Sweet Memories (23 page)

“Except what?”

“Oh, I d ... don’t know. It’s s ... silly. I ... I just ....”

“Theresa, are you crying?”

“N ... no. Yes!” She placed a hand over both eyes, squeezing. “Oh, Brian, I don’t know why. What’s wrong with me?” She tried to hold back the sobs so he couldn’t hear.

“Sweetheart, don’t cry,” he pleaded. His voice sounded muffled, as if his lips were touching the phone. But his plea brought the tears on in force.

“No one’s ever c ... called me sweetheart bef ... before.”

“You’d better get used to it.”

The tender note in his voice reverberated through her pounding heart. She dashed the tears from beneath her eyes with the back of a hand and clung to the phone. So much to say, yet neither of them spoke. Their trembling feelings seemed to sing along the wire. She was unused to having emotions of this magnitude. Voicing them the first time was terrifying. Essential. She could not live with the sweet pain in her chest.

“I’ve m ... missed you more than I ever th ... thought human beings missed one another.”

A throaty sound, much like a groan, touched her ear. Then his breath was indrawn with a half hiss and expelled in a way that made her picture him with eyelids clenched tightly. Silence swam between them again, rife with unsaid things. Her body was warm and liquid with sudden need of him.

When he spoke again his words sounded tortured, almost guttural. “You’re all I think of.” Tears were trailing freely over her cheeks, and she felt weighted and sick. Scintillating, silent moments slipped by, while the unspoken took on greater meaning than the spoken. If the house had not been totally silent she might have missed his next throaty words. “You and Easter.”

Still he did not ask. Still she did not answer. Her heart trembled. “Brian, nothing like this____ ...” She stopped to swallow a sob that threatened.

“What? I can’t hear you, Theresa.” In her entire life of painful shyness, no teasing, no taunts had ever hurt like this shattering longing.

“N ... nothing like this has ever hap ... happened to me before.”

“To me either,” he said thickly. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

At last she released a sniffly laugh that was much sadder than tears, meant to allay the tension, but failing miserably. “Yes, it’s awful. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I walk around unaware.”

“I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“I h ... hate this house.”

“I think about going AWOL.”

“Oh, no, Brian, you mustn’t!”

“I know ... I know.” She listened to the sound of his labored breathing. Was he running a hand through his hair? Again stillness fell. “Theresa?” he said very, very softly. Her eyes slid closed. She touched the phone with parted lips. “I think I’m falling.”

Her soul soared. Her body was outreaching, yearning, denied.

Again came his ragged breath, seeking control. “Listen, kiddo, I’ve got to go, all right?” The gaiety was decidedly forced. “Now you go rest and take care of your back for me, okay? There’ll be a letter from me day after tomorrow or so. And I promise I won’t go AWOL. Tell everybody there hello.” At last he fell quiet. His voice dropped to a husky timbre. “I can’t take this anymore. I have to go. But I won’t say goodbye. Only ... sweet memories.”

Don’t go! Don’t hang up! Brian ... wait! I love you! I want to meet you at Easter. We’ll ....

The phone clicked dead in her ear. She wilted against the wall, sobbing. 
Why didn’t you tell him you’d come? What are you afraid of? A man as gentle and caring as Brian? Do all who love suffer this way?

__________

PERHAPS IT WAS THE BLEAKNESS 
and unhappiness that finally prompted Theresa to call the woman whose name had been given her by Catherine McDonald. She desperately needed to talk with somebody who understood what she was going through.

As she dialed the number several days later, her stomach went taut, and she wasn’t sure she could voice the questions she’d rehearsed so often during the days she’d lain in bed under doctor’s orders.

But from the moment Diane DeFreize answered the phone and greeted warmly, “Oh yes, Catherine told me you might call,” the outlook in Theresa’s life began to change. Their conversation was encouraging. Diane DeFreize radiated praise for the change wrought upon her life by the surgery she’d had. In little time at all she’d made Theresa eager to take the first step.

It was a day in the third week of March when she met Dr. Armand Schaum. He was a lean, lanky surgeon, one of the growing number of people she’d met lately who maintained eye contact on introduction. Dr. Schaum had the blackest hair she’d ever seen and a piercing look of intelligence in his nut-brown eyes. She liked him immediately. Obviously, Dr. Schaum was used to skittish women coming in with diffident attitudes and uncertain body language, as well as with the slumped shoulders caused by their condition. Theresa, like most, huddled in her chair at first, as if she’d come to his pleasant office asking him to perform some perverted act upon her.

Within five minutes, her attitude changed drastically, and she was struck by a sense of how very ignorant and misinformed she’d been all these years. She’d maintained the same outdated viewpoint as the rest of society: that breast-reduction surgery was vain and unnecessary.

Dr. Schaum explained the probable physical ailments Theresa could expect in the future if her breasts remained as they were now: not only backaches but also a bent spine; leg and knee troubles as well as varicose veins; breathing problems later in life when the chest wall responded to the excessive weight; recurrent rashes on the undersides of her breasts; an increase in breast size and its related discomforts if and when she chose the pill, pregnancy or nursing.

Vanity surgery? How few people understood.

But there were two negative factors Dr. Schaum was careful to point out. His long, angular face took on an expression of somber, businesslike concern.

“In mammoplasty, an incision is made around the entire areola—the brightly colored circle surrounding the nipple. The past method of surgery was to remove the nipple completely before replacing it in a higher position. But with a new method we called the inferior pedicle technique, we can now perform the surgery without severing the nerve connection completely. Now, the nipple remains attached by a slender stalk of tissue called the pedicle. With this technique we aren’t able to reduce the breast size quite as radically, but the chance of retaining nipple sensitivity is greatly increased. With 
all
 breast surgery, that sensitivity is lost at least temporarily. And though we can never guarantee it will return, if the nerve connection is preserved, it’s very likely. But it’s important that you understand there’s always the remote possibility of losing the erogenous zone permanently.”

Dr. Schaum leaned forward in his chair. “The other consideration you have to make is whether or not you ever want to breast-feed a baby. Although there have been rare cases in which the pedicle technique was used, where mothers 
were
 able to nurse afterward, the possibility is highly unlikely.

“So having the surgery means accepting the fact that two important things are at stake: the breast’s ability to produce milk and to respond to sexual stimulation. It means that you’ll almost certainly have to give up the one, and there’s the remote possibility of having to give up the other.”

__________

So 
THAT WAS THE RISK. 
Theresa was devastated. She lay in bed that night wide-eyed, more uncertain than ever. The idea of having all sensation irreversibly numbed was terribly frightening and very disheartening. Suppose the feeling never returned? She recalled those tingles, the feminine prickles of sexuality brought to her breasts by Brian’s briefest touch, by nothing more than dancing close enough to lightly rub the front of his corduroy jacket, and she wondered what he’d think if she robbed 
him
 of the ability to arouse her in that particular way and herself of the ability to respond.

She cupped her breasts in her palms. They remained unstimulated. She moved her pajamas flutteringly across the nipples. Little happened. She thought of Brian’s mouth ... and it began.

Sweet yearning filled her, made her curl, wanting, wondering. What if this powerful feminine reaction was severed before she’d ever known the sweet evocative tug of a man’s lips here? He had said, “You’ll set the rules.” Would he think her a tease if she asked for that much and then pulled back? Could she ask for that, then pull back herself?

She only knew that once ... just once she must know the wonder before she wagered it.

__________

HE ANSWERED THE PHONE 
in a crisp, military fashion. “Lieutenant Scanlon here.”

“Brian, it’s Theresa.”

All was silent while she sensed his great surprise. She wasn’t sure she should have called him in the middle of the day.

“Yes, can I help you?”

His brusqueness was a dash of cold water. Then she understood—there was someone nearby.

“Yes, you can help me by telling me you haven’t given up on me yet, and that it’s not too late for me to say yes to your invitation.”

“I ...” He cleared his throat roughly. “We can proceed with those plans, as discussed.”

Her heart was going wild. She imagined how difficult it was for him to remain stern and unemotional-sounding. “Good Friday?”

“Right.”

“The Doublewood Inn in Fargo?”

“Affirmative. At 1200 hours.”

“D ... does that mean noon, Brian?”

“Yessir. Have the proper people been notified?”

“I plan to tell them tonight. Wish me luck, Brian.”

“You have it.”

“Whoever’s with you, turn your face away from him because I think you’re going to smile.” She paused, taking a deep breath, picturing him as he’d been that first day, with his back to her while he looked out the sliding glass door at the snowy yard, wearing dress blues, his too-short hair showing only slightly beneath the stern visor of his garrison cap. She clearly recalled the warmth and scent lingering in that cap when he’d handed it to her. “Lieutenant Scanlon, I think I’m falling in love with you.” Silence. Shocked silence. “And I think it’s time I did something about it.”

After a short pause, he cleared his throat. “Affirmative. Leave it all to me.”

“Not quite all. It’s time I took my life into my own hands. Thank you for being so patient while I grew up.”

“If there’s anything we can do at this end to implement matters—”

“I’ll see you in two and a half weeks.”

“Agreed.”

“Goodbye, dear Lieutenant Scanlon.”

Again he cleared his throat. But still the last word came out brokenly. “Good ... goodbye.”

__________

THERESA TACKLED HER MOTHER AND FATHER 
that night, before she could lose her nerve. As it happened, Margaret provided the perfect lead-in.

“Easter dinner will be at Aunt Nora’s this year,” Margaret informed them at the supper table. The meal was over. Amy had zipped off to do homework with a friend. “Arthur and his family will be coming from California on vacation. Land sakes, it must be seven years since we’ve all been together. Grandpa Deering will be celebrating his sixty-ninth birthday that Saturday, too, so I promised I’d make the cake and you’d play the organ, Theresa, while we—”

“I won’t be here at Easter,” Theresa interrupted quietly.

Margaret’s expression said, don’t be ridiculous, dear, where else could you possibly be. “Won’t be here? Why, of course you’ll—”

“I’m spending Easter in Fargo ... with Brian.” Margaret’s mouth dropped open. Then it pursed as a chalky line appeared around it. Her eyes darted to Willard’s, then snapped back to her daughter. “With Brian?” she repeated tartly. “What do you mean, 
with
 Brian?”

“I mean exactly that. We’ve agreed to meet in Fargo and spend three days together.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” Margaret bit out.

“Just like that. Off to Fargo without benefit of a wedding license!”

Theresa felt herself blushing, and along with it rose indignation. “Mother, I’m twenty-five years old.”

“And unmarried!”

“Had you stopped to think you might be assuming things?” Theresa accused angrily.

But Margaret had ruled her roost too long to be deterred by any one of them when 
she knew she was right!
 Her face was pink as a peony by this time, the double chin quivering as she claimed distastefully, “When a man and woman go off, 
overnight
, alone, what else is to be done but 
assume
?”

Theresa glanced to her father, but his face, too, was slightly red, and he was studying his knuckles. Suddenly she was angered by his spinelessness. She wished he’d say something one way or the other instead of being bulldozed by his outspoken wife all the time. Theresa faced her mother again. Though her stomach was churning, her voice remained relatively calm. “You might have asked, mother.”

Margaret snorted and looked aside disdainfully.

“If you’re going to assume, there’s nothing I can do about it. And at my age I don’t feel I have to justify myself to you. I’m going and that’s all—”

“Over my dead body, you’re going!” Margaret lurched from her chair, but at that moment, unbelievably, Willard intervened.

“Sit down, Margaret,” he ordered, gripping her arm. Margaret turned her fury on him.

“If she lives in our house, she lives by rules of decency!”

Tears stung Theresa’s eyes. It was as she’d known it would be. With her mother there was no discussing things. There hadn’t been when Theresa was fourteen and sought consolation over her changing body, and there wasn’t now.

“Margaret, she’s twenty-five years old,” Willard reasoned, “Closer to twenty-six.”

Margaret pushed his hand off her arm. “And some sterling example for Amy to follow.”

The words sliced deeply in their unfairness. “I’ve always been—”

But again, Willard interceded. “Amy’s values are pretty much in place, don’t you think, Margaret? Just like Theresa’s were when she was that age.” Margaret’s eyes were rapiers as she glared at her husband. It was the first time in Theresa’s life she’d ever seen him stand up to her. And certainly, she’d never seen or heard them fight.