not to share the details, but—”
“It’s ovarian,” she cut in. “Stage three. They plan to take all of the parts, but I have to do the chemo first.”
At nearly fifty, I had to assume there were no plans for her to have children now, but that didn’t mean a full hysterectomy would be as easy as having a tooth pulled. When Mom had her hysterectomy four years ago due to cysts, she’d struggled with the idea of losing her womanhood, as she’d put it at the time. Once she’d recovered and was relieved of the constant pain, she hadn’t given her “womanhood” a second thought.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked, fully expecting to get a vague answer. Or no answer at all.