A Sundog Moment Read online

  Elizabeth’s attention riveted on the doctor. “So . . . now do we know—for sure? Do you know, Michael?” Again this was directed at her husband, but he kept his eyes averted while he frowned.

  “Gordon told me last night, Elizabeth. You were asleep and I wasn’t about to wake you. I was going to tell you this morning, but, well, there wasn’t time. Gordon can explain it better than I. And then you can get mad at him; you know, the bearer of bad news and all.” He was so nervous he hardly knew what he was saying. His hoped-for levity fell flat as a burst water balloon; he suddenly felt clammy, every bit of him dreading what was to come. Then he heard Elizabeth’s voice, felt her hand leave his.

  “I would never get angry at you, Michael, for telling me the truth.” The words were quiet, but he heard the reproach and was momentarily surprised. What had he done wrong?

  “Gordon, if it’s not a brain tumor, what is it?”

  With a neutral voice he gave her the clinical details.

  “Multiple sclerosis, probably the milder form, which is relapsing/ remitting. You’ve responded well to the treatment . . .” He continued talking, giving her an overview and then a detailed clinical description of the disease. Most of it she couldn’t understand.

  As she tried to listen intently to everything he said, one word bolted from the rest and she repeated it in disbelief.

  “Incurable?” In others’ lives, she knew there were some things medicine couldn’t cure, but now that it was personal, she couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes. However, there is every reason to be optimistic. Research is coming up with more and more information. It’s merely a matter of time before we have a cure. Or at the least better treatment. There are already some therapies currently available that may slow down the progression. So again, there is every reason to hope.”

  The next question was asked with the confident expectation of someone who has been healthy all her life. It demanded a suitable answer. “What can I do to keep this from ever happening again?”

  She watched him shake his head. “I don’t know how to answer that definitively, Elizabeth. You may never have another attack, or exacerbation, again. We don’t know what triggers an episode, though there are theories. As far as what to do, continue maintaining a good, healthy lifestyle with moderate exercise, and keep stress to a minimum.”

  Incredulous, she could find no words to say, but it was Michael’s voice that spoke for her. “Come on, Gordon, surely there has to be something!” Michael interjected. “Someone, somewhere in the world must be doing something—” He stopped as the doctor slowly shook his head. “Money is not a problem; I can mortgage the business or sell it if the insurance won’t pay. There has to be something more . . . anything?” Michael insisted.

  Gordon held up a hand, keeping his face devoid of emotion. At this moment he wasn’t a friend, he was the doctor. “There is nothing that has been scientifically proven. There are therapies people have used in other parts of the world that do not have the backing of any qualitative double-blind studies that any scientist in our country would accept. And as for throwing money at this disease, there are plenty of people out there who would be delighted to take your cash, Michael, but you would do just as well to flush it down the toilet. Same difference. Believe me. I wouldn’t tell you this if it weren’t true.”

  They listened as Gordon went on to say hopeful things about research, but the only thing they heard was the sadness in his voice.

  Finally, Elizabeth couldn’t bear to hear anymore. She wanted to get away from this place; she wanted to put it behind her, and the sooner that happened, the better.

  “Gordon,” she interrupted, “when can I go home?”

  “Another six days or so. You have to be weaned off these drugs slowly, they are very potent. Once we do that, you’ll be discharged. In the meantime, I’ve called the local MS chapter and asked them to send some literature to you. I also want you to see the neurologist I’ve consulted about your case. In about a month, he’ll be able to check for any residual neurological weaknesses and also monitor you over time. Any questions?”

  There were none. Dr. Jones left with a perfunctory smile and a last bit of encouragement. With the shutting of the door there was an echo of another door slamming shut, the one defining a prior life set apart from this uncertain present. Today would forever be tagged with the identity of before and after diagnosis. Elizabeth almost heard it, but when she caught sight of Michael’s stunned face, her only thoughts were to make it better. To fix it and put a smile back on his face.

  She glanced at the window and bit her lip. The normalcy that was framed by the small window beckoned. She realized the sun was still shining, the sky still blue and cloudless, and suddenly this constancy was enough to steady her. She instinctively knew they simply could not make sense out of this now; there was simply too much coming at both of them from all sides. Too much, too fast. She looked to her husband and realized that “reality” was her love for this man and his for her.

  Their life together was much too real to be held hostage by the confusion in this room. Instinctively, she pushed it as far away from them both as she could, and by doing that felt her spirits lift.

  It occurred to her she had not looked into a mirror in God knew how long. It was almost an electric shock that her outward appearance had been left to the hands of strangers.

  She wanted her clothes and her makeup, and she wanted them now. She knew if she looked good, she would feel good. Hope swelled as she thought that it could very well be that simple. She gave Michael a smile that was like catching the sun. He blinked.

  “Michael, go home and get my makeup—everything I left on the vanity in our bathroom. And please get some decent clothes. I’m sick to death of hospital gowns.”

  Irrationally, his own spirits brightened at the sight of his brave wife and an answering smile met hers. She looked as beautiful as the day they had married. But more than that, the sparkle was back in her eyes.

  “What are you grinning at, Mr. Whittaker?” She took his hand and squeezed it.

  “Oh, just thinking about going home and having to take the trash out,” he teased, hearing the sarcasm dripping from her voice as she said, “Oh you . . . you . . . hopeless romantic.”

  His relieved arms wrapped around her. “In truth, I was thinking how nice it is to have you back. I’ve been damn worried. I still am, frankly.” Her hand touched his mouth to still those words and then she began to stroke his face.

  “You worry too much. Stop it immediately,” she commanded, and then her face became serious. “I’m going to be just fine. Perfect. I promise.” She tweaked his nose just before she pulled him closer.

  They were interrupted by the door swinging open and there stood her mother, Virginia Mae Bartlette, wearing a fluid mauve dress with rows of double buttons down the front and a darker gauzy scarf tied around the neck. Her white hair was styled to perfection, and there were matching dark mauve hoops in her ears. A determined smile was pasted on her face.

  The couple on the bed jerked apart like teenagers caught necking on the couch. “Mother?” Elizabeth didn’t sound too pleased.

  “Virginia Mae, you said you weren’t going to stop by today.” Michael frowned and tightened his grip on Elizabeth’s hand. He did not want her upset.

  “I know, I know; I changed my mind. A mother’s prerogative.” Virginia Mae sniffed. “I decided my place at a time like this should be with my daughter.” With stoic demeanor and squared shoulders, she walked over to the bed and looked down at Elizabeth.

  The composure lasted for a few brief moments before it began, inevitably, to crumble. The lips began to quiver and eyes started to glisten and then tears began to fall. She threw her hands over her face and dropped like a stone to the side of the bed. “Shoot! I wasn’t going to cry.”

  Elizabeth looked helplessly at Michael, who dutifully went over to put a comforting arm around his mother-in-law. Michael had known the instant she entered the room it was a sure
bet that exactly this would happen.

  How many times had he done this over the years, even before old Mr. Bartlette passed away? Even though it was what she always expected, Virginia Mae did not take bad news well at all. Despite being a woman whose life had been comfortable, nothing was ever as right as it should be, and for that she was always personally affronted. It was a dichotomy that grated on everyone who knew her at one time or another.

  “It’s all right, Mother. I’m doing so much better. Please don’t worry so,” Elizabeth begged, hoping to quell those tears. Michael remained there, gently patting his mother-in-law’s back, tight-lipped as he watched while his wife consoled her mother.

  When the tears stopped and she had blown her nose, Virginia Mae looked at her daughter. “I know you’re just putting on a brave front for me. You always do, just like your father. Mercy, Elizabeth, I miss him so.” The sadness settled on the older woman’s face like a veil, revealing at the same time a vulnerability Virginia Mae tried hard not to display.

  “I know, Mother. I’m sorry. I wish I could make it better.” She hugged her mother close, sharing this grayness. Michael, mouth stretched into a thin line, watched his wife doing what he had so often seen her do—comforting, consoling, and then brightening her mother with a loving word or anecdote. He waited a little impatiently for all this to take place, highly irritated at seeing his wife, who was the sick one here, having to expend energy shoring up her healthy but unhappy mother.

  Virginia Mae, more composed now, took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. Gazing straight into her daughter’s eyes, she suggested something she had obviously thought a great deal about.

  “Ever since Michael called me last night, I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out how to help. What could I do for you?” Virginia Mae shut her eyes, sighed, and then gazed lovingly at her daughter’s face. “Then I knew what had to be done. I knew you wouldn’t want to be inundated with inquiries from all the people who know you. It would be tiresome and exhausting and, frankly, it’s nobody’s business. I don’t think anyone needs to know about this; don’t you think that’s for the best?”

  Surprised, Elizabeth wondered what her mother was really trying to say. Elizabeth wasn’t in the habit of keeping things from friends but, on the other hand, it would be very nice not to have to talk about this. Good Lord, she had to get used to it herself. This could be a good idea. But even as she slowly nodded her agreement, Elizabeth suddenly realized that the underlying reason was a little more personal.

  With a diagnosis like this, Virginia Mae’s daughter would no longer be perfect . . .

  Michael understood completely and was furious. “Virginia Mae, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. My God, we’re talking—” Michael began to protest but was immediately cut off.

  “How dare you! I am not ashamed of my daughter; how on earth could you possibly think such a thing? I am merely trying to circumvent nosey, unwanted questions from people who have no business knowing a darn thing about us. That’s all.” She glared at him before settling concerned eyes on her daughter. “Elizabeth understands,” she said. “You do, don’t you, darling?”

  Elizabeth could honestly agree that the fewer questions from others, the better. It would be preferable, at least for now. “I do, Mother, but has anyone told Father Joe? I think he should know. Surely that would be all right?” Virginia Mae looked at Michael, who in turn answered.

  “No, I’ve been so busy with juggling work, coming here, and keeping Kellan informed, I haven’t had the time.” Actually it had never occurred to him to call their priest.

  “I feel like someone’s been praying for me, I am so much better.”

  Virginia Mae immediately spoke. “Well, of course I’ve been praying for you, nonstop, Elizabeth. I’ve been begging God to give me the strength to help you.”

  Michael concurred peripherally. “We’ve all been very worried, Elizabeth.”

  Was that the same as having a prayer lifted up for her specifically? Elizabeth wondered, but let that thought slip away. Her mother had now taken hold of one of her hands again, stroking it and then talking, a little fretfully this time.

  “Carol is back in town, I think for good. Her mother has done everything but actually tell me the divorce has finally gone through. I spoke with her three days ago, and I was so upset. I told her you were in the hospital, that we didn’t know what was wrong, but I think, knowing my sister Julia, that Carol is going to come visiting very soon. Of course, it’s up to you what you tell her. But I would advise anything you do tell her be in confidence.” Although her voice was implacable, Virginia Mae hastily added, “But, of course, it’s up to you.”

  Ever positioned between these two women who had been an integral part of all his adult life, Michael was trying hard not to say anything. He could see how this old woman manipulated his wife, but Elizabeth had never been able to recognize this. She was too busy standing up for her mother, smoothing the way, making things all right.

  Without surprise, he watched as his wife, a determined glint in her weary eye, cajoled a smile from Virginia Mae.

  Trying not to tap his foot impatiently, Michael watched until it finally looked as if Virginia Mae was smiling enough to make her daughter happy.

  He stood up and announced it was time for everyone to leave and let Elizabeth get some rest. “Come, Virginia Mae, I’ll take you home. No? You have your car? Fine, I’ll walk you to it.” He leaned over and brushed Elizabeth’s face with a light kiss. “I’ll be back later,” he promised, but she couldn’t help noticing the worried shadows on his face.

  Chapter Two

  Waiting through the long days at the hospital, Elizabeth felt as cloistered as a nun. Since no one knew about her illness, no friends came visiting. Not even her priest.

  During those empty hours alone, she devoured every book Michael brought her, every magazine her mother left, had done a cross-stitch sampler, countless crossword puzzles, and wrote in a notebook daily. She tried hard to push away the impatience for healing. The fact that it bored her to death had to be carefully played against the fact that she was so much better. It was vitally important to be grateful. She appreciated Michael’s visits after work; Elizabeth was determined to be cheerful for him, but it wasn’t a stretch, it was her nature. She also tried, for his sake, to be flippant about the mild side effects of the massive introduction of steroids. Like the puffiness in her face she had been horrified to see in the mirror the first time she was allowed to go to the bathroom by herself. The nurses and doctors repeating over and over that this was only temporary had softened the shock. She didn’t like seeing what seemed like large amounts of blonde hair staying in her brush, but kept reminding herself she wasn’t losing all of it. It was all temporary. By the time she was weaned from the drugs, she’d be back to normal.

  Another habit gained was to give herself pep talks to manage the rush of fears that often started fluttering up and down like neurotic butterflies. During one of these jittery moments, the solid memory of her paternal grandmother, Mimi, came rushing back like an anchor. Mimi had an ongoing conversation with God up until the day she died, and as a child, Elizabeth had imitated her, having serious discussions with God about everything. She didn’t remember too many answers, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  As Elizabeth grew older, these conversations seemed childish and had been discarded as life became busy and other things became more important. Alone now, this habit of talking and thanking God was renewed. To a large measure, touching the past added a level of comfort to her present.

  Elizabeth realized she didn’t like change. She much preferred life to remain predictable. It might be boring to some, but Elizabeth loved the life she and Michael had created. It was exciting enough, its boundaries well known and defined. And thank God, her old life was coming back.

  She also held on tightly to her prayers, especially in the middle of the night when the world slept and she was haunted by the memories of what had brought her here, whispering i
n the darkness.

  Release was now a stretch of hours away and she sat on its edge, with only one more night to go. Full of plans, she had been chatting happily with Michael until a few moments ago. Now, propped up against the sterile white pillows and already dressed for bed, she was waiting for him to come back with hot tea from the hospital cafeteria on the first floor. She was writing lists about what she wanted to do as soon as she got home. She had just jotted down yet another idea when the door was flung open.

  Fifteen minutes before the end of visiting hours, Carol Stephens stood dramatically in the doorway, dressed in glamorous evening clothes and a regal attitude.

  “Carol!” Elizabeth squealed.

  “Now,” Carol said in a drawl, “I left early from a tedious dinner to come and visit my oh-so-sick cousin, and what do I find?” Sequins sparkled as she strode toward the bed, her arms swinging in dramatic sweeps as she continued. “My oh-so-sick cousin propped up in bed looking as healthy as the proverbial horse. That she is also gorgeous will remain unsaid.”

  As soon as Carol sat down on the edge of the bed, all pretenses fell and they wrapped arms around each other, laughing and giggling like kids.

  Carol at last sat back, took one of Elizabeth’s hands and asked in a husky whisper, “Are you hiding a sick person in here someplace? And where’s your guard dog, anyway?”

  She jumped at Michael’s voice, dry as sand. “Hello, Carol.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence.

  “Do you know visiting hours are almost over?” His voice was as disapproving as ever. Carol had a way of exploding into their lives at inopportune moments, and he didn’t like it and he didn’t like her. That feeling was mutual.

  He gave a cup of tea to Elizabeth and held out the other one. “Would you like this? I can go back down and get more,” he offered tonelessly.

  Carol smiled sweetly. “No, I don’t want a cup of tea, but why don’t you go back down there and wait awhile so Elizabeth and I can talk? Then you can come back and remind me once again when visiting hours are over. I do remember how obsessive you are about time.”