Slow Moon Rising (27 page)

That night, after we arrived home, I parked the car in the garage, turned to him, and shook his shoulder until his eyes fluttered open. I told him we were home now. Told him, sleepyhead, it was time to wake up and go to bed. He wiped drool from the side of his mouth, chuckled, and said, “You drive this car so well, Anise, I slept the whole way home.”

I smiled, but I didn't feel the humor.

Inside the house we stopped in the kitchen for drinks of water and to take a moment to flip through the mail Heather had brought in every day and dropped on the countertop before watering our plants. Having created two stacks—one to shred and one to go through later—we went upstairs and prepared for bed. Stepped out of our clothes. Tossed them into an empty hamper. Took showers. Dressed for bed.

I stood at my bathroom vanity, staring into the mirror at his reflection from the opposite side of the room, all the while pretending to rub night cream along my cheekbones. He wore pajama bottoms and a tee. They hung on him, but only so much that I could tell. His wife, who knew him best.

He didn't notice me, noticing him. Picking up his toothbrush. Applying a glob of toothpaste. Bringing both to his mouth to begin the task of doing what I knew he'd done three times a day for as long as he could remember. I watched as
he braced his left hand on the side of the sink, elbow locked, head down, moving it from side to side.

I placed the top of my night cream onto the jar. Turned it without looking, keeping my eyes on this man, this splendid man I'd been blessed enough to marry. I felt my heart flutter as he spit into the sink, drew back, spit again. His head came up, eyes locking with mine, mirrored image to mirrored image.

I turned. “What is it?” I walked across the marble tile—emblazoned in colors of the sunset—looked into the sink, and saw blood swirling in the foam of toothpaste and spittle. Ross leaned over, spit again. Bright red blood splattered against cream-colored porcelain.

“Ross!” I placed my hands on both sides of his face, forcing his mouth open. Tiny blisters dotted across the gums, each one open and bleeding. “Ross, what in the world?”

He stepped away from me, ran his hand along the right side of the touchless faucet. Cold water spewed into the sink, rinsing away the evidence as he bent over it, scooping water into his mouth, swishing, spitting until finally the blood stopped coming.

I handed him a towel I didn't remember getting. He swept it across his lips. Turned his head toward the mirror. Opened his mouth to investigate. Looked at me. Painfully so.

“What's wrong?” I whispered. I felt myself trembling in my core, past the knot of what was to come. What had already begun that I could not stop.

“I don't know,” he said. “It just started.”

“Get dressed,” I said. “We're going to the hospital.”

But my husband shook his head. “I'm fine, Anise. I'm not bleeding out. I'll see Kyle as soon as he can fit me in.”

I knew that look; I wasn't going to get past it. “All right. But compromise. Tomorrow. I'll call Kyle's office first thing. He'll see you right away, I know he will.”

Ross kissed my cheek. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Then I can call?”

“You can call. First thing in the morning.” He slipped his hand into mine, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “Let's just go to bed for now, Anise,” he said. “I'm bone weary.”

Dr. Kyle Ryan's office was ultramodern and part of a quadruplex. Ross and I walked into the building's atrium filled with plants and fountains spewing water that emitted splashes meant to calm patients and their family members. If they were anything like me, they were anything but relaxed.

The reception areas of the individual offices were visible through walls of glass. Automatic doors slid open upon sensing an approaching visitor.

Standing in the center of the atrium, I could see that each office looked the same. A curved receptionist's desk cut from wood and marble in front of peach-painted walls and under low recessed lighting, a waiting area of modern office chairs, a flat-screened television for entertainment, a door leading to where tests were taken and truths were told.

Whether or not one wanted to hear them.

Ross and I stepped through the sliding doors at one that Tuesday afternoon. He'd woken earlier, feeling tired but okay to work, he'd told me. “Half a day,” I said to him. “I've got you an appointment at one. I'll pick you up.”

I spoke with Jayme-Leigh privately before her father had
come out of one of the patient rooms in their office. She agreed something didn't seem right with her father, told me she had talked with Ross for a few minutes and that he, remarkably, had admitted he needed to see a doctor. He felt it, she said, in his bones.

“Don't worry, Anise,” she said, patting my shoulder. “He's healthy. Always has been. This is probably just something little that he'll take a few pills for or some vitamins and be all the better for it.”

I shook my head. I wanted to feel assured. “Maybe so,” I said. “But did you see the blisters in his mouth?”

“Probably just a virus. Or, maybe he's low on B12. Is he taking vitamins?”

“Of course. He's married to me, remember?”

“How does he take them?”

“The B12? We both take a B complex sublingually.”

“Hmm. Okay. Let's just wait and see, Anise. Don't go borrowing trouble, I believe is the old saying.”

“All right, Dr. Claybourne,” I answered with a weak smile.

That weak smile continued, from Ross's office to Kyle's office, where we were taken right back—a privilege of being part of the medical community. We were escorted to a set of scales, which Ross stepped on without hesitation. So different, I thought, than when I am forced upon them. I'd drop my purse, slip out of my shoes. If I wore contact lenses, I'd pop them out. Ross not only stayed in his shoes, he didn't remove his wallet.

And still, his weight was considerably less than normal for him.

Inside the exam room, Ross had his vital signs taken. Blood
pressure was a little low, but heart rate seemed fine. Temp was normal. The nurse asked about his symptoms; he gave them. She looked into his mouth. Without flinching, said, “Okay, Dr. Claybourne. Dr. Ryan will be in with you shortly.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, I said, “You've lost twelve pounds.”

From the exam table he cut his eyes over at where I sat in the one chair the room afforded. “So I have. It's just like you, sweetheart, to notice the exact number.”

I didn't answer. We sat silent, spending long moments looking at medical posters in expensive frames and at the one painting in the room, a Thomas Kinkade that I decided to stand and study while we waited. “Footprints in the Sand,” I said, reading the brass plaque bearing its title. “This is one I've not seen before.”

“Reminds me of Cedar Key,” he noted.

I turned to look at it again. “The colors. The pinks and blues and lavenders he's painted into the sky.”

He blew air from his nose. “I'm already ready to go home, Anise.”

I looked at him again. “What do you mean?”

“Back to Cedar Key. I think I'd rather be there than here. We should think about selling the house here.”

“Now? In this market?”

He shrugged. “It's paid for. Whatever we get is gravy.”

“What about when we come here on the days you work?”

He stared past me. “I'm talking about fully retiring, hon. I realized this morning, as much as I love my work, I just can't do it anymore.”

I walked over to him, placed my hand over his, where it
rested on his thigh. “Ross,” I said easily, “Kyle will figure out what this is and you'll feel better. Let's not make any decisions until after you're feeling better. Deal?”

He brought his eyes to mine. “Deal.” His eyes studied me for a moment before he said, “You're pretty, you know that?”

I laughed, leaned over, and nuzzled him, not caring where we were or who might walk in. “I love you, Dr. Claybourne. You'd better not be too sick, you hear me?”

“I love you too. And, yes ma'am.” He winked. “It's a virus, Anise. Jayme-Leigh and I are both sure of that. So, you stop worrying, okay?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

But I knew I wouldn't stop worrying, not until we knew for sure. We were sitting in the family room, reading, when Ross's cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, looked at the face, and said, “It's Kyle.” Then into the phone, “Hey, Kyle. What's the word?”

I watched him from my chair. He said a few “uh-huhs” and “all rights” until a final, “Okay, Kyle. I'll see you in the morning . . . sounds good. Thank you, my friend.”

He ended the call, sighed, and looked at me. “We're going to run another blood test in the morning.”

My heart quickened. “What kind of blood test?”

“He wants to repeat the CBC.”

“Why?”

Ross stared forward, rubbing his forehead with the fingertips of his right hand. “It's nothing, really. My hemoglobin is a little low.”

“What does that mean?”

He raised his brow as he looked at me. “Probably nothing,
hon. Anemia, I'm guessing. As I've been saying for years now, I need more steak in my diet.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, well you must be thrilled. You have an excuse now when it comes to my no-red-meat menus.”

Ross clasped his hands together and shook them heavenward. “Thank you, Lord! You
are
on my side.”

“Posh,” I said as he settled back into his book. “Ross? Do you think that's it? Really? You just need a few more steaks in your diet?”

His eyes remained riveted to the page. “I'm sure it is, Anise. I'll go back in the morning, have the test run again, and be sitting in front of a fat juicy steak tomorrow night at dinner.”

Kyle suggested we not return to Cedar Key as we would normally have done, but Ross insisted that we return before Saturday's boat parade.

“I'll not miss seeing the boys,” he said to me after ending the call that had come late Wednesday afternoon. “So, like it or not, we're heading back on Friday.”

We were in our bedroom, getting ready to go out to dinner. I sat on the edge of the bed, picked up a brown suede boot, and pulled it onto my foot. “Ross, why don't we wait and see what Kyle says about that?”

Ross left the room for his closet, returning with a tie dangling from each hand. “Which one?”

“The left one.” I pulled on the second boot and fluffed my calf-length skirt over my legs.

Ross tossed the right-hand tie onto the bed and started
the process of putting on the left. When I noticed how hard his hands were shaking, I stood and said, “Here. Let me.” I adjusted the tie to the right length of both sides and teased, “You were never very good at this.”

His shoulders squared. “I beg your pardon, madam. I've always been a good tie tie-er.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Claybourne.”

“You just like to have your hands on me, that's all.”

With the tying done, I ran my hands down the muscles of his chest as though to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from his shirt. “You know me well.”

When I turned to get my purse from the dresser, he swatted my backside. “You bet I do.”

I sent a smile his way. “Are you ordering a steak tonight?”

“You better believe I am. With mushrooms and mushroom gravy and a big baked potato with all the fixin's.”

“Did Kyle mention if that was okay?”

Ross pulled his sports jacket over one arm. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”

“Then you eat it to your heart's content.” I crossed my arms. “But tell me this: why are you listening to Kyle when it comes to eating steak but not when it comes to staying put in Orlando until all the tests come back?”

Ross's hand cupped my elbow as he guided me toward the door. “Don't argue with me, woman. I'm
going
to be at the boat parade. I don't care what the test results are.”

He may not have cared, but I did. “Ross . . .”

“Nope! No arguments tonight. I'm hungry, I want a steak and a baked potato and I may even order something healthy like steamed asparagus or some such nonsense.”

“Yum. White asparagus with olive oil sabayon. My taste buds are doing a happy dance even as we walk down these stairs.”

“So happy for them.”

I wrapped my arms around his arm as together we descended the back staircase leading to the kitchen. “If you're good, I'll let you have a taste.”

“Then I'll be bad.” His eyes slanted toward me.

I squeezed his arm. “I just may like that even better.”

The call came the following morning while I worked on my Christmas wreaths at the kitchen table. Earlier in the day, Heather had brought a breakfast basket of muffins, a decadent coffee, and seasonal fruit bowls along with a copy of the
Orlando Sentinel
. While I worked on my project, Ross sat in the family room, reading the newspaper.

As soon as I heard him say, “Good morning, Kyle . . . pretty good. Enjoyed that steak last night as though I'd never had one before,” I stood. Walked over to the doorway separating the kitchen from the family room, where Ross sat in a favorite chair. I leaned against the door frame and watched as he continued with, “Mmmhmm . . . all right . . . I see.” He took a breath and his eyes closed before he added, “Kyle, I want to go back to Cedar Key this weekend to see my grandson in the Christmas boat parade. If I promise to be back on Monday . . .” His eyes had opened and he smiled. “Thank you.” A stretch of silence was followed by, “Thank you again . . . I'll see you then.”

As he closed his phone, I crossed the room and knelt in front of him. “Well?”

Ross cupped my chin in his hand. “We need more tests.”

My heart hammered and I felt dizzy. Looking at him, I could see how pale he'd become, even more so over the last couple of days. “What kind of tests?”

He sighed deeply, and his hand fell from my face, almost as if he didn't have the energy to hold it there. “I don't want you to get upset unnecessarily . . .”

“What kind of tests?”

“A bone marrow biopsy.”

The room stood still. Life, as I knew it, stopped. A new one entered our home, uninvited. Unwanted. Tears swam in my eyes; they were as unwelcome as the news.