Seventy-Two Hours (22 page)

“What? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I took a deep breath. “I tried to, Chris. I
told you about the lump and you said it was probably a cyst. You were more
concerned with handling whatever crisis was happening at work.”

“But after. When you found out. You didn’t
tell me.”

“You knew I had an appointment. The day of
it came and went. You never asked. I doubt my little problem ever entered
your mind after our initial conversation.”

He backed up until his legs came into contact
with the seat. Then he sort of dropped into it. He ran both of his hands up
over his face roughly and then through his hair.

“You know I’m right,” I pressed without
malice.

“My God. You must hate me.”

I looked to the deck and shook my head. “I
suppose I came very close to that emotion. Instead, I just stopped caring.”

He nodded his head as my words sank in. “So
it was cancerous?”

“It was precancerous. Noninvasive.”

“Why just a lumpectomy? Isn’t a mastectomy
the preferred treatment?” he asked as the scientist emerged.

“They’ve made gains the past few years where
treatment is concerned. Between the consultations I had with three separate
oncologists, this was the most agreed upon method.”

“And you went through chemo and I didn’t
notice?”

“Not for what I had. I underwent radiation
treatments.”

“But is that enough?”

I gave him a lopsided smile and said, “I hope
so. They told me it was. I’ll have to wait and see. It really isn’t in my
hands.”

“I don’t like this. Not at all. I should
have known everything, Jennifer. I may not have given you my full attention
from the onset, but you should have told me the results from your appointment.”

“It should have been on your mind from the
onset. It wasn’t. In light of everything, I got by on my own.”

“In order to punish me, you were on your
own.”

“I had so much going on at the time. So much
to work through. I don’t recall the word ‘punish’ entering my mind at any
time. If anything, you’re lack of concern prepared me for what was to come.
Both medically and mentally. It wasn’t about you, Chris. It was about what
was right for me. Given the opportunity to do it all over again, I’d do the
very same thing.” Whether he liked it or not, it was the truth. “And I wasn’t
truly on my own. I had Carson.”

“Do Hudson and Clinton know?”

“They simply assumed I wasn’t feeling well.
Hudson thought I was maybe depressed. I was never completely honest with them.
I didn’t want them to worry,” I explained.

Talking about the boys made me choke up. I
cursed myself for it. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to come across as impassive
to the subject matter. This wasn’t the time to lose it. I didn’t want
comforted by him. It was too late for that.

I waved my hand in between us to sort of
clear the air. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”

“But not done with.”

I knew what he was getting at. “The risk of
reoccurrence? No. It isn’t entirely done. I will be holding my breath until
I reach the five year mark.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It is.”

“I don’t want to waste anymore time, Jen.”

“Chris—“

“No. Just listen to me.” He sat forward
appearing to have regained his fire. “It isn’t too late for us. Let me make
it up to you. Everything. You say we can’t go back after what you did.
Well,” he said looking at me so earnestly, “I sincerely hope not. I don’t want
to go back to exactly what we had before. I want us to grow from this. I need
to be there more. Not just for the kids, but for you as well. And I haven’t
been. I’m not caught up in this illusion where I think I’m perfect. I know
I’m far from it. Please help me be a better person. A better father. A
better husband.”

“I’m not the right one to teach someone else to
be a better person.”

“That’s not true. Not at all.”

“Can we head back to the cottage? Please.”
I’d had enough of the lake.

December 6, 2011

No matter how old the group of students, the
time period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, was an incredibly hard time for
teachers to keep their classes focused on their academics. I had just told my seventh
period 8th grade history class that I was assigning them the Preamble of the
Constitution to memorize. There were only 52 words total. They had ten days
to accomplish it before I pulled each separately out into the hallway to recite
it back to me verbatim. They were permitted three mistakes which included
being able to start over from the beginning again. You’d think I’d asked them
to memorize “The Old Testament” for the amount of groaning that went on
immediately following my announcement. The same response I’d had the previous
year and every year since it became part of the state curriculum for 8
^th
grade. It wasn’t an unrealistic assignment. After all, I’d been assigned the
same thing when I was in 7th grade civics class. And survived it.

I took a seat on the front of my desk, legs
dangling, and looked out at the panicked faces of my students. “Just like I
told my other classes today, this isn’t a difficult assignment. It wasn’t
devised to torture you,” I said with a chuckle.

“We don’t have to do it in front of anyone
else but you, right?” asked one of my more extroverted students.

“Nope. Just me.”

“What if I can’t remember it?” another asked.

I laughed again. “You can do it,” I urged.
“You know the lyrics of Top 40 songs, but you’re afraid you can’t memorize the
Preamble? It’ll be easier than you think.”

“Do you have it memorized still?” a doubtful
boy named Troy asked.

“I do. ‘
We
the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,
establish Justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense,
promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves
and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United
States of America.
’” I recited
before hopping down and taking a rather dramatic bow with plenty of hand
flourish.

Some of my students laughed and clapped.
Those were the ones coming to terms with their assignment. A few still looked
terrified. Some indifferent. One or two looked hostile.

“See how easy that was?” I asked rhetorically
before taking my seat again.

“But you’ve had a long time to learn it,” one
of the boys replied.

“Mr. Burdett, was that a crack about my age?”
I teased.

His face turned bright red as his classmates began
teasing me and laughing. Thanks to my own question, the discussion quickly
shifted to a debate over what year I was probably born. They’d narrowed it
down to somewhere between the year 1960 and 1975. My ego was taking a beating along
with my assignment.

As the bell rang, students merged into a pack
and filed through the doorway still laughing over poor old Mrs. Gardner’s age.
I gathered my belongings together as my thoughts already began focusing
elsewhere. I was leaving early for a doctor’s appointment. A substitute
wasn’t needed since I had a prep eighth period and advisory for ninth period.
My classroom neighbor, Ken Wrigley, would cover both my advisory and his own
until dismissal time.

It took me less than ten minutes to commute
to the clinic. I was extremely nervous as I rode the elevator up to the second
floor. Hands clammy. Mouth dry. Heart rate creeping up. All because of the
little lump I’d found three days ago while doing a routine breast exam in the
shower.

I checked in on autopilot with the
receptionist. Found a seat. And waited. And waited. When my name was
called, I’d almost missed it. I was so caught up in my own thoughts.

Once I was examined, my doctor tried her best
to reassure me that it was probably nothing. A cyst. I’d be fine. And then
she sent me for a mammogram. My last one had only been four months prior.
From there, I was sent home.

The waiting game would kill me. I went to
school the next day and while on my lunch, checked my cell phone and saw that
I’d missed a call from my doctor. I returned the call and, together with the
accommodating receptionist, scheduled a biopsy for the next day. The lump
appeared to be a dense, two and a half centimeter mass.

When Chris came home from work that night, it
was a little after seven. He was talking into his phone from the moment he
walked in the door. I wanted to sit down with him as soon as he got home to
tell him. But I had to wait. Work was priority after all.

Clinton came home from helping my father work
on his newest muscle car project while Chris disappeared with his phone. His
clothing sullied with garage gook. He opened the fridge after saying hello and
took out the plate of food I’d saved for him. Using his hip to close the door,
he peeled the plastic wrap off and examined the pork chop, buttered noodles,
and creamed peas.

“What’s up?” Clinton asked as he popped his
plate into the microwave.

Clinton was experiencing a growth spurt. He
was almost taller than me now. He wore his Levi’s slung low despite parental
protests and his hair was unruly and long; his bangs in front of his eyes
constantly. I knew it was so he didn’t have to make eye contact when he didn’t
want to.

“Your father just got home and Carson is
working until 9:30.”

“Where’s he at?”

I watched as he looked around with marked
annoyance. “He’s been on the phone since he came home. I think he’s in the
family room.”

“Huh. Did he know where it was or did you
have to give him freaking directions?”

I was about to chastise him when the microwave
beeped and Chris came strolling in.

“That smells great. I’m starved,” Chris
announced as he inspected Clinton’s plate. “You just getting home, bud?”

“Yep,” Clinton answered as he first salted
his food and then squirted ketchup on his meat. He used ketchup for every
meal.

“Did Grandpa get it painted yet?”

“Nope.”

“Still working on the Bondo or did he at
least get the primer sprayed on?”

It was almost painful being an observer to
their strained conversation.

“We sanded today.”

“You’re wearing masks, right? That stuff
isn’t good to inhale.”

Clinton popped a soda top. “No. Really?”

Chris didn’t miss his sarcasm as I watched
his jaw clench and I stepped in with, “Let me heat up your plate. What would
you like to drink?”

“Do you have homework tonight?” Chris
questioned.

“Nope.” Clinton.

“I do.” Me.

Clinton and I answered simultaneously. The
two of us exchanged amused smiles before he grabbed up his stuff and headed to
his room to eat.

Chris washed his hands while we waited for
his dinner to heat. Since I’d already eaten (if that’s what you called it,) I
figured I’d sit at the table with him and enjoy a mug of hot tea before telling
him my news.

He took a seat at the trestle-style table
across from me. “I sent you an email today. You didn’t reply,” he informed me
as he cut a piece of meat.

“Sorry. I haven’t had a chance to check my
school account since lunch time.”

“Busy day, huh?”

“More like stress-filled.”

“Unruly students?”

That was when I knew he’d completely
forgotten I’d had an appointment about my breast the day before. I wasn’t mad
at him when he sort of gave me the brush off when I’d discovered it days ago.
Instead, I interpreted his nonchalance as his way of trying to keep me from
panicking unnecessarily before I’d had it checked out. But not now.

I felt myself sit straighter in my chair.
“What else could it be, right?” I asked rather stiffly.

“Middle school students are the hardest. I’m
not telling you anything you don’t already know. All those newly acquired
hormones exploding in their bodies. They have to unleash that angst
somewhere.”

“Somewhere,” I repeated in a far off voice.

I felt like I was becoming an expert on
angst.

Chris finished his dinner and left for his
home office to spend time with his laptop and a cup of coffee. I sat there
stewing. The longer I stewed, the tighter I became wound up.

Clinton came and went as he took care of his
dinner dishes and returned to his room to play video games or talk with his
friends on Facebook. Or both. Normally, I’d get him to talk about the car
project he was working on with my father. Just so we spent
some
time
together in the evening. My father’s hobby was common ground between us. Not
invasive like school and friend talk. While Clinton may not feel comfortable
speaking with Chris, he had no trouble letting me into his life. To an
extent. Although our mother and son relationship wasn’t perfect by any means,
I still attempted to keep an open line of communication between us. Just not
then. No. That night was an exception.