The Healing Quilt (33 page)

“One more time would still never be enough.”

Kits shoulders sagged. Too much, all too much. “So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to help me research alternative treatments. We can contact the Cancer Society and see what they suggest. I plan on going to a bookstore to check out the titles.”

“I can do that with
Amazon.com
or Barnes and Nobles Web site. Online can be faster.”

“Okay, let's make a list so we don't overlap. It's not that I don't plan on following the doctor's orders, you know. It's just that I want to do what's best. I mean losing another breast is no big deal, just that after that I won't have any more to give away.”

Including lungs and innards and bones and… Oh, Lord, please.
Kit swallowed her plea.
Haverit I lost enough?

Come unto me, you who are heavy hden, and I will give you rest.

Youre notphyingfair again.

Whatever it takes, my dear Kit, whatever it takes.

Now, that was no Bible verse she'd ever heard.

“What it is, dear?”

Kit shook her head. Surely she was just going bonkers with it all. Voices in her head, on her shoulder, or wherever.

They sat and wrote two lists, one for each of them, and finished up just as the doorbell rang.

“You have a customer.”

“I know.” Teza rose and headed for the door. “You want some more apricots?”

“No thanks, unless you need help.”

“I think I'll sell all the rest.”

Kit followed Teza out the door, hugged her, and after quick goodbyes, got in her van. Too much, things were getting to be too much, and there was nothing she could do about it. About the time you thought you had life under control, something would broadside you and send you spinning back into panic mode.

Life changes in an instant. Oh, to be back in the times of bliss when a major problem was a ten-dolhr error or even a hundred-dolhr error in the checkbook, or getting caught by a fender bender in the grocery parking lot. Or someone came home late.

Ah, those were the days.

In her own driveway, she leaned her forehead on her crossed hands at the top of the steering wheel. “Okay, God, so do I take a chance on you again? Do I pray and trust you to take care of Teza, to take care of Mark, as if I could do anything about him right now, my two children, this quilt project, those others with cancer in this town, my marriage— if you can call this strange limbo I'm in a marriage—so what next? What do I do?”

She waited, wishing for a skywriter, or perhaps the rhododendron by the garage to burst into flames, or an angel to appear. Evidence that God did indeed hear her and, even more importantly, that he cared. And that he could be trusted.

A knock on the car door snapped her out of wherever she'd been. She looked out to see Thomas standing there, concern wrinkling his forehead, nearly hidden under his Mariners cap.

She smiled. At least she hoped that's what it looked like and opened the door.

“You okay?”

“I guess, how about you?”

“I thought maybe you was crying.”

“Nope. Just thinking.”

“Missy was crying when I knocked on the door. When you didn't come, I was going home, but then I saw you drive in. I thought Missy might want to play.”

“I'm sure she does.” Kit grabbed her purse and keys and got out. “Where've you been lately?”

“We went to visit my aunt in Tacoma.”

“Did you have fun?”

He shrugged, both hands buried in the pockets of his baggy jeans. “My dad said we might go to a baseball game, but we didn't.”

Kit unlocked the front door and stood back so Missy and Thomas could greet each other. They followed her inside and directly through the house to the back door.

“Can we go out?” Thomas leaned over for an enthusiastic doggy kiss.

“Of course.” Kit picked up the mail that had been scattered by Missy's broad dancing feet.

An envelope with Mark's handwriting caught her attention. She checked the postage cancellation. Salt Lake City. When had he gone there? Or, better question, how long had he been there? Or, even better, was he still there?

She slit the envelope open with a fingernail and pulled out a card. “Thinking of you” was the caption arched over a bouquet of roses. Inside he'd written, “Busy as ever but I saw this card and thought of you. Please understand, Kit…”

She lowered the card and stared at the wall.
How can I understand anything from you? That you would just walk out and not let me know where you are or whan happening with you. Mark, you do not make sense.
She returned to reading the card.

“Please understand that it is not you I am running from, but, oh, I guess I cannot even explain it to myself. I am trying to find the time to come home for a visit when Ryan is there, but don't count on it. Thanks for the e-mails. Mark.”

“Not love Mark’ or ‘as ever Mark’ or yours Mark.’ ” She glared in the hall mirror and started to crumple the card, but stopped. He had thought about her. He was not filing for divorce or shacking up with someone. Well, at least not that she knew. He could be and this was just a cover.

She wandered into the kitchen to hear Missy's woofs of delight and Thomas's giggles, sounds of home and happiness, all the things Mark was missing.

Sometimes the rage at what he'd done burned hot and fierce. Other times she just questioned without ever receiving answers. Which was best? Was she growing indifferent? Should she just divorce him and get on with her life? Was that what he wanted? Was that what she wanted?

“No, and a thousand times no. I do not want a divorce. I signed on for the long haul, and one of us better believe in our wedding vows. For richer, for poorer, been through both of those, in sickness and in health, been there, too, but where does desertion come in?

“Ah, Amber, if you can see all this, it must just be breaking your heart.” At that, the tears gushed, and she headed for the bathroom to drown a washcloth.

When she could talk without sniffing again, she fetched Popsicles out of the freezer, puppy treats out of the pantry, and ambled outside to the deck.

“Hey, you two rollers, treats.”

“Thanks.” Thomas sat down on the cedar steps beside her, and Missy caught her tossed treat to lie down to munch it.

“You missing Amber?”

“What makes you think that?” She nibbled on the yellow ice stick.

“Your eyes are red and…” He made signs to show puffed up.

“Sometimes I just start to cry.”

“Oh. Where's your dad?”

“My husband, Mark?”

He nodded.

“Away on business.”

“He sure stays gone a long time.”

She almost asked, “Where's your mother?” but kept her question to herself. Thomas would tell her when he was ready.

“My dad goes on business trips. He went to Alaska one time.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. He likes baseball, too.”

“I've been thinking. I used to pitch for the kids. I could get out the pitchback, and we could give you some batting practice.”

“Old ladies pitch baseball?”

Out of the mouths of babes.
She licked the last of the ice off the stick. “Well, if you think I'm too old.

“Guess we could try.”

Kit thought about the work waiting for her. “I got a deal for you. We play ball for half an hour, and then you help me weed the garden.”

“I don't know what weeds are.”

“I'll show you.” She looked sideways at him. “You on?”

“I guess. I dont got my mitt, though.”

“You dont need one. You'Ll hold the bat. I'll get the pitchback down and we can set it up, then I need to warm up a bit.”
Oh, crumb, how hng since I pitched? Four years? When did Ryan get beyond me? How long since Amber played softball?

“You sure?”

“Yup.” She stood and turned to the garage. “The pitchback is hanging up in the rafters, so I need the stepladder. Good thing I didn't put it in the garage sale.”

“You pitch pretty good for a lady.” Half an hour had worn them both out. Kit was sure her arm and shoulder would be screaming at her in the morning, if they waited that long.

Missy had retrieved most of the balls and lined them up on the steps. She lay on her belly in the grass, both back legs stretched straight back.

“Thanks. Now to the weeding. I'll get the trowels.”

“Can I have something to drink?”

“Like water?” She pointed to the fountain Mark had installed when the kids were little to keep them from running in and out all the time.

“Sure. Does that work?”

“I think so.” She got up, stifled a groan—pitching used leg muscles, too—and crossed to turn the handle. Nothing.

“Oh well, come on in. I think there is some lemonade in the fridge.” One more thing that Mark wasn't here to fix. “Maybe it got turned off last winter so it wouldn't freeze and just never got turned back on.” Or was it the winter before? Time passing, again that sense of a freight train bearing down on her. Or maybe she'd already been run over and just didn't know it yet.

“Bootsie did not almost bleed to death. You tell me if you think Doodlebug could grab that fat bulldog by the throat. He couldn't get near the neck, let alone tear the jugular. There was blood on the dogs face, maybe a bite on the ear or cheek. One chomp and he'd have killed Doodlebug.” Elaine propped the receiver on her shoulder. “No, Frederick, I didn't see the whole thing, but then neither did she. She was coming out the door when I got out there. Bootsie was crying loud enough to wake the dead. That's what brought her outside. Besides, that dog was in our yard, and we, including our dog, have a right to defend our yard.”

“I hear you, Elaine, but I also have to let you know what is happening. She, Mrs. Smyth-with-a-Y, alleges that your Vicious dog,’ I am using her words, attacked her precious Bootsie’ without provocation.”

“He was doing his business in
our yard
Tor heaven's sake!”

“Take it easy. I'm on your side, remember?”

Elaine raked her hair back with quivering fingers.
The absolute nerve ofthat woman.
And here all these years she'd done no more than ask politely if they would keep Bootsie home. “I swear that woman will drive me to desperate measures.” She didn't mention the
kill
word, but she had thought it plenty of times. No, she didn't really want to kill anyone, just get even. But how, short of dumping a truckload of manure on their front yard, did one get even for years of scooping dog poop out of the yard? “I think it is malicious intent.”

“What is?”

“She trained Bootsie to poop in our yard. I know she did. She most likely gave him treats every time he unloaded before coming home.”

“Elaine.” Frederick was laughing now.

“So did we complain, file a legal complaint? No, we cleaned it up—a lot of it, mind you—in the interest of keeping peace in the neighborhood. Well, from now on, we will throw all of it back in her yard, and if it accidentally hits the house, so be it. And if you want to continue as our attorney, I would suggest you quiet that boisterous laughter immediately if not before.” She felt the edge of her mouth twitch but crushed the incipient smile with firm resolve. “So, revered lawyer, what do you suggest we do over this latest altercation? Other than burn them out, that is. Or buy them out is my suggestion, but George has always put the kibosh on that. But then perhaps we should make him do the poop-scoop detail for a few weeks and see what he thinks then.”

“In scrubs no less.” Frederick went off on another fit of laughter.

The thought of George in green scrubs, even to mask in place, out in the yard with scooper shovel and the rake she had bought specifically for this terribly unpleasant job made her smile and then chuckle. “Stop it, stop laughing, or I shall report you to whatever august body polices the rank and file of attorneys.”

“No one polices attorneys. We litigate that away.”

“Frederick, you are now laughing at your own jokes. There should be a law against that, too.”

“Oh, I'm sure there is, somewhere on the books in some obscure little town.” He took a deep breath and his voice returned to normal.