Secret, The (5 page)

He folded his well-manicured hands and leaned forward at his desk, more solemn than before. “There are four levels of this disease. And with each of the first three stages, many patients have few, if any, symptoms.” He shook his head gravely. “After all the tests, Heather, I’m afraid the reports are quite conclusive.”

You’re afraid?

He continued on—something about a “nodular sclerosis variant in the late stage.” He sounded too clinical . . . detached.

He must tell hundreds of patients similar news.

She wanted additional information, the kind that wasn’t so quantifiable . . . and cold. Perhaps if she focused on the medical jargon—assuming she could—it would help her to make some sense of it. What exactly
had
the PET scan detected? Was it enough to know the medical imaging had shown increased glycolytic activity. . . and blood tests had found elevated levels of eosinophils?

She wanted to see these reports for herself, even though her brain was currently in freeze-up mode.
Was this how Mom felt?

“Would you mind . . . starting over?” She blinked back tears.

The doctor nodded, offering a considerate smile. “I’ll go over the initial biopsy results again and then the PET scan.” He turned a light on behind him and dimmed the canned lighting overhead.

She stood up to watch the screen, listening as her plans for a career, her perfect wedding, her future with the only guy she’d
really
loved—all of it—slipped away.

How can this be happening?

She was too young and too healthy—only twenty-four. The staggering news seemed far too pessimistic. Heather had always lived life with a cheerful outlook, even in spite of her darling mother’s passing. She had been perpetually upbeat most of her life, even without the benefit of a serious date for high school prom or college sorority events. While she had a few casual friendships with a handful of girls, truly connecting with anyone, especially with guys, had always been difficult . . . if not impossible. But all that had changed when Devon Powers stared her down during an English Lit class in her final semester of undergraduate work. She’d promptly decided he was her one and only heart mate. Never before had she so thoroughly latched on to another human being, aside from her mother.

She had struggled through a challenging double major—sociology and English—at the College of William and Mary, near historic Williamsburg. The school was also her parents’ alma mater, where they’d met their junior year and fallen in love, and within easy driving distance of Heather’s childhood home. But she had spread her wings and lived in the dorm her freshman year, moving to a sorority house for the next three. Not so fond of hanging out with elitist roommates, she’d longed for her own place. Mom had always said Heather was happiest with her own company.

As eager as she was to make her way in the world following her four-year degree, after a year’s break Heather had opted to continue on, content to remain enmeshed in the academic mind-set as she worked toward a master’s degree in American studies. She’d managed to work part-time all the while, editing Web content for a large telecom firm, not willing to mooch off her too-generous father, who’d received a significant sum from Mom’s life insurance policy.

She jerked to attention. Was this a cruel twist of fate?
First
Mom, now me?

My poor dad
, she thought as Dr. O’Connor droned on. Inhaling slowly, she folded her hands, as if clasping them together might help her through this painful maze. She paid close attention now: He was saying that medical imaging did not lie, walking her through even the smallest details as though trying to convince her things were as serious as he’d first said.

This doctor could definitely use some work on his bedside manner.
The grim reaper . . .

In the midst of her fog, a tiny thought burst through: Maybe he was wrong. Shouldn’t she get a second opinion? Or even a third? After all, she couldn’t let this news destroy her dreams.

Dr. O’Connor had definitely made a mistake. But it wouldn’t make sense to argue with him. He was obviously convinced of the diagnosis.

When the lights came up again, she could see the concern on his face. “I wish I had better news, Heather,” he said, his mouth a tight line.

How old was this guy? Not much older than she was.

“But . . . I’ve got big plans.” A surge of adrenaline made her feel lippy. She was going to marry her fiancé one year from next month. “This isn’t going to happen, okay?”

The doctor nodded as genuine relief spread across his face. “I wholeheartedly agree. You’re a fighter, Heather. And this disease is highly curable.” Pausing to shuffle through some papers on his desk, he quickly turned to his laptop. “I’ll see about an opening for your first round of treatment.”

Treatment?
The word stopped her heart. She was well acquainted with the word and what it entailed—a combination of chemo and radiation. Her mom had endured the effects nobly, and according to her doctors it had extended her life a few months. But from what Heather had witnessed, the results had been dubious at best as her mother’s quality of life dropped drastically. “Uh, no . . . I’m not interested in nuking my insides.”

His look of astonishment was off-putting. “Well, let’s talk about survival rates—”

“My mother was promised four more years.”

“Your mother’s cancer was quite different from yours. And she was twice your age.” He drew a long breath, holding her gaze. “Why don’t we set a time to discuss this further . . . perhaps after you’ve slept on it?”

I’m supposed to sleep?

“I don’t think you understand, Doctor. I watched my mom die. I’m not sure what killed her, the cancer or the treatments.”

He flinched at her comment. “Heather, I urge you to take some time to think about this. Without treatment the disease
will
progress . . . and you’ll become very sick. Eventually it will take your life.” He paused, his eyes small slits. “Of course, if you’re worried about fertility, most centers offer some preservation procedures.”

She reached for her purse and slung it over her shoulder. As she got up, the floor seemed to slip from beneath her, and she leaned down to grip the chair to steady herself.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She forced a smile.

Perfectly fine.

“You’re strong, Heather . . . and in otherwise good health,” the doctor emphasized. “Every patient responds differently—there’s no guarantee you would react to radiation the way your mother did.”

There’s no guarantee I’ll be cured, either.

“Thanks anyway.”
I’d rather not die before I’m dead.

She didn’t bother to pull the door shut behind her. Let him get up from beside his high and mighty desk and close it himself.

What must it be like playing God?
The thought lingered as she hurried past the receptionist’s desk where she’d made her co-pay.

They should be paying
me
!
Glancing up at the clock, Heather was suddenly unable to suppress the lump in her throat. Overwhelmed, she pushed open the door, helpless to stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Why, sure, we stock a large variety of herbs to help with digestion,” Grace told her customer. She led the woman to the tonics and tea section of the store. “Here’s what we have.” She reached for a popular herbal combination. “This one has a nice blend of herbs . . . it’s helped lots of folk.”

“Is this something you drink?” The woman turned the package over in her hands.

“Oh jah, and real tasty, too, I’m told. You can mix it with any kind of juice.”

The dark-eyed woman took a moment to read the ingredients and compare the first suggestion to several other options, including bitter orange tea leaves. “Have you ever tried this?” she asked. Then, sputtering, she retracted her question. “Oh, well, I doubt
you
have stomach upsets.”

Grace hardly knew what to say. There had been several times recently when she’d experienced queasiness, but it had nothing to do with indigestion. “You might want to just try one of these and see how it works for you.”

The woman’s face creased with uncertainty. “It’s hard to decide.”

“You’re welcome to try one, and if it doesn’t help, bring it back,” Grace offered.

“Fair enough.” The woman followed her to the cash register.

“Remember, if you have any questions at all, just ask. If I can answer them, I will. And if not, I’ll find out the answer for you.” Grace made change and counted it into the woman’s hand. “Now that you know where we are, you’ll have to come again.”

The woman smiled. “You’re very kind.” She looked at Grace, her gaze drifting up to the head covering of white netting she wore from morning to night. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live as you do,” she whispered.

Grace laughed softly. “Well, we’re not as strange as you may think.”

“But you don’t drive cars or have electricity, do you?”

“Neither one, no.”

“No phones or radios, either?” Looking chagrined, the woman said, “I don’t mean to pry. Your ways
are
fascinating, though. You see”—and here she stepped closer—“I’ve always felt drawn to a simple life.”

Grace rarely encountered this sort of open admiration among the English customers here or while tending the roadside vegetable stand in front of her family’s house. Most Englischers were proud of their complicated lives with televisions, computers, cars, electricity, and whatnot. Uncertain how to reply, she only nodded in agreement.

“Oh goodness, I hope I didn’t offend you, miss. I would just love to know more about Amish folk.”

Grace thought of suggesting a book, but she certainly wasn’t ready to offer the woman a tour of her father’s house. “We live as our Anabaptist ancestors did.” She suddenly remembered the cell phone one of her aunts was permitted to use for her quilting shop over in Honey Brook. “With some slight modifications.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

The woman’s fascination struck Grace as comical. She wondered, for a fleeting moment, if this customer with all her questions was somehow related to nosy Priscilla Stahl. “There are plenty of differences ’tween churches amongst the People. What’s allowed from district to district is entirely up to the voting membership.”

“Members are permitted to give their input?”

“Jah, we vote twice a year on our
Ordnung.
”

The woman’s bewilderment registered in her big brown eyes.

“The church ordinance,” Grace added. “Our rules.”

Another clerk came over to ask Grace something, and she was secretly relieved. “You’ll have to excuse me.” She smiled and scurried off to the other side of the store.

Such a curious soul!

She’d heard plenty of stories about pushy Englischers. But this woman had been the first Grace had ever met who’d seemed genuinely interested in their way of life. Of course, that didn’t mean she was ready to join their ranks. All it took to discourage some outsiders was the thought of rising at four o’clock to milk a herd of dairy cows . . .
before
a hearty breakfast. That and having to learn the language of their forefathers, Pennsylvania Dutch.

Grace located the item the other clerk had wanted and wondered what might have prompted the customer’s preference for all things simple. She recalled something Mammi Adah often said with a knowing smile on her wrinkled face:
“When you get
what you want . . . do you want what you get?”
Grace assumed it was merely human to crave a different situation in life and not something unique to fancy folk.

Adah stood out in the middle hallway and knocked and yoo-hooed to Lettie, the newly baked bread warm in her hand. She’d tried to make a point of respecting Judah and Lettie’s privacy but knew she hadn’t always succeeded since she and Jakob had moved into their side of the roomy house.

Lettie called back for her to let herself in. “You can just come over without askin’, Mamm, you know that.” Lettie had her hands in a wash pail and was down on the floor on all fours, looking up at her.

“I baked you some bread.” Adah placed it on the table and sat down with a grunt as she observed Lettie wash the floor by hand. “Your Mandy ought to be helpin’ with that.”