A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (19 page)

F
inally, on that awful Saturday night, after being unable to reach Garrett and unable to talk frankly with Mary Dell, I dialed Dr. Finney.

Though she’d urged me to call her anytime, I hated bothering her at home. But I simply had to talk to someone, someone who understood what I was going through.

We spent almost an hour talking through my fears, not just about the cancer but about everything: the future of my business; of what would happen to me if the shop failed, or the surgery failed; of how my body would look after the surgery; of chemotherapy; of how Garrett would react to the news; of living the rest of my life alone; of never being wanted again, or having sex again; of everything—and especially the fear…no, make that the certainty…that I was no longer in control of my own life.

We talked and listened and cried together and laughed together. And it helped. It didn’t change anything, but being able to talk made everything a little less overwhelming.

She said one thing in particular that stuck with me: that while I might not be in control of this disease, I
was
in control of my reaction to it—I could be a victim or a conqueror. It was up to me. “One thing I know from experience,” she said, “it’s always a lot easier to be a conqueror if you don’t try to go it alone. You didn’t see Napoleon riding off to battle with just himself and his trusty sword. He brought in some backup.”

“Napoleon ended up defeated, imprisoned, and exiled to a tiny island in the Atlantic.”

She laughed. “Okay, bad illustration, but you get the idea. Evelyn, you need to talk to your family and friends. I know you wanted to wait until after the holidays, but I think you should tell them now. It’s your choice, of course, but think how you would feel if the tables were turned. What if someone you cared about had cancer and kept it a secret from you?”

I saw her point. Margot, Abigail, Liza, and Charlie too—it wasn’t fair to keep them in the dark any longer. I would tell them the truth, all at once so I could get it over with, during our regular quilt-circle meeting. I would invite Charlie to be an honorary member for the evening. Sitting at my desk, I wrote a list of every question I thought would come up during our discussion and thought carefully about my answers. I wanted to be prepared, to tell them on my own terms and in my own way, calmly, rationally, and with optimism regarding the outcome. It would be good practice for my conversation with Garrett. That would come next.

I didn’t want to give him the news over the telephone. I’d briefly considered flying out to Seattle to see him. But after a quick search on the Internet, I realized there were no airline seats available this close to Christmas, not at a price that I could afford. So I decided to call him as soon as I told the others, that same night. Hopefully I’d catch him at home. I didn’t want to tell him while there were other people around.

But it didn’t quite work out that way. On Christmas Eve, while I was baking a pan of cranberry cake and preparing a batch of hot spiced cider to serve to my guests later that afternoon, the phone rang.

“Hi, sweetheart!”

“Hi, Mom! Guess where I am? I just landed at Hartford airport, and I’m renting a car. The company handed out bonus checks at the Christmas party; that’s where I was when you called. After I heard your message, I decided to spend my bonus on an airline ticket. So you’d better send all your boyfriends home and make up the sofa bed. I’m home for Christmas!”

An hour later, he was in my arms and I was crying, so happy to see him, and all my careful planning went right out the window. I sat him down, then and there, before he’d even had a chance to unpack his things, and told him the truth about everything that had happened since I’d come to New Bern. I had to; the others were due to arrive in less than an hour, and I needed to talk to Garrett alone.

Even without practicing on the quilt circle, I managed to get through my speech without crying. When I first said the word “cancer,” his eyes grew wide, but he regained his composure quickly and deliberately, asked good questions, and stayed calm. It was only when he learned about my first surgery that his emotional armor showed a crack.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “You’ve been dealing with this since the fall and you never told me? Your business almost fails, you get breast cancer, have a surgery, find out you need another, and you tell a pile of strangers about this and let them help you through it, but I’m left in the dark? Your own son?”

I nodded, conceding his right to be angry. These questions, and his probable reaction, had also been on my list. I’d already thought through what I should say. “I know. I should have told you, but I thought…Garrett, you have your new job, your new life. I didn’t want to get in the way of that. If the first surgery had turned out the way I’d hoped, I planned to tell you after, so you didn’t have to be worried about anything. I guess I was just trying to protect you.”

His lips pressed into a flat line of irritation. “Mom, I’m twenty-four years old. You don’t have to protect me anymore. I can take care of myself. When the situation calls for it, I can even help take care of you.”

“You’re right. I should have known better. I’m sorry.” I apologized and meant it. “It won’t happen again, I promise. From here on out, you’ll know everything I do. No more secrets. Ask me anything.”

“All right,” he said and proceeded to ask the one question I hadn’t anticipated. “When were you planning on telling Dad?”

It was past eleven by the time everyone left, and almost midnight when Garrett and I finished washing up the dishes and making up the pull-out sofa in the living room. I tried to get him to take my room, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“I’ll be fine here. Last week I put in twenty hours, passed out on the floor of my office for two, then got up and put in another eight. Trust me, I can sleep anywhere.”

I had my doubts but recognized that stubborn look on my son’s face. “All right. If you’re sure. Good night, sweetheart,” I said and gave him a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too, Mom.”

I went into my room, sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and picked up the phone. It was eleven in Texas. Normally, I’d never dream of calling anyone at that hour, but in all the years I’d been married to Rob, I’d never known him to shut out his lights before midnight. I went to bed around ten while he stayed up to write memos or answer e-mails he hadn’t gotten to during the workday, then quietly slipped into bed sometime between twelve and two without ever waking me up.

Gee,
I thought to myself,
think that might help explain why we’re divorced?

I started dialing but stopped before I got the last number. I didn’t want to call Rob. We hadn’t spoken since the divorce. What was I going to say when he answered the phone? Even worse, what was I going to say if
she
answered the phone?

I’d heard from Sharon, one of my old neighbors in Texas, that Tina had moved in with Rob about ten seconds after our divorce was final. Sharon was a terrible gossip, the kind who liked to spread information via her church prayer chain. You know the kind I’m talking about. I was in a neighborhood Bible study with her for a while, and when it came time for us to voice our prayer requests, Sharon’s always went something like, “Dear Lord, please help Francine Diamond, who lives in the house with the pink brick on the corner of Lake Mead and Alamo Drive. Her husband, David, lost his job again for looking at pornography on the Internet during office hours, and her daughter, Denise, has just checked into rehab for her bulimia problem. We just ask that you would help this family, Lord. And encourage poor Francine. Help her lean on your strength so she may be a better wife and mother and understand why her family is in a shambles. Amen.”

Suffice it to say that when Sharon called to tell me that Tina had moved into Rob’s condo and to ask how she might pray for me in my hour of need, I declined the offer.

Sharon was terribly disappointed by my reaction. “Well, if you change your mind and want me to pray for you, don’t hesitate to call. I know how you must be suffering,” she sighed sympathetically.

“Actually, Sharon, I’m not suffering at all. I’m happy in my new life and so busy with my business that I rarely have time to think about Rob,” I said, and it was the truth. Then I said, “But I appreciate your concern,” which was a lie.

Until now, I hadn’t thought much about Tina, except to wonder how she’d lasted as long as she had. I’d only seen her once—about twenty-eight, skinny, big blue eyes, big blond hair, big…well, you get the idea. She worked as a receptionist at the gym. If you’d called central casting for someone to play “the other woman” opposite a midlevel manager in a midlife crisis, the talent agent would have sent Tina. That was part of what made our divorce so awful. I mean, not that I’d have been any happier if my husband had left me for a rocket scientist or a Pulitzer Prize winner, but at least it might have made some kind of sense.

At first I’d really believed Rob would wake up and realize that he’d sacrificed his home, his family, in fact everything that mattered, just so he could move into Barbie’s Dream House, but he never did. It was sad and still a little hard to believe. I’d always credited him with more sense.

An irritating recorded message was telling me, over and over, to “Please hang up and dial again.” I pushed my finger against the receiver, closed my eyes, and groaned. I did not want to call Rob. If Garrett hadn’t insisted, if he hadn’t played on the guilt I felt over not telling him and made me promise…But I had promised. There was no getting around it.

The phone rang several times before Rob (not Tina!) answered. “Hello.”

“Hi. It’s me.” There was a brief pause. For a moment I wondered if he’d forgotten my name and was about to remind him, but he broke in. His voice was worried.

“Evelyn? What’s wrong? Has something happened to Garrett?”

“No. Nothing like that. Everything is fine. Garrett is fine. In fact, he’s here. He flew in to spend Christmas with me.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” he said, and I imagined I heard a touch of wistfulness in his voice, remembering what Christmas was like when we were all together, but if he was thinking of those happy times, he didn’t say anything. He just waited for me to speak.

Taking a quick breath, I jumped in, trying to keep everything as matter of fact and to the point as possible. “Listen, Rob, I said everything is fine, but that isn’t quite right. I have breast cancer.”

“Oh my God!” he gasped. “Evelyn, I’m so—”

“I first found out a few months ago and had an operation,” I interrupted, plowing on. The last thing I wanted right now was for him to start voicing some guilt-ridden apology or insincere expressions of concern. “They weren’t able to get everything on the first go-round. I’ll be going in for a double mastectomy at the end of January.”

“A double…Oh my God,” he repeated. “Evie…I just…I can’t believe it. Is there anything I can do?”

His use of my old nickname annoyed me. “I wouldn’t have bothered you about it, but Garrett wanted me to.”

“I’m glad you did. Yeah. I…I’m just in shock, I guess. Can I help you with anything? Do you have good insurance? Do you need money?”

I shook my head. Typical, I thought. Rob always was a quick draw with his wallet. So much easier than actually doing anything that might encroach on his work schedule or, heaven forbid, his emotions.

“No,” I snapped. “I didn’t call to beg you for money. At the moment, that is the least of my worries.”

“Hey. Evie, that’s not fair. Don’t be like that. I know you must be upset and worried, and I was just trying to—”

“You know, Rob, I really don’t care what you were trying to do. Seems like half the conversations in our marriage were you trying to explain your way out of something. I don’t want to hear it anymore. Since we’re not married anymore, I don’t have to. And don’t call me Evie. I didn’t call to ask for your help, or your money, or your sympathy. I did it for Garrett. Our son made me promise to call and tell you that I have cancer. And now I have. There.”

I banged the receiver down without saying good-night, telling myself it felt good to be able to slam the door in his face for once and wondering if the satisfaction of revenge was supposed to make people cry.

W
e bid Evelyn and her son, Garrett, good-night and walked out into the darkened courtyard. A gentle fall of snow floated down from the night sky at a leisurely pace, like that soapflake snow they use on holiday television specials. Everyone was quiet. I think we were all still in shock. Charlie was the first to speak, and he was angry.

“How could she have waited so long to say anything? I know I’m not family, but surely after all these months she has a clue about how I…”

His voice trailed off, and he left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but it didn’t take any special insight to know what he’d intended to say. For some time, I’d suspected that Charlie’s feelings for Evelyn went beyond friendship. The signs were all there—the lilt in his step as he whistled his way down the street, the special meals he’d made during her recovery, their morning meetings at the coffee shop. He was happier than I’d ever seen him. He’d even taken to complimenting his waiters, a hereto unheard of development. Charlie wasn’t the kind of person who made new friends easily. The life of a restaurateur was much too busy to allow for relationships with people who weren’t also in the business, but somehow or other he found time for Evelyn. It was obvious that he cared about her deeply. In my mind, I finished the question for him: after all these months, how could Evelyn have failed to notice Charlie was in love with her?

I waited for a moment, thinking that Margot would jump in and say something to comfort poor Charlie (she was good at that sort of thing), but she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

Awkwardly, I reached over and patted Charlie on the arm. “She has so many worries right now, Charlie. I don’t think she was trying to exclude you from her life. You heard what she said; she didn’t want to worry any of us, especially with the holidays coming.”

“Well, what difference does that make?” His voice was raised, and I shushed him, concerned that Evelyn might hear him through the windows of her apartment. She was only one floor up from the courtyard. “What difference does it make?” he repeated, whispering but still angry. “I
am
worried. The number of the day on the calendar doesn’t make me less so.”

Margot, as always the soul of sensitivity, spoke. “It doesn’t make much sense to me either, but I’ve never had to face what Evelyn is facing right now. None of us has. Who knows how we would react in a similar situation? Maybe she really was trying to be protective of us, or maybe she was just trying to avoid dealing with reality. Who knows?”

“Well, I can understand her reluctance,” I said. “It’s her private business. Why should she have to share every detail of her personal life with us? After all, it’s not like we’re family.”

Without saying anything, Liza turned to face me. I heard the heel of her boot crunch down into the snow. In the dim half-light cast by the bulb of a single spotlight in the far corner of the courtyard, I could just make out the expression on her face: a look of intense disgust, bordering on hatred; a look she hadn’t cast in my direction with quite as much vehemence since her early weeks in New Bern. What in the world had I done wrong now?

“No,” Margot continued, “but she needs us as if we were. I’m glad her son is here now. He seems like a nice man. But Evelyn said he’ll have to go back to Seattle on Monday. Even if he could stay, she’ll still need our support. This is going to be much tougher than the last operation.”

“It is,” I concurred. “I’ve known several people who’ve been through a mastectomy. It won’t be like before, when she was out of commission for just a few days. We’ll all have to pitch in to help run the shop while she’s recovering. I don’t know much about retail, but if I can help…” Next to me, Liza coughed a few times, interrupting my train of thought.

Margot looked at her. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she answered hoarsely. “Getting a cold.”

“Well,” Charlie growled and pulled his coat collar up, “Evelyn can count on me. She always could. She only had to ask. That’s all I’m saying. It wasn’t fair to leave me…I mean…us in the dark for this long.”

Margot nodded. “I know, but she wasn’t trying to be hurtful or uncaring.”

“If anything, it was the opposite,” I interjected. “She didn’t say anything until now because she does care.”

“That’s right!” Margot beamed, happy to have my support in her efforts to restore Charlie’s spirits. “And after all, she did apologize. That’s why she decided to tell us tonight; because she realized her mistake.”

“Mmmm. I suppose.” Charlie twisted his lips thoughtfully. “We’re supposed to spend Christmas Day together, Evelyn and I. Do you suppose she’ll still want me to come? I mean, what with Garrett here and all? I was going to make my duck confit, but maybe she’d rather have dinner with just the two of them.”

“I’m sure she’d have said something if her plans had changed,” I said, and Margot nodded agreement.

“In that case,” Charlie said, puffing out a big white cloud of breath that seemed to dissipate the last vapors of his anger, “I’d better get back to the restaurant and see to my duck. And my customers. You’d think that people would want to be around hearth and home on Christmas Eve, but the Dillards have decided to throw a party for their friends in my restaurant. Aren’t you one of the guests, Abigail? We’d better get over there. Karen Dillard hates it when people show up late.”

“I’d almost forgotten about the party. Thank you for the reminder, Charlie. I’ll be over directly.”

“All right. I’ll see you soon. Good-night, ladies. Merry Christmas.” He waved over his shoulder as he walked down the alley and disappeared around the corner.

Margot and I responded to his farewell, but Liza said nothing. I could still feel her eyes on me. Her gaze was making me feel very uncomfortable, which was exactly her intention, but I didn’t look at her. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“I guess I should be going too,” Margot said. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Are you still going to go to your sister’s in Buffalo for Christmas? Maybe you should cancel and have dinner with us instead,” I said hopefully. At the moment, the prospect of spending Christmas alone with Liza was far from appealing. She was obviously in one of her moods. Thank heaven I already had plans for the evening, but tomorrow it would be just the two of us. Margot would be the perfect buffer. I had hoped Franklin might join us, but he was going into Manhattan to spend Christmas with his daughters.

“I hate to think of you driving all that way in this terrible weather.”

Margot laughed her musical giggle, looked up at the lazily drifting snowflakes, and held her arms out wide. “You mean this little flurry? Abigail, I thought you were a native New Englander. You can’t think a little snow is going to keep me from getting where I need to go.”

“No,” I fumbled. “I suppose not, but you never can tell. They get terrible storms around Buffalo this time of year.”

“Believe me, I know all about it. I grew up there,” she said. “I’ll be fine, but you’re sweet to worry about me. I’d love an excuse to spend the holidays with you and Liza, but if I don’t show up, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’d be one more thing for my sister to resent about me,” she sighed.

“You don’t get along with your sister?” Liza asked, clearly surprised. Margot shook her head. “Why not? I can’t imagine anyone not liking you.”

Margot smiled. “That’s sweet of you to say, Liza, but nobody gets along with everyone. And it really isn’t that we don’t get along, it’s just that…Well, I don’t know what it is, really. It just seems like my sister has never approved of anything about me. Not since we were kids. Still, she’s my sister, and I love her.” Margot shrugged. “I might not always like her, but I love her. That’s just the way it works in families.”

Liza paused a moment before responding. “So I’ve heard,” she said flatly. “But I really wouldn’t know. Not from personal experience.”

She shot me a final cold stare before turning on her heel and walking away. Her shoulders were hunched as she tramped angrily down the alley. She was trying to make a dramatic exit, but the snow muffled the intended intensity of her stomped footsteps, turning what should have been a drumbeat of departure into a soft “flumph, flumph” of waffled rubber treading on snowflakes. Still, the message came through loud and clear. The sound of her steps grew fainter as she moved farther off; they were an accusation just the same. Reluctantly, I said good-night to Margot, wished her a Merry Christmas, and followed Liza.

At the end of the alley, Liza crossed the street in the direction of the house without speaking to me, still stomping her disapproval. When I exited the alley, I paused on the sidewalk for a moment, considering my options. Perhaps I should go after her, follow her to the house, and try to get her to tell me what was bothering her so we could clear the air and enjoy a nice Christmas together.

It had been years since I’d spent Christmas with family. Not since Woolley died. Of course, I always had my pick of invitations to Christmas dinner. Sometimes I accepted, but more often than not I just stayed home. It was always such a bother—having to buy gifts for a crowd of people you really didn’t know and fussing over what to wear. It always felt so much more like putting on a costume to perform your part in a play about Christmas than partaking of the actual celebration. Christmas should be about walking to church in the snow, attending midnight services with the sanctuary bathed in candlelight, waking up early the next morning and going downstairs in your robe to open gifts from and to people you care about, wandering in and out of the kitchen trying to steal a bite of whatever it was that smelled so delicious, then playing board games in front of the fire, or singing around the piano, or doing whatever you wanted to do until dinner was ready and everyone sat down together to bless the food, talking and laughing and eating too much, tucked up warm and safe together while the snow drifted past the window and the shadows of evening began to fall.

That’s what Christmas should be,
I thought bitterly,
but somehow it never has been. Not even when Woolley was alive. Not since I was a girl, spending Christmas with Mother, and Father, and Susan….

A sudden gust of wind blew down the street, whipping the snow into a furious cloud that stung my face and made me close my eyes against the pain. Liza marched across the Green toward the house.

I shivered, looked at my watch, then took a left turn and hurried down the street in the direction of the restaurant.

Karen Dillard hated for her guests to arrive late.