The Healing Quilt (29 page)

“At least this time we know where we are going,” Kit said as she turned into the parking lot closest to the oncology department. Once she found a parking place, she got out and reached into the back for her canvas bag containing a novel, the latest
Quilting
magazine, a bottle of water, a tiny nativity scene to cross stitch, and cotton yarn to crochet a dishcloth. Long days in hospital waiting rooms passed more swiftly with plenty to do; she'd learned that the hard way. What she didn't have along were Amber's schoolbooks, snacks, and an inflatable pillow for Amber to sleep on. They'd usually brought a fleece throw, too.

How she hated hospital waiting rooms.

After they trundled Teza off, Kit spent some time in the gift shop looking at the card rack and bought several. She browsed through the books, searching for something for Annie Nelson. She'd not called or been over to see what she could do, or bring something for dinner, or just visit. Guilt again.
In not like you've had a family or even a husband to take care of you know.
That voice again, so richly accusing. How many hammer blows would it take to silence the thing?

Back in the waiting room she found a corner chair where she could set up her space. Bottled water on the side table, a lamp to stitch by. Which to start first? She'd done bits and pieces of most of her bag of tricks when Teza returned at three-thirty and said the doctor wanted to see them now. Kit gathered up her projects, repacked her bag, and joined Teza on the march to the House of Horrors.

Doctor Pagnielli, as he introduced himself, motioned for them to sit, and he leaned against the front of his cherry wood desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked from Kit to Teza. “Fm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the cancer has returned and appears to have metastasized to the right lung.” He walked to the wall of x-ray and CAT scan films and switched on the light. “Actually, there is only a very small tumor in the breast, but the lymph nodes appear to be involved, and this dark spot in the lung is of concern.” He pointed out each area, his voice soft with the sibilant
ss
typical of an immigrant from the Middle East. “While some of the test results are not yet available, I believe we need to treat this immediately and aggressively. How long has it been since your first mastectomy?”

“Six years, almost.”

Kit had watched Teza sitting straight and yet relaxed while she felt herself knotting up like yarn after a kitten had played with it. “Please, would you define immediate and aggressive?” Her voice was firm, as if she were discussing the merits of homemade jam versus store bought.

“Yes, of course. My recommendation is radical mastectomy, including the lymph nodes, chemotherapy to shrink the tumor in the lung, and attack any other sites we are not yet aware of. Radiation would start as soon as possible on the lung also. I believe we need a full-body MRI to see if there is any other involvement that might benefit from radiology or surgery.”

“But why the mastectomy instead of a lumpectomy?” Teza asked.

“To forestall any future involvement.”

“So you are saying the cancer has spread to her entire body?” Kit had to clear her throat twice to get the words out.

“No, I'm saying we want to know as much as possible about what we are dealing with.”

“And if I choose to not do anything?”

“Teza!”

“No, dear, let me ask my questions.” Her voice was steady, firm.

“Then it will spread and you will die.” The doctor switched off the lights behind the pictures of doom and returned to his desk perch.

“How long?”

“I can't say for certain. Possibly six months to a year.”

“And if I choose alternate treatments?”

He shrugged. “I do not know.”

“Could the treatments be administered at our hospital in Jefferson City?”

“I can look into that.” He made a note to himself on a clipboard. “Was your first mastectomy done there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do a program of chemotherapy?”

“No. They felt the original tumor was encapsulated, and chemo was not needed.”

“Radiation?”

“No.”

“And you've had six-month and then yearly mammograms?”

“Yes.”

“And self-examinations?”

“Yes.”

“We will do everything we can. There are new protocols now, and we will tailor the treatment to be most effective for your body.”

Teza rose. “I will let you know what I decide.”

“What?” Kit couldn't believe her ears.

“I see.” The doctor stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger.

“I want to know all my options, and I will pray for wisdom in what to do.”

“The longer you wait, the farther it will spread.”

“I understand that, but surely a few more days or a week will not make a significant difference.” One would have thought she was the Queen of England dispensing whatever it was the Queen of England dispensed. Kit alternately wanted to stuffa rag in her aunts mouth and fall pleading into her arms.

“If you would be so kind as to lay out your plan of action and fax it to my home office, then I will call you on Monday to set up a time when we can confer.” Teza extended her hand. “Thank you for your concern. I know I am not following what you would call ‘normal protocol,’ but this is my body, you see, and I have to live with it. Come, dear.” She reached down for Kit's hand. “Let us be on our way.”

“Are you out of your everloving mind?” Kit hissed as soon as they entered an elevator by themselves.

“Can we wait until I get some food in me before we begin this discussion?”

“Fine, do you want to eat here or someplace else?”

“I thought the restaurant at the Double Tree Inn at South Center.

Unless the traffic is so bad that we should eat near here and then head south.”

Kit checked her watch. Nearing five. “Let's give it a try. At least it's not a Friday evening.”

The one good thing about Seattle traffic was that trying not to hit or be hit by someone left no time to discuss the pros and cons of the treatment offered and Kit's all-out horror at her aunt's attitude. Mandatory concentration on driving required all the mental energy Kit had.

“That sure was good pie last night.” Garth looked up from reading his Bible, coffee cup beside his elbow on Tuesday morning. “Just think, two peach pies in three days. Some kind of record.”

“Thank you.” Beth stretched both arms above her head, pulling at the kinks in her shoulders. A jaw-cracking yawn cut her stretch short as she clapped a hand over her mouth. “ ‘Scuse me.”

“You're excused.”

Beth glanced over to where the pie sat under a clear plastic cover. “Looks to me like someone's been in the pie since last night.”

“That darn cat got into the house after all, did he?”

“Amazing how adept he is, put the plate in the dishwasher even.”

“Good thing we picked extra peaches, huh?”

“We?” She arched a brow and tried to give him a stern look.

“Well, they weren't ripe enough to eat, so I did put some in the bucket. I could always go out and buy more.”

“Pick some more?”

He wrapped an arm around her hips and pulled her in close to him. “You heard me.”

Beth laid her arm across his shoulders and her cheek against the top of his head, breathing in his good man scent. “You already been for your run and everything?”

“Yup.”

She tucked her hair back behind her ear. “Any more ofthat coffee left?”

“Just the dregs. You want a sip of mine?”

“No, I'll make more. You want breakfast?” She crossed to the coffeepot and removed the filter, tossing it into the coffee can Garth kept under the sink to be added to his compost, a project he'd started after talking with Harriet. At least the meeting she'd attended with Mrs. Spooner made her more aware of what kitchen scraps could be used. “God wastes nothing and neither should we.” That must be a Spoonerism, since if the woman said it once that evening, she said it ten times. “Funny that you are into gardening, and I'm the one who went to the composting seminar.”

“What's that you said?”

“Nothing important.” Beth looked out the window to see the cat sitting on the shelf under the sill, looking in. “One of these days you're going to be tame enough to come inside and be part of the family.”

The cat jumped down and stalked over to his dish.

“Well, if the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, why would it be any different for a male cat?” She left off fixing coffee, retrieved the box of dry cat food from the pantry shelf, and stepped outside to pour some in the cat dish. “There now, can I go back to my coffee?”

The cat watched her, still poised to leap and run, until she stepped back inside the house. Then he edged forward and crouched down to eat, still facing her with the dish between them.

“Oh, ye of little faith, poor kitty.” She thought about what she'd just seen and said. No matter how sweetly she talked, how much food she gave him, he still didn't trust her.

Am I like that? Not trusting God because I've been hurt?
She shook off the image.
In not God I doni trusty in me, my own fault. He can't trust me.

She returned to making her coffee. “Did I ask you if you'd eaten breakfast?”

“No, but yes.” Garth closed his Bible and notebook and stood. “I ate a breakfast bar earlier.”

“That's all you want?”

“For now. I need to get going. Don't forget your appointment today with Dr. Kaplan.”

Oh, I didnt forget, I just dont want to go.
She kept her gaze on the coffeepot as if mesmerized by the dripping brown liquid.

Garth crossed the room and put his hands on her upper arms. “Please, Beth, if you can't do this for you, do this for us. My whole world seems brighter because you've been feeling better.”

You think mine hasn't? You think I like sinking into that bhck mire that oozes up and wraps itself around my feet to pull me down? She
knew if she looked down right now, she would see it, shiny bubbles popping on the top of the viscous mass, writhing around her ankles.

“Yes, I'll go.” Her whispered agreement was all he needed.

“Good. You want to come by the church afterward, and I'll take you to lunch?”

“We'll see.” She kept herself rigid, not allowing her spine to lean back against his warmth and strength.

He waited, obviously hoping for more from her before he dropped a kiss on the back of her head and stepped back. “You won't be sorry.”

I already am sorry. I'm sorry I got up, I'm sorry I agreed, I'm sorry that I will never live long enough to say enough I'm sorrys.
Her shoulders curved inward to protect her heart that looked to never heal.

“And here I started out the morning really well and now look at me.” She glared at the face in the bathroom mirror. She'd just stepped out of the shower and removed the frilly pink shower cap, shaking her hair loose down her still damp back. “Manipulated is what I feel, and I'm just going to tell him so.” While she wasn't sure if by
him
she meant the doctor or her husband, even anger felt better than the blackness hiding either under the bed or behind the closet door.

She hung on to that anger through making the bed, straightening the towels, even scrubbing her teeth. She stomped down the stairs, after not allowing herself to enter the sewing room, because she'd never be able to stay mad if she started sewing, poured another cup of coffee, ate a piece of naked toast, and headed for the car. She gave about two seconds to the thought of walking, since it was such a nice day, but deep-sixed that idea. If she walked that far, she'd never be able to stay mad. Staying mad was a problem. Succumbing to the blackness took no effort at all.

“You can go right on in,” the receptionist said with a smile, one that Beth barely returned.

“Thank you.” The words forced themselves from between her tightly clamped lips. Yes, it was the doctor she was mad at, for now. Garth would hear about it later.

“Ah, Mrs. Donnelly, how are you today?” rine.

His right eyebrow twitched, but he toned down his smile and reached to shake her hand.

No matter what her desire, she could not be rude enough not to shake hands. His warm clasp when he covered her hand with his other and the gentle smile he gave her were almost her undoing.