Slow Moon Rising (14 page)

But one smile—one line, really (“Hi, I'm Isaac Levy”)—and all of life's plans shifted. And now, with each squeaky turn of a wheelchair's wheel, I knew life's plans were changing again.

I just knew it.

And Dad . . . Dad would have questions. Questions I would, finally, have to answer.

“Now I know why the patients I dealt with in residency hated these gowns so much.” I plucked at the blue and white overly-worn-and-washed piece of cotton.

“It's not a name brand from Bloomie's, is it?” Isaac asked from beside me.

I turned my head to look at him. The plastic around the pillow squeaked. I sighed.

“I'm not going to make a very good patient, Isaac.”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “Doctors never do.”

I closed my eyes, faced forward again.

“How are you feeling now?”

I nodded. “Pain has lessened greatly.”

“Dilaudid is good stuff.”

I felt my lips spread in a slow grin. “Maybe we can take a case home.”

My eyes opened when I heard the click of the door. John Young, my gynecologist, strolled in, chart tucked under his arm. He and Isaac shook hands, he made small talk with me, then got down to business. “I have some questions for you, Jayme-Leigh, and then I'll do a pelvic and we'll see what's
what.” He pulled a rolling chair to the bedside opposite Isaac. “We've gotten your blood work down to the lab already and should have something on that fairly soon.”

“Okay.”

John flipped open my chart. Beneath dark lashes, his eyes darted across the notes taken in triage while I studied his face. This late at night, he sported a five-o'clock shadow but remained expressionless. The trained look of a doctor, I thought. We must not give away our thoughts; no matter how positive, no matter how grim.

John inhaled deeply through his nose, blew it out.

“What?” I asked.

He pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his lab coat, clicked the top of it, and asked, “This started six or seven months ago?”

“Yes.”

“This bad?”

“No. Not at all. Just mild bleeding between my periods.”

“Until last month,” Isaac interjected. “Last month she had some bleeding that was a little more profuse.”

“I don't have your chart from the office with me, so forgive me for asking some questions that I'm sure you've answered before.”

“No problem.” I didn't expect John to remember the details of every patient any more than I was able to.

“You began your periods . . . when?”

“I was eleven.”

John jotted a note in the chart. “A little earlier than most girls.”

I smiled. “Mom had given me a book to read—you know
those books mothers give to their daughters—and not two weeks later, I started. She said, ‘Jayme-Leigh, if I'd given you a book on skydiving, I believe you would have sprouted a parachute.'”

John smiled, but I could tell he wasn't amused. “And you've never been pregnant.” His eyes locked with mine. “Ever?”

I shook my head. “No.” Isaac squeezed my hand; until then I hadn't been fully aware he was holding it. I looked at him. “We've talked about it . . . in the future.” I looked at John again. “Everyone thinks I don't want children.
We
don't want children. But that's not true. I just . . . we just . . . don't talk about these kinds of things with any and everybody. Not even family.”

“She needs to get her practice up and going,” Isaac said. “We thought maybe in five years.” He shrugged.

“When you were away at school, were you ever diagnosed with cervical polyps?”

“No. Is that what you think this could be?”

John smiled at me. “Let me do my job before you start diagnosing, Dr. Claybourne.”

I returned the smile. “Sorry.”

“Okay. So, no cervical polyps.”

“No.”

“Periods been longer than usual?”

“Yes.”

“What do they typically run?”

“Three to four days.”

“And now?”

“Seven.”

“With bleeding in between.”

“Yes. The first few months, I thought I was just early. But last month and this month . . . it's been a week on, a week off, a week on, a week off.”

“You've not had any abnormal Paps, have you?”

“No.”

“Due for your next one . . . ?”

“In about a month. I have an appointment with you.”

“Ah, well, that explains why you waited to call me.” I processed the jab while John scribbled in my chart. “Painful intercourse?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes.”

“What?” Isaac asked. “Are you serious?”

I looked at him. His face registered hurt and confusion. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to say anything. Plus, you've been gone so much lately, it really hasn't mattered much. I just thought maybe it was from in . . . frequency.” I bit my lower lip as his cheeks pinked. “Sorry,” I whispered.

“It's okay,” he whispered back.

“Why are we whispering?” John asked.

We both looked at him. He grinned back. “Okay. I'm going to do a pelvic, get the lab work back, and then we'll talk some more. Sound like a plan?”

“Yes,” I said.

He looked at Isaac. “Staying or leaving?”

Isaac brought my hand to his chest and pressed it against his heart. “I'm staying right here.”

While we waited for the results of the tests, Dad came in, Isaac went to get a cup of coffee (the poor man hadn't
slept more than a few hours in the last forty-eight), and I catnapped. I woke no more than a half hour later. Dad sat in the same chair John had abandoned earlier. He was flipping through a magazine.

I craned my head to try to read the cover. “
O
magazine, Dad?”

Dad's head jerked. He tilted the cover so that a better view of Oprah Winfrey, dressed in holiday finery, could be seen. “It's even outdated.”

“Only by a few months. We've got magazines in our office older than that, you know.”

“Ami gave Anise a subscription for her birthday. Anise brought a couple along to give her something to do.”

“I'll bet Anise likes reading the parts about gardening and flowers and cooking and such.”

He tossed the magazine to the foot of the bed as he stood. “How are you feeling, kiddo?”

“Sort of weak.”

“Don't worry about the office. I've got that arranged.”

“I'm sure you do.” I lifted my head and pulled the scrunchie from my hair, drawing my hair across one shoulder. “You haven't called my sisters, have you?”

“No. Not at this hour.”

“Anise hasn't either, has she?”

“No. Told her not to. We know how private you are, Jayme-Leigh. We don't necessarily always agree with it, but we respect your wishes nonetheless.”

I mouthed “thank you” then said, “Have you talked to Ami in a while?”

Dad's lips twitched. “She doesn't call much. When she
does, it seems like I'm always gone. Anise talks to her more than I do.”

“She called me a month ago. Left a message. I've tried to call her back several times but . . . I guess we just keep missing each other.”

Sadness registered in Dad's eyes; a father missing more than just his baby girl. After graduating from high school, she moved to Atlanta to continue in her studies. She snagged a position with a small ballet company there but continued in her goal toward the Atlanta Ballet. Thus, we'd hardly heard from or seen her
.

“She's trying out for the Atlanta Ballet again soon,” I said. “What is wrong with those people? Don't they know brilliance when they see it?”

“She'll make it this time,” Dad said.

“What makes you so sure?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Anise told me so.” He winked.

“Well, then . . . by all means.”

The door opened, and Isaac walked through carrying two cups of coffee, one he handed to my father. “Just like you like it.”

“Thank you, son.” Dad took a sip.

“I don't suppose you brought one for me?”

“Nope. Doctor's orders. You're officially NPO.” He jerked his head toward the hallway. “Just saw John. He's admitting you for more tests so, nothing past those lips.”

“Why am I NPO?”

“You'll have to ask him.” He took a sip of his coffee, swallowed, then leaned over the bed railing. “But if you kiss me,” he said, “you can at least have a taste.”

I grinned. “I'd kiss you even if I couldn't have a taste.” And I did.

John walked in. “Ah, look at these two, will you?” He shook my father's hand. “So, as you may have heard, I want to do some more tests in the morning. If I'm right in what I'm suspecting, we'll start talking surgery.”

I felt my brow furrow. “What do you suspect?”

“John?” Dad said.

John cocked a brow in an expression that read:
I've done this a million times; like I said earlier, let me do my job.

“Whatever it is,” I said from my reclined position on the bed, “I trust you, John. I brought a small bag with a nightgown and some toiletries. I'm set.”

Truth was, I'd already figured the few things it
could
be. Not knowing for another day—not knowing for certain—didn't bother me in the least. I've never been called stupid, but in this case, the less I knew—for now—the better. If I'd been my patient's parent, I'd feel differently about it. But I was the patient this time; seeing a hospital room from this position was uncharted territory for me. I'd have to take it one step at a time.

Within days, a number of procedures had been done, a diagnosis rendered, and surgery scheduled.

I was one of the rare cases of women below the age of forty diagnosed with endometrial cancer.

“Stage I,” John told Isaac, Dad, Anise, and me. “So you're lucky.”

I didn't feel lucky, but I nodded and said nothing.

“We'll perform a hysterectomy with a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy,” he continued, his voice professional and matter-of-fact. But his eyes were veiled in sorrow. And I knew why. I knew where his heart was.

But. It was what it was and it had to be done.

I swallowed hard. “What . . . what about . . .” I swallowed again, blinking back hot tears. “What about postsurgical treatment? Are we looking at radiation or chemo or . . .”

John patted my sheet-covered foot. “We caught this early, Jayme-Leigh. Although, with your symptoms starting back when they did, I'm surprised it's not worse.”

“So,” Dad interrupted, “what?”

“Pathology report looks good, Ross. CT scan doesn't
show any involvement in the lymph nodes.” He turned to me. “Jayme-Leigh, I'll do an abdominal incision. That's going to allow me a better look than vaginally. But, for now, let's pray for the cancer to be contained.”

Isaac ran his hand over the crown of my head. I read his thoughts. For now, surgery would suffice. No need for chemo. I would lose my uterus, my ovaries, my fallopian tubes, and any chance of ever having a baby. But I'd keep my hair.

After John left the room, I cleared my throat, pressed my shoulders against the hospital bed, and said, “This does
not
leave this room for
any
reason.”

“But Jayme-Leigh,” Anise said, her hands clasped in her lap. “You need your family around you now.”

I reached for Isaac's hand. He wrapped both of his around mine. “I have my family,” I said with a turn of my head toward him. We looked at each other in that way couples have of communicating without speaking.

I returned my attention to my father. “I'm firm about this, Dad. You know and Anise knows and Isaac knows. That is enough. I don't want this discussed with Kim or Heather or Ami. We'll tell the staff at work I'm having . . . a T&A. It takes adults longer to get over a tonsillectomy, so my absence will make sense.”

Dad raised his brow and shook his head. “I don't agree with you, sweetheart, but it
is
your life and your decision. But . . .” He raised a finger. “You have to promise me you'll allow Anise and me to help you over these next few weeks.”

I would need help. There was no question about it; Isaac would not be able to provide all that I would need. “I promise.”

I kept that promise. For the first few weeks I'd managed to chat on the phone with my sisters, even Ami once, without any suspicions. When I was able to walk again without bending over, I attended family dinners. When Heather—naturally, Heather—commented on my slow gait, I told her I'd had some problems with my period, had a D&C, and everything was great now. Which was all true. I'd just left out the hysterectomy part.

Remarkably, she bought it.

One night, while at home, snuggled on our living room sofa under a light blanket and watching film noir on Turner Classic Movies, Isaac mumbled near my ear, “Tell me something, J.L.”

“What?” I asked, popping a piece of popcorn into my mouth.

“Why
don't
you want your family to know about the surgery? I mean, I understand you are primarily a private person, but like Anise said, they are your sisters.”

I sat up slowly. Not because I had to, but because I needed the extra time to ponder what my husband had just asked me. Lifting the remote and pointing it toward the large screen television, I paused the movie—
Daisy Kenyon—
using our newly purchased TiVo digital video recorder. I turned toward Isaac, set the bowl of popcorn and the remote on the floor, and laid my hand onto his arm, which now stretched across the back of the sofa.

“Isaac, you have to understand something.” I pressed my lips together. “I grew up between Kimberly and Heather.”

“I know that.” He grinned. “I've been a part of this family long enough to have the birth order set to memory.”

“Smart aleck.” I patted his arm. “But you didn't grow up between the two of them.” I picked up the blanket, now twisted around my body, and straightened it over the two of us. “Kimberly is more of a control freak than you realize. She's just subtle about it. She wants everything in life to be picture perfect. All the time. No mess ups.”

“Really?” He shrugged. “I guess I've never noticed that about her.”

“Because you didn't grow up with her. Believe me; we shared a bedroom for a few years. Now, you know me. I like things tidy. But Kimberly wanted everything to look like it belonged on a magazine cover.”

Isaac chuckled. “I can believe that, based on what her home looks like now.”

I shook my head. “I can only hope she'll let her boys be boys.”

Isaac tweaked my nose between the knuckles of his first and middle fingers. “I bet she will.”

“We'll see.”

“And then there's you.”

“Technically the middle child, you know, because Ami came along a little later in life.”

“Mmm.”

“And I liked to read. Kimberly wasn't that crazy about reading. She was a good student—a great student—but she was more interested in Barbies. And then in clothes and her friends. And then in boys. Heaven help us. There was this one boy over in Cedar Key when we were teenagers . . .”

Isaac scooted back to straighten himself, grinned, and said, “Oh yeah?”

I swatted him. “Stop thinking of my sister that way.”

Isaac feigned shock and innocence, all with one look. “What did
I
say?”

I continued on without answering his question. “His name was Steven. Steven Granger. His dad owned the tour boat company there. Steven was a year older than Kim and, I admit, cute as a bug in those days.”

“Not that you were interested.”

“I wasn't. I just remember him being cute in a beachboy kind of way. Anyway, Kim was totally nuts over Steven. That whole summer, the summer of their romance,” I said, adding finger quotes in the air. “It was just nearly pathetic.”

“How old was she?”

“Sixteen.”

“Uh-oh. That's dangerous territory.”

“Dangerous enough.”

“So what happened?” He glanced over to the television. “Because this story is becoming even better than the one on TV, and the one on TV is pretty good.”

I reached for the bowl of popcorn, keeping an arm pressed against my abdomen. Even though nearly five weeks had passed and I had plans to return to work soon, I still felt as though I needed to support the surgical site. I placed the popcorn between us, shuffled a handful from one hand to the other. I chewed thoughtfully on a piece and said, “Steven went to college, got some girl pregnant, and Kimberly sulked until she met Charlie in college.”

“Wow. Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

“Poor Charlie.” Isaac grabbed a handful of popcorn, tossed one in his mouth, and chewed.

I finished off the little bit left in my hand, brushed the salt and crumbs back into the bowl. “What do you mean, ‘poor Charlie'?”

“Well,” he said, his mouth still working on the corn. He swallowed. “If Kim sulked
until
she met Charlie, that means she has pinned a lot of hopes and dreams
on
Charlie.”

“Well, he's her husband. Shouldn't she pin hopes and dreams on him?”

Isaac tilted his head. “Maybe. But . . . there weren't any other boys between Steven and Charlie?”

“Not that I know of. And, if there were, I think I would have known. She was pretty vocal about the social aspects of her life.”

Isaac nibbled on popcorn for a minute before adding, “And Heather we
all
know about.”

“Little Miss Mother-to-All.”

“Does she fit your birth-order theories?”

“Actually, she doesn't. I've done some research on this—”

“Of course you have.”

“Haha. And, no. But the issue with Heather is that, while she was the youngest, she wasn't
really
the youngest. So, when Ami came along, she mothered her, I mothered her, and Kim was too much into friends to mother anybody. And, when Kim had her heartbreak over Steven, Heather mothered her too. With Mom, um, not being well, I guess Heather just grabbed her role by the horns and was happy doing it.”

Isaac didn't say anything for a moment. Just chewed on
popcorn, took a long swallow of his Coke, and added, “So, why don't you want your family to know?”

“Kim has enough going on in her world and I'm not altogether sure she wouldn't—oh-so-casually—end up mentioning it to her friends or her Sunday school class or to some of the other teachers. And Heather would be over here clucking around me, and you know how much I despise clucking.”

Isaac laughed, pressing a hand against the flat of his abdomen. “Gotcha.”

“And Ami is away.” I returned the popcorn bowl to the floor, picked up the remote, turned and positioned myself against my husband again. “Isaac?” I asked, pushing play.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think Ami is okay?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

I watched a few moments of exchange between Henry Fonda and Joan Crawford before answering. “I dunno. Just a hunch, I guess.”

“Sister's intuition?”

“This is not kidding?”
Joan Crawford asked of Henry Fonda.

“This is not kidding,”
Fonda returned.

I didn't answer. I let Crawford and Fonda do it for me. Later, as the movie credits rolled, I turned back to Isaac and said, “I'll never have my own baby.” A tear slipped down my cheek. “Our baby.”

He brushed it away with a fingertip. “I know. It's okay.”

“I'll take care of the infants and toddlers and babies of everyone else, but never my own.”

He withheld comment.

I pressed my face into his shirt and sobbed. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Instinctively, his strong arms drew me closer. “It's okay, Jayme-Leigh. Seriously, babe. It's okay.”

I shook my head. “No. No, it's not.” Beneath my face, his shirt grew wet with tears.

“Remember we have Kim's kids and Heather's . . .”

“It's not the same. I don't want to just be somebody's doctor or somebody's aunt. I want to be a mother.”

“Then we can adopt.”

“I want one of my own, Isaac. Don't you understand that? I want to know what it feels like to be pregnant. To give birth. And now I never will. There's no going back.”

Blessedly, he said nothing. And when I had cried until there was nothing left, I added, “Stupid hormones. I'm sure that's what's happening here.”

“That, maybe. And, you're a woman who loves her husband, loves kids, and wants to have the one with the other.” He tilted my chin so I was forced to look at him. “You do love your husband, don't you?”

I laughed and cried, drew my arms around his neck, and slid around until our faces were pressed cheek to cheek. “I love you so much, Dr. Levy.”

“And I love you, Dr. Claybourne.”

I leaned back. “That's Mrs. Levy to you, sir.”

He leaned closer; I closed my eyes and felt his lips tenderly kiss each lid. “You bet you are.”