Milk Glass Moon (11 page)

“So when do they operate?”

“Soon. But I’m not going with that plan exactly.”

My heart sinks. I went through this with my mother. She had her own ideas about how to deal with her cancer, and no doctor was going to tell her how to handle it. “Oh, Iva Lou, listen to the doctors, they know best. If he tells you this will work, it will work.”

“You’re probably right. But I’m a hundred-percent girl.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want a one-hundred-percent guarantee that I am cured. I want to come out of this thing knowing that I won’t git it again. I don’t want to go through all this and then five, seven years down the line find out I have to go through it all over again. And with maybe even less chance of success. I want it done with.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I told him to take them.”

“Take them?”

“Both. I want a double mastectomy.”

“Iva Lou, why don’t you think about this a while longer? This has happened so fast. There’s so much research going on, and the drugs are better, and chemotherapy gets results—”

She cuts me off. “No, I decided. And I sat down with Lyle, and he’s with me on this. My doctor said to get a second opinion. He understands how I feel, but he thinks he can help me with the other line of treatment, and I’m sure he could. But he cannot guarantee that I’m cured. Remission, yes, but not a cure. I want a cure.”

“Oh God. I don’t know, Iva Lou. In a strange way, I understand. You know, I learned a lot from my mother. I learned that every person handles this sort of thing in her own way. I might even do what you’re doing in the same situation. I don’t know. Now, Mama, she was ready to go. She had done her job raising me, and I don’t think she saw a bright future for herself. But you’re different. You want to live, and live a long time.”

“That’s right!” Iva Lou looks so relieved. For the first time in weeks, that little crease between her eyes is gone. She is done thinking about it. “Look, this ain’t easy. I love my breasts. I have loved them and celebrated them from one end of Wise County to the other for most of my life. I was always so proud of my figure. I had it all. Honey, I worked it, I knew I had something special, and I’m, well, I’m the age I am now, and I’ve had a nice amount of years to enjoy them. And now they gotta go, because they have ceased to serve their purpose, and now they’re just gonna cause me problems. I am grateful that I had ’em. It’s been tremendously fun. But now I want something more. I want a guarantee that I’m gonna wake up every morning and live.”

I can’t argue with Iva Lou. She is going to do this, second, third, fourth opinions notwithstanding. She has made up her mind.

“What’s the matter with you?” Iva Lou gives me a poke. I must be frowning.

“I just wish you didn’t have to go through this at all.”

“Honey, that ain’t on the list of options. There’s so much I want to do with my life. I’m not gonna let this get me down. I got plans. I think of all the places in this world that I want to see, and how happy I’ll be when I get there. I’ve never looked at my life like it would end. But now I have proof that the clock is ticking. And by God, I’m not leavin’ until I’ve seen and done everything I’ve always wanted to do.” Iva Lou’s words tumble out of her. She’s resolute and relieved, has made her decision, and is clearly at peace with it.

Iva Lou and I go back to our seats, and as beautiful as the music and words are, I don’t hear them. I’m thinking about my friend the “one-hundred-percent” girl.

The doctors weren’t kidding when they told Iva Lou they were going to schedule her surgery quickly. They wanted to get her in before Thanksgiving, and they have. I worked today, but it was a blur, knowing that Iva Lou would be operated on tonight. I picked up Etta after school, came home, and took a long, hot bath, and now I’m getting ready to drive over to Kingsport. Iva Lou didn’t want a crowd there, just Lyle and me. I’m putting on my makeup in the bathroom. Etta comes in and sits on the edge of the tub.

“Ma, can I go to the skate rink with Tara?”

“Is Dad going?” I ask, applying lipstick.

“He said he would.”

“Then you can go.”

Etta stays and watches me, as she has done so many times since she was little. I remember when I used to do the very same thing with my mother. I was fascinated by the way she powdered her perfect skin and drew her lips red with precision. She used to run a little water on her hands and then smooth her hair down. I imagine Etta with a daughter someday enacting the same rituals. I put on my perfume and then give Etta a quick dab (our little addition to Mama’s routine).

“Is Aunt Iva Lou gonna die?” Etta asks quietly.

“I don’t think so.”

“But your mama died from cancer, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Were you scared?”

I sit down on the tub ledge next to Etta. “Terrified.”

“How did it feel when she died?”

Most people focus on the grief that follows a death, or the process that comes before it, but no one, until now, has ever asked me about the day she died. “I thought it was the worst day of my life. And it was, until your brother died. But I could sort of understand when my mother passed away; she was sick a long time, and toward the end I begged God to take her. She was so thin, and she was in a lot of pain. They always tell you that they can give you something for the pain, but they really can’t. I don’t think it’s just physical pain either, it’s the sadness at leaving the world and the people you love.”

“Were you with her when she died?”

“No.” I breathe deeply.

“Why?”

“I went to work. Mama insisted. She felt okay, and I had been home for a few days tending to her. She was never bedridden. She could always walk around and do a few things, and then she would just get weak and tired and have to sit in her chair. I didn’t want to argue with her, so I went to work. I remember Nellie Goodloe brought me a sack of Red Delicious apples that day, and I knew Mama would love a baked apple, so I was looking forward to getting home and making her one.” We sit quietly for a few moments. I would like to end the story here, but Etta wants to know more.

“Then what happened?”

“I got home and I went into the house, and I called to her, and she didn’t answer. It was so quiet, it scared me. I dropped the apples, and they scattered across the floor. It seemed to happen in slow motion, with no sound. I knew something was terribly wrong, but I couldn’t seem to move my feet to go to her. Then I sort of came to and ran into her bedroom, and she was in her chair. She was gone.”

“Do you think when I die that your mama will recognize me?” Etta wonders aloud.

“Oh, yeah.”

“And Joe, will he know us?”

“I hope so.”

“He was so little, maybe he wouldn’t,” Etta says quietly.

I don’t know how to answer Etta. No matter how long you’ve been a mother, sometimes your children ask you things for which there are no answers. The pat descriptions of an eternal life, of pearly gates and angels on clouds and God in a white beard, seem as removed from reality as Santa Claus at the North Pole. Etta is too big for the pretty stories, because she’s asking the deeper questions.

“I hope he’ll know us.” I sit down next to her.

“You’re not sure, are you, Ma?”

“No, I’m not.” Maybe I shouldn’t be honest; I should reassure her. “I know it helps me a lot to think that I will see my mother and Joe again.”

“Then you will.” Etta smiles and gets up. “Might as well believe in something, Ma. It can’t hurt.”

Holston Valley Hospital sits above Kingsport, Tennessee, like a castle. As I pull into the parking lot, the sun disappears behind the brown mountain in streaks of orange and gold like a tiger’s-eye agate. I’m not afraid as I walk into the hospital, I’m confident for Iva Lou. I don’t know where this optimism is coming from, but it feels real.

“Now, Lyle Emmett Makin, don’t talk Ave’s ear off.” Iva Lou is lying on a gurney in the preop hallway with an unattractive paper shower cap on her head. The nurse tucks a blanket around her. Even without makeup, Iva Lou looks luminous. She has the unlined face of a woman at peace with her decision. Judging from the look in her husband’s eyes, he is thinking the same thing. Lyle kisses his wife’s forehead as she is wheeled into the elevator for her surgery. I blow her a kiss, and she smiles as the doors close. “I’m gonna git a face-lift while I’m in here, y’all!” she shouts from behind the doors. I hear the nurse laugh as the elevator pulls up and away.

“How about coffee, Lyle?”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Lyle Makin has been Iva Lou’s husband for thirteen years, and I can honestly say I know him as well today as the first day I met him. He never says a lot (though he’s mannerly), and I haven’t heard much about his past (he’s from Roseville, down in Lee County) or his work (he repairs heavy mining equipment), but I never needed to—he’s Iva Lou’s husband, and I love him because she does.

Lyle is over six feet tall. He, like Iva Lou, has kept his shape trim over their years together. His salt-and-pepper hair has turned to white, and he’s grown a beard now, so he looks like one of the old guitar pickers at the Carter Fold. He has deep-set dark blue eyes (sign of a private person; boy, is that accurate) and a tawny complexion. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was part Melungeon. Melungeons, our local mountain folk, once scorned, have become popular lately, and their exotic looks have been celebrated in books and plays. Lyle has their bronze coloring, which indicates a mix of Cherokee, Turkish, French, African, and English.

“How you holding up, Lyle?”

“I’m all right. How about you?”

“I’m okay.”

We walk the long hallway in silence, and when we get in the line in the cafeteria, I’m surprised to see Lyle load up a tray. He has baked cod, a side of creamed spinach, two dinner rolls, black coffee, a small container of orange juice, and a slice of coconut cream pie. “Iva told me to eat,” he says, and shrugs.

“She told me you’ve been very supportive.”

Lyle doesn’t say anything for a minute, then takes a deep breath. “She’s my girl.”

“I know.”

“I was in Vietnam. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yep. I volunteered late. I’d served in the Korean conflict, and then when Vietnam came around, I felt I needed to go. So I volunteered.”

“There weren’t many people who felt that way.”

“The army was the best thing that ever happened to me. I dropped out of high school in 1951, and they took me, so I felt like I owed ’em something.” Lyle shakes his container of orange juice before he opens it. “I was in active duty over there, and it was a sight. I lost a few of my buddies, saw several more of ’em injured bad, and one night, we was settin’ around and I told ’em that if I ever got wounded and was paralyzed that I wanted one of ’em to promise he’d finish me off right there. I told ’em I didn’t want to live like ’at. So one of my buddies, a guy named Bill Kelly out of Lansing, Michigan, promised me that he’d carry out my wishes should the time come. ’Bout a month later, I got hit. I told Bill, ‘Scratch what I told you, buddy. I want to live.’ And he looked at my leg and said, ‘It’s a good thing. They just got your thighbone. But I’m gonna shoot you anyway, ’cause you said I could have your watch.’ We had us a good laugh, and he carried me out of there and got me to the doctor, and sure enough, it wasn’t the end of my road, and they saved my leg. I tole Iva Lou this story last night, hoping it would make her feel better; like I understood, as much as a man can, what she was goin’ through. And she looked at me the way she does, and she said, ‘For Godsakes, Lyle, I can’t walk on my boobs.’ ” Lyle laughs. “She missed the point.” He stirs his coffee and looks at me. “You know, she’s all I got.” He pushes the tray away without having touched his food. “My kin is gone.”

“She’s gonna be fine, Lyle.”

“You think so?”

“I know it. She could whup anything or anybody that comes in her path.”

“That’s for true.”

I’m sure this is the longest conversation I will ever have with Lyle Makin, but it certainly gave me insight into why Iva Lou gave up years of Happy Swinglehood for him. Lyle loves her in that everlasting way, and Iva Lou sensed that somewhere down the line this would be exactly what she needed.

CHAPTER FIVE

The ride home from the hospital flies by (it helps that I’m going eighty miles an hour and that there are no trucks on the road between Gate City and Big Stone Gap). The doctors met with us after Iva Lou’s surgery and told us they thought they “got it all.” Iva Lou was still under anesthesia when I left; the doctors hoped she would sleep until morning. The staff was nice enough to provide Lyle with a cot so he could sleep in the room with his wife.

By the time I get home, Jack and Etta have had dinner, and he’s now in our room watching TV. I give him a report on Iva Lou, then go upstairs and check on Etta, whose bed is covered with open schoolbooks, notebooks, and pencils.

“Looks like you got a lot of work ahead of you.”

“I do. How’s Aunt Iva Lou?”

“She’s okay. She’s gonna be fine.”

“When can I go see her?”

“Saturday,” I tell her.

“Good. Dad left you some pizza in the kitchen.”

Etta goes back to her homework. Instead of heading into the kitchen, I go out the front door and sit on the steps. I’m not hungry, I need air, lots of air. I roll my head in circles slowly, as Theodore taught me to do years ago, in order to relieve an oncoming headache. It works. I can hear my neck bones crack at first, and then, after a few rotations, nothing. I walk around the house to the backyard. I think about going into the woods but decide I’m too tired, so I lie down on the ground and cross my arms under my head. I feel spent. I’ve been worried about Iva Lou and burying it, afraid to show my feelings to her or my family, and now it’s all catching up with me. I feel a cold teardrop at the corner of my eye.

The sky is a strange color tonight, gunmetal gray, and the texture of the clouds makes it look like a skein of old wool. It reminds me of storms in adventure movies where all is calm but the sky, which churns overhead in anticipation. Maybe that’s why it’s warm; any minute the sky, like a ceiling soaked through by a broken pipe, will come crashing down and with it the cold rains of winter.

“Here, Mama.” Etta joins me and gives me my jacket. “Don’t get up.” She lies down on the ground next to me and looks up. “Those clouds are creepy.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Have you ever seen them that color before?” she asks.

“I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t it weird that it’s not cold? It’s almost Thanksgiving, and it hasn’t been cold yet.”

“It’s very weird,” I agree.

We lie there for a while until Etta asks, “If you got cancer, what would you do?”

“I guess I’d find the best doctors. Then I’d listen to what they had to say. After that, I’d come home and talk to you and Daddy. Why do you ask?”

Etta does not answer. The sound of the old coil on the screen door interrupts us. Jack stands on the porch. “What are my girls doing out here?”

“Talkin’.” Etta shrugs.

“No moon tonight,” Jack says, and sits down next to me.

“Oh, it’s there,” Etta promises.

“Where?” her father wants to know.

“Northeast.” Etta points.

“How do you know?” I ask her.

“Well, at the end of the week, we’ll have a rising crescent moon, which is a bright moon because it’s lit by the sun. Plus, it gets a dose of earthshine, which is sunlight reflected off of the earth and onto the moon.”

“Where did you learn that?” I sit up and look at my daughter with newfound respect.

“In books. Plus, Mr. Zander lets me stay after school and study his maps. ’Course, he told me that I could study the constellations for the rest of my life and not even make a dent in understanding what’s out there.”

“You used to stand in your crib to look out the window at night. I could never figure out what you were looking at. Now I know.” I nudge Etta, and she laughs.

“I like the constellations because they’re fixed. Like tonight. You can’t see any stars because of the clouds. And when the moon is full and there’s a lot of light, it overpowers the sparkle of the stars, so you think they’re gone. But they’re there. In science, the only concept you can prove is that things always change. But the truth is, they also stay the same.”

“Now, that’s a philosophy,” Jack says as he looks up at the sky.

“It means that, like the stars, we have a fixed place. A destiny. There are facts and then there is fate, which is out of our control.”

The clouds shift overhead, and in the exact spot Etta pointed to, the moon emerges, a white half-smile covered by a filmy veil of clouds.

“All right, my little scientist,” Jack begins. “What do you call that moon?”

Etta looks up. “A quarter-moon?”

“Nope, although that’s probably the right measurement. My grandpap called it a milk glass moon, because the clouds give it a smoky haze like milk in a glass after you’ve drunk it. And he said that meant it would rain the next day.”

“That’s nice, Dad, but I don’t think it’s very scientific.”

Jack and I laugh; this is the best moment to be a parent, when you see that your child is going to surpass you, that her curiosity will take her places and teach her things you never even thought about. As for Etta’s idea that the stories of our lives have already been written, well, this is one I’ll have to think about. It makes me feel better to think the things in this world that have no explanation or cause pain (like Iva Lou’s cancer) are part of a bigger picture; it makes them seem manageable and less overwhelming. But it’s hard for me to accept that notion and cling tightly to everything I love. When the clouds come, I’m not so sure the stars are behind them.

Fleeta, Pearl, and I decide to drive over to Kingsport to see Iva Lou after visiting hours at the hospital. Between the staff of the county library, Iva Lou’s old Bookmobile customers, and a round of old boyfriends, she has not lacked for company. I checked in three times today by phone, and each time she told me of another floral tribute delivered to her room. “It’s a shame I ain’t dyin’,” she told me, “ ’cause these flowers would fill the sacristy at Freewill Baptist.” The most stunning flowers come from Theodore Tipton, who ordered a spray of yellow roses edged in gold glitter. Iva Lou calls them her “Viva Las Vegas” bouquet.

On the drive there, Pearl sits in the back so she can put her feet up (a must for pregnant women) while Fleeta fidgets in the front seat. She keeps pressing the nicotine patch on her arm like it’s a call button. “Fleeta, it’s not like a morphine drip. Pressing it won’t send more nicotine into your bloodstream,” I inform her.

“To hell it don’t. I press on this thang every few minutes, and it gives me a jolt.”

“I think that’s in your imagination.”

“I guess the fact that I got the shakes twenty-four-seven is imaginary too.”

“You’re doing great,” I tell her. And she is, she’s down to one cigarette a day.

“Fleeta, have you been keeping a secret from us?” Pearl wants to know.

“What sort of a secret?” Fleeta hacks.

“A boyfriend secret,” Pearl says softly.

“Hell noooo.” Fleeta looks out the window.

“I heard you’re dating Otto Olinger.” I can’t believe Pearl came out with it, just like that!

“Where’d you hear that?” Fleeta coughs.

“Folks have seen you around. Arby’s in Kingsport. The Galley up in Norton. You know, around.” Pearl shrugs nonchalantly.

“I saw you in a horse and buggy over in Abingdon,” I chime in.

“When?”

“Awhile back.”

“Why didn’t you say hello?”

“You and Otto looked like you wanted your privacy.”

“You were right about that. So let’s drop it.” Fleeta smoothes the creases on her new jeans.

We ride in silence for a few moments. Finally, Pearl says, “I think it’s nice.”

Fleeta turns to face Pearl. “Now, don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s a vurry vurry casual thing. I resisted as long as I could. Menfolk are nothin’ but a brand of rash—they have this way of gittin’ under yer skin and makin’ it itch. Now, I know for a fact that April Zirkle had the hots fer Otto fer quite a spell. Her husband’s been gone about three year’, ’course he ain’t dead, just missin’, but still. And I told him that ole April would love to go with him and she’s still got all her breath, she don’t git winded like me goin’ from here to there, she’s a nonsmoker, I think. So I tole him call her up and take
her
out.”

“But he likes
you
!” I interject.

“I know that. I’m not an idiot. Otto Olinger’s been chasin’ my tarred ass since we lowered Portly into the ground over at Glencoe Cemetery.” Fleeta settles back into her seat and folds her arms across her chest like a little girl.

“That long? No way!” Pearl leans forward in her seat.

“Yes ma’am. And I done tried everything to deter him. But he likes what he sees.” Fleeta inhales deeply through her nose and sticks out her chest. “But I don’t need it.”

“You’re not attracted to him?”

“Now, Ave. Honestly.”

“It’s okay if you are.”

“If I’m gonna make a move, I don’t want me an old man. I know, you look at me and you say, Fleets, you’re old yourself. I know I am. But I never liked me old men, not when I was young and not now. I don’t like lookin’ at stick legs and a saggy bottom in my bedroom. I’m sorry. I see a Pierce Brosnan or somebody like ’at in my mind’s eye when I let my mind’s eye roll in that direction. I certainly don’t see some ole hilljack with a beer gut, a flat ass, and a set of fake choppers from Doc Polly.”

“You’ve always been particular, Fleeta,” I tell her.

“I’m glad you noticed.” Fleeta sniffs.

“It’s very sweet,” Pearl says softly.

“You’re so gullible. You’d believe anything a man told you, wouldn’t you?”

“If I respected him, I would.”

“You can respect a man and he’ll still tell you a pack o’ lies. Trust me on that one.”

I can’t hold it any longer, and I begin to laugh. Soon Pearl joins me, and we laugh so hard, we cry. Finally, Fleeta joins us, and as we pull into the lot at Holston Valley Hospital, you’d think we were going to the circus.

Hospitals are lonely places at night. I’m glad the girls are with me as we make our way down the corridor.

“She’s in 602,” Fleeta announces, looking at a scrap of paper from her pocket.

Iva Lou is in a corner room, and as we approach, we hear her crying. We don’t bother to knock, we just barge right in. Iva Lou lies in the bed, a box of Kleenex in her lap.

“Hey, girls,” she says, and blows her nose.

“Are you okay?” I ask her gently. Iva Lou nods that she’s all right.

“Brought you some divinity.” Fleeta gives Iva Lou the tin, plopping down on the foot of the bed.

Pearl gives Iva Lou a kiss on the cheek and places her gift on the nightstand. “I know you like hand cream.” I go to embrace Iva Lou, but I can’t; she’s wrapped in bandages and obviously in pain.

Fleeta sneezes. “Must be the lilies.” She points to the wall of flowers. “So, how are ye, girl?”

“I feel odd,” Iva Lou says simply. “Is this medieval or what? My coat of armor,” she says, pointing to the bandages that bind her from her neck to her waist. “Now, girls, don’t look at me like that. I’m not sorry ’bout my decision. Just sometimes it all hits me at once and I git sad.”

“Where’s Lyle?”

“My aunt Shirley Jackowski from over in Johnson City came to see me, and I made Lyle take her out for something to eat. I’ll really owe him one for that—she’s a handful.”

“The doctor said the surgery went well,” Pearl says, offering support.

“It did. I’m gonna be all right. I do a little chemo, you know, and then I’ll be good as new,” Iva Lou promises. “Otto and Worley came over earlier with Spec.”

“Did they bring you something nice?” I ask her.

“Two dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. They ate about three quarters of them, and I gave the rest to the nurses.” Iva Lou winks at Fleeta. “You got something to tell me?”

“Jesus Christmas. You too?” Fleeta gives the patch on her arm a slight pressing.

“Otto Olinger is quite smitten with you, young lady,” Iva Lou tells her.

“Well, that’s his problem.” Fleeta picks a piece of lint off the blanket.

“Fleeta’s a little annoyed at us because we talked about her love affair on the way over,” I say.

“It ain’t a love affair!”

“What do you call ridin’ in a horse carriage under an autumn moon in Abingdon?” Iva Lou asks.

“A goddamn hayride to the pumpkin patch!” Fleeta says defensively. “Look. Love ain’t on my radar screen. A surf and turf at Scoby’s is. I like to go out once in a while, and it’s nice to have company. That’s the extent of it. God a-mighty, it’s dry in here.” Fleeta stands and reaches over to crack the window open.

“Okay, okay, we’ve tortured Fleeta enough. Who wants a Coke? I’ll run down to the cafeteria.” I take their drink orders.

The elevator is on the far side of the floor, so I loop around the hallway. As I’m following the arrows, I bump into a woman.

“Excuse me,” I tell her.

“That’s all right,” she says.

I look into her eyes and am about to say something else when I realize that I know this woman: eerily tanned in November—it can be only one person. “Hi,” I say as my mind connects a series of facts quickly.

“Hi,” she says. “You’re . . .”

“Ave Maria MacChesney,” I tell her. How happy am I that I put on lipstick, changed into a new pair of jeans and a sweater, and lost the ten pounds that were hanging on my thighs like fat wallets. “And you’re . . .”

“Karen. Yeah. I didn’t know if you’d remember me,” she says as she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

Remember you? I think to myself. You almost stole my husband, left my kid fatherless, and made a fool out of me from the pit of the Cumberland Gap to the tip-top of Cracker’s Neck Holler. Remember? I’ll never forget you. I wish my husband were here to see you in this green fluorescent light, so he could see what happens to “cute” as it ages. Four years have made quite a difference in my husband’s paramour.

“Karen, honey?” A man emerges from a patient’s room. He’s around sixty. He has the biggest head I’ve ever seen (including Spec Broadwater’s), gray hair combed a little too neatly, a pug nose (odd on a man this size and a sign of lack of wisdom in Chinese face reading, though I need to look that up, as I’m not sure what the combo of big head and small nose means), and low ears (this man would have trouble working a simple crossword puzzle).