Читать книгу Blossom Street - Debbie Macomber - Страница 45

“Whether I am knitting for myself or someone else, my passion for knitting enables me to express my creativity and produces a feeling of accomplishment.”

—Rita E. Greenfeder, Editor, Knit ‘N Style

Magazine

LYDIA HOFFMAN

Margaret decided to go with me to the meeting with Dr. Wilson at his office. He had all the test results and medical reports back now, and there seemed to be some confusion about the diagnosis.

Notoriously closemouthed, he did mention casually when I was released from the hospital that he’d asked a colleague to review the biopsy. That news, I suspect, was meant to encourage me. But in my heart, I knew the tumor was cancerous.

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Margaret mumbled as we sat in the waiting area. It was the last appointment of the day, another sure sign of my prognosis, but I didn’t say any of this to Margaret.

Instead I leaned back and closed my eyes, wanting to block out the world. It was easy for my sister to suggest optimism. This wasn’t her life, her illness, her impending death. I couldn’t help wondering what her thoughts would’ve been had our situations been reversed. I bit back the words to remind her that she’d come running to me with her own recent scare. I was in that kind of mood right now. I could hardly keep from lashing out at the world and everyone close to me. The person who’d received the brunt of my anger, sadly, was Brad, and he was the last person who deserved it. But I refused to dwell on him or the regrets I felt whenever he crossed my mind. I’d done what I had for his own good. He would never know what it had cost me to send him away; I would carry the weight of that for the rest of my life, however short that might be.

My mother was another one I’d strived to protect. Margaret had, too. So far, we’d kept Mom in the dark. We’d concocted a story about my hospital visit having to do with a routine check-up. My mother had been all too willing to accept the lie.

Long before I was ready to confront the inevitable, Peggy came into the waiting area. This time she wasn’t holding that monstrosity of a medical file in her arms. “Dr. Wilson will see you now,” she announced.

I didn’t meet her eyes, although I heard hope and encouragement in her voice. I considered Peggy a friend, but that friendship wasn’t exclusive. She was wonderful to all of Dr. Wilson’s patients. I realized how difficult this must be for her, too. So often, she had to silently stand by and watch Dr. Wilson’s patients lose their battles with cancer. It wasn’t a position I envied.

Margaret was on her feet before I’d managed to put my magazine down and pick up my purse. I was certainly in no hurry to have my deepest fears confirmed.

Peggy led us into Dr. Wilson’s private office. His framed degrees lined the walls; he displayed a few family photos, which were artfully arranged on a credenza. The mahogany desk was polished and uncluttered, with my file set to one side. I’d been in his private office twice before, and each time I’d been devastated by his news. I didn’t expect anything different this go-round.

Dr. Wilson wasn’t in the room when we arrived, but he walked in directly behind us. My sister shook hands with him after a murmured introduction.

Dr. Wilson rolled out his big, high-back leather chair and sat down. He reached for my file, which he brought to the center of the table. He paused and then….

“The cancer is back.” I didn’t make it a question. The tumor was gone, but I was sure there’d be more, growing in areas not as accessible as this one had been.

“Is it?” Margaret asked and to my surprise her voice quavered slightly.

So often in our lives, I’ve wanted to prove to Margaret that I was right and she was wrong. Call it sibling rivalry. This time, however, I’d have given anything to be wrong.

As I’d said earlier, there was nothing to be optimistic about. The disease refused to leave my body. I opened my mouth to announce that I’d refuse treatment. I had neither the will nor the strength to face a third battle. Not without my father.

“Because of your history,” Dr. Wilson began, “I felt it was doubly important to be certain before I made a prognosis. I had the biopsy sent to the top brain cancer specialist in the country.”

I held my breath almost afraid to hope, certain the news would devastate me.

“What did he say?” Margaret asked, slipping closer to the edge of her seat.

“She agrees with me. The tumor was benign.”

“Benign,” I repeated, wanting to be sure I’d heard him correctly. The tumor was benign.

“Yes.” Dr. Wilson smiled at me but I was too shocked to react. “Everything’s going to be all right this time, Lydia. You’re cancer-free.” He stood up and walked over to an X-ray display panel on his wall. He removed two X-rays from inside an envelope and clipped them onto the lit panel. Taking out his pen, he pointed to the film. “This is the first X-ray we took and this is the one following the surgery.”

“Are you saying I won’t need radiation or chemotherapy?”

He shook his head. “No reason for it.”

I sat up straighter.

“It’s very good news, don’t you think?”

I was too numb to agree with him or even nod. Dr. Wilson’s voice faded as the realization slowly came. My life had been given back to me.

I’m not sure when I rose to my feet but suddenly I was standing. I covered my mouth and feared I was about to embarrass myself by bursting into tears. I noticed, to my astonishment, that Margaret was weeping. She rose and hugged me and started sobbing louder.

“You’re going to be all right,” she kept repeating. “Oh, Lydia, you’re going to be all right.”

Dr. Wilson was explaining a new medication he’d prescribed for me and the side effects, but nothing he said made sense just then. I was too happy to care.

Margaret and I both went from open weeping to ridiculous amusement, and our reactions were almost perfectly synchronized. Our giggles must have sounded hysterical. Margaret placed the tips of her fingers against her lips and refused to look at me. She made an effort to focus on what Dr. Wilson was trying to explain. None of it mattered. All I knew was that I had my life back. My beautiful, wonderful life was my own once again.

Not until we were outside the office did I think about Brad. “Margaret,” I said, gripping my sister by the arm as the happiness drained out of me. We stood in front of the elevator. Margaret must have heard the distress in my voice because her smile faded.

“What?”

“Brad … I was so cruel to him when all he wanted to do was help.”

Margaret was obviously struggling not to scream I told you so at me, but all she said was, “Talk to him.”

I’d missed Brad dreadfully and I longed to call him, but I couldn’t. He’d attempted to visit me twice more while I was hospitalized, but I’d refused to see him. He’d asked the nurse to deliver a letter to me. I knew if I read it he’d change my mind, so I’d asked her to take it away, sight unseen.

Later the nurse returned and told me Brad had been waiting for a reply and she’d been forced to tell him I wouldn’t read his letter. Now it all seemed melodramatic and senseless. I might well have ruined the most promising relationship of my life.

“I can try to talk to Brad, but I don’t know if he’ll listen.” I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see me again. My one hope was that he couldn’t very well ignore me when he made deliveries to my store.

Bright and early Tuesday morning, I was back in business. I can’t even begin to explain the thrill it gave me to walk into my shop and turn the CLOSED sign to read OPEN. Even the noise from the construction across the street couldn’t dampen my good mood.

Reality intruded with a list of instructions from Dr. Wilson. I was apparently a good candidate for this new drug treatment to prevent the growth of future tumors.

My morning was constantly busy as customers streamed into the store, all with questions as to why I’d been away for most of a week. It turns out that many of them had learned I was back—one person phoned another who called a third, and so forth. I can’t even describe how gratifying that was. Margaret had done her best to be helpful, keeping the store open for part of every day, but my customers were accustomed to dealing with me.

Margaret seemed to have enjoyed working at the store. As little as three months ago, I couldn’t have imagined thinking warmly of my older sister. I was deeply appreciative of everything she’d done for me.

At noon, when I had my first lull of the day, I glanced anxiously out the shop windows, hoping for a glimpse of Brad. When the big brown truck rolled to a stop in front of the floral shop, I nearly raced out the door. But the UPS driver wasn’t Brad.

“Where’s Brad?” I blurted out.

The replacement glanced over his shoulder at the abruptness of my question. “Brad is no longer on this route.”

“What do you mean he’s no longer on this route?” I demanded. It felt as if the sidewalk had started to buckle beneath my feet. I couldn’t believe Brad would do anything as drastic as this.

“Brad’s delivering in the downtown area now.”

I knew what had happened. “He requested a transfer, didn’t he?”

The UPS driver shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. Sorry.”

“Do you ever see him?” I asked, hoping to use the other man to relay a message.

“Not much.” He was preoccupied, and I was clearly detaining him, so I returned to my store, my steps dragging.

I knew that what I’d done to Brad was wrong. I’d badly hurt the one person who’d proved himself to me over and over. All I could do was hope it wasn’t too late to make amends.