Slow Moon Rising (15 page)

One Friday afternoon, between seeing the Bateman baby and Zandra Brown's two-year-old, my energy level crashed.
Dizziness swept over me. I sagged against the rough wall, turned, and pressed the back of my head against it. From the other side, I could hear Mrs. Brown telling little Naomi to “stop moving around so much.” Just then, Dad stepped out of room 7, which was directly across from me, and stopped short. “Jayme-Leigh?” he asked without moving.

“I'm just tired,” I said.

He crossed the hallway in two steps, placed his hand under my elbow, and said, “Let's get to your office.”

I nodded.

“I allowed you to come back to work too soon. John said six to eight weeks and here you are working within the fifth.”

We entered my office without any of the staff noticing. Dad closed the door behind us, guided me to the maroon leather sofa on the opposite side of the room from my desk, and lowered me toward it.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” he said.

I nodded again, pleased. My mouth was parched. Dad went to a mini-fridge where I kept small bottles of water. Seconds later, I guzzled the entire eight ounces without so much as taking a breath. I immediately felt better. “I needed that,” I said.

“You need to be at home in bed.” Dad sat beside me.

I cut my eyes at him. “Dad . . .”

“I'm not kidding, young lady.”

Naomi Brown's chart rested on my knees; I placed my hands palm down on top of it. “If I'd been gone much longer, I'd have forgotten how to do my job.”

“I doubt that.”

I chuckled. “I felt fine, Dad,” I said, turning serious. “Really
I did. And I've worked half days all this week, and each day I've felt better and better. I've been thinking that by next week I could come back full-time. And the dizziness I felt a few minutes ago just came on me without warning. This is a first. I promise.”

Dad dipped his hand into one of the lower pockets of his lab coat and pulled out a cell phone. “I'm calling John.”

I put my hand on his. “You'll do no such thing.”

Dad cocked a brow at me. “Now you listen here, Jayme-Leigh Claybourne,” he said. “I'm feeling guilty enough as it is.”

My spine tingled. There hadn't been too many times in my life that my father had called me by my full name. And only once before had I heard him talk of feeling guilt, and that had been the night we'd gone to the hospital on a call, leaving Ami alone with Mom. “Why should you feel guilty?”

Dad's face grew somber. “Remember how I told everyone your mother had cancer?”

I nodded.

“You've kept that secret with me and . . . now, I have to wonder. Did God punish me by giving
you
cancer instead?”

I felt air rush out of me. “Dad . . . wouldn't that be God punishing
me
?”

Dad's eyes rested on mine. “I don't know. Anise says I'm wrong. That God doesn't work that way.” He shook his head. “Maybe this is just my own guilt.”

I patted his hand. “I love you, Dad.” I shifted. “For that and so much more. Please don't feel that way. You're too smart for that. Cancer just . . . happens. You and I both know that. As doctors, we know it. It's a fallen world we live in, right?”

Dad seemed to ponder my words for a minute. “Do you ever get mad at God?”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

I gave him a half smile. “Me too. Sometimes.”

Dad kissed my cheek. “Let me call John. I'm your father. Give me this much?”

I slid backward until I was resting completely into the sofa, all the while wondering why the men in my life felt they had to depend on each other to get their way. At the same time, grateful for them both. “Dial away,” I said, closing my eyes. I listened as Dad gave the details to John, said “uh-huh . . . uh-huh” a few times, and then slapped the phone shut.

I opened my eyes. “Well?”

“He thinks you've overdone it. He wants you to go home, get some rest over the weekend, and if this continues, call him on Monday. Sooner if you need to. He said to tell you that you've risked hemorrhaging and that if you should start spotting, to not wait a second before calling him.” Dad stood. “I'm getting one of the girls up front to drive you home.”

“Dad . . .” But one look at his face and I threw my hands up. “Okay. Okay. I surrender.”

“Good girl.” He pointed at me. “Just sit. I'll send someone back here in a minute.” He started toward the door. “Oh. And John said you may want to get a recipe book that has after-cancer recipes in it.”

“Oh?”

“He said there are some fatigue-fighting snacks. Juices. Things like that.”

“Oh.”

“I'll tell Anise—she knows all about things like that—and have her pick one up for you from the bookstore.” Dad left.

Minutes later, one of the receptionists entered. She was young—all of nineteen—and already married with a two-year-old. “Hey, BJ.”

“Dr. Claybourne.” She tilted her head. The thick brown hair she wore in a high ponytail dipped to one side, and her doe-shaped, rich brown eyes grew wide. “You need a ride home?”

I slid to the end of the sofa. “Looks like it.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “I'll get my truck and drive it 'round to the back door,” she said. “Just give me five minutes.”

“I'll meet you at the back.”

With the energy and precociousness of a five-year-old she placed her fists on her hips and said, “Do you want me to come back inside and help you outside? Dr. Ross said you had a weak spell.”

I smiled at her with appreciation. “No, BJ. I'm fine now. I can make it.” Realizing I still had the Brown file in my lap, I said, “Oh. BJ . . .” I extended the file to her. “Would you mind taking this to Dr. Ross and asking him to take care of little Naomi.” I smiled. “I think her mother has her hands full in there.”

BJ took the file and smiled back. “Don't I know it? If my Becca had as much energy as Naomi, I'd be too tired to come to work.”

Until that ride home, I had little knowledge of BJ. I hadn't recorded to memory where she lived or the name of her
husband, and I certainly had no idea what kind of car she drove. Dad and I had enough office workers—receptionists, nurses, insurance clerks, CNAs, and a PA who worked primarily with Dad—to keep up with the details of their lives would be a full-time job in and of itself. The only reason I knew BJ's age, that she was married and had a child, was because it had fallen on me to conduct her final interview. Those facts, which she had happily rattled off, had stuck with me.

I sat in the front seat of a brand-new silver Ford F150 4-door SuperCrew. I knew because BJ proudly said, “This is my new Ford F150, 4-door SuperCrew!” A child's car seat was strapped into the backseat, padded bar thrown back, a sippy cup and a crumpled blanket with duckies tossed onto the seat. For the most part, I sat without saying a word while BJ rambled on about her little girl. For every quality she possessed as a receptionist—and she was a good one—I found it obvious that she took her role as mother far more seriously.

About ten minutes from home, I broached a question I'd been asking myself since I'd pulled myself into the cab. “BJ,” I said slowly. “How is it that a young girl like yourself—a vivacious girl like yourself—is driving a four-door truck?”

She laughed. “My husband—Randy—says it's a deer hauler if he ever saw one.” She patted the black leather seat. “I picked it out myself. Bought it myself too. Randy said if I wanted it I could have it, but by golly I was going to pay for it.” She winked at me. “So please don't fire me.”

I blinked. She was too competent in her job; firing her was the last thing about to happen. “He said it's a . . . a what?”

“Deer hauler.” She kept her eyes on the road while I kept my eyes on her. “You know, for deer huntin'.”

“You . . . deer hunt?”

She grinned. “Sure. Randy's daddy owns some land over in Osceola County. We go there during deer season. Whitetails all over the place.”

“And you shoot a gun? At a deer?”

“I got two of 'em last year.” She grinned at me, albeit briefly. “You should try it, Dr. Claybourne. You'd enjoy it.”

I laughed. “I think I'll pass.”

She shrugged. “We don't do it for sport. We eat the meat. I'll bring you some venison steaks next week if you like. We've got plenty.”

“I don't think I've ever had any venison.”

“Some people think it's gamey. But I like it. I'll even tell you how to cook it so it's so tender you won't need to chew.”

I smiled at the thought. “That's very nice of you. Can I ask you another question?”

“Sure.” The ponytail swung behind her. “I'm pretty much an open book.”

“Why did you decide not to go to school?”

BJ shot a glance toward me. “I went to school.”

“I mean after high school. Surely you had a goal outside of working as a pediatrician's receptionist.”

“Yeah. Well. I started dating Randy when I was a junior and he was a senior. After school, he went to trade school—he's the manager at Mobil Lube, you know. The one on Colonial near where we live,” she said, as though I knew her address. “Anyway, I always figured he'd graduate from trade school and I'd graduate from high school about the same time. Then we'd get married. I couldn't imagine anything in this world I'd rather be than Mrs. Randy Stodden.” She
rolled her eyes. “I was and still am completely nuts about that guy.”

I raised my brow but not enough that she'd notice. “He obviously felt the same way.”

“Honestly? Not altogether.”

“Meaning?” I asked, then added, “Turn left up here.”

“Meaning he met some chickadee while he was at school and broke up with me so he could date her.”

“It didn't last, apparently.”

“Well . . . no. I mean, a month after he broke up with me, I found out Becca was on the way and . . .”

I swallowed. “I see.”

BJ scooted back in her seat. “I hope that doesn't make you feel bad against me.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It wasn't like I was sleeping with every boy in school. In fact, Randy was my only, and he and I had only been together twice. For the longest time I thought that was why he'd broken up with me. You know. Because I had . . .”

“Yes. I understand.” I took a deep breath around a knot growing in my chest. “Randy is obviously a responsible young man.”

She smiled brightly. “He is. I mean, I was kinda worried he would say ‘Good luck, girl' and leave me to it. But he did the right thing. We got married, we had Becca, and we couldn't be happier. At least I don't think we could.”

I pointed. “Turn right up here. We'll need to stop at the guard gate, but they all know me.”

“Got it.” She drove on in silence, we made it past the guard, and she followed my instructions, all the while craning her
neck to look out the windshield. “Sure are some nice houses around here.”

“There are.”

“I bet your house is something else, Dr. Claybourne.”

“I like it. Sometimes I think it's too big for just my husband and me, but . . .”

BJ turned onto my street. “Don't worry about that. I'd be willing to bet that pretty soon you'll have your own little ones running around, filling up the empty spaces.”

The knot moved to my throat. I could say nothing. I kept my focus on breathing around it. By the time she pulled the truck to my front door and I'd gotten the keys out of my purse, I'd managed to swallow it down. “Thank you, BJ. You're very kind to do this.”

“Any time. And I hope you get to feeling better. Right now I'm glad I had a T&A when I was a kid and not an adult.”

I opened the door and slid to the ground. “Yes,” I said. I raised my eyes to the young woman who was the epitome of everything I'd never wanted to be. Uneducated in terms of a college education. Working
for
someone else and driving a truck she could hunt Bambi in. Pregnant way before she should have been.

But she was a mother. No matter what she may not have chosen as her way in life, she'd have Becca. “That was good for you,” I finally said. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

Heather
March 2007

I was in deep, deep trouble. More than I could wrap my brain around. More than I could figure a way out of.

And, figuring my way out of things, well . . . that's a gift of mine.

But this was beyond me.

God!
I looked up from the piles of papers—bills, invoices, threatening correspondences—and offered a pitiful prayer to the One who knows me best and loves me most.
How could I . . .

But I knew the answer. I didn't need God to say one word. Not one. Other than, maybe,
Didn't I tell you so?

I hate it when that happens. Not when God is right. He's always right. But when I am wrong. I hate being wrong.

Lord! Why didn't you stop me? Just once? Stop me before I made such a mess of things?

God remained silent. Again, not one word was necessary. I didn't need to “be still and know.” I didn't need to open the
Bible, open it randomly as some people do, and then point and let God speak to me by chance. I didn't need to journal, not that I do anyway—who has time?—allowing my free mind to eventually come up with what God would say to my heart. No. I already knew the answer.

God didn't stop me
ever
because I
never
stopped long enough to let him.

I slapped both hands on the desk where I took care of our family's household expenses. The papers beneath shifted under the force. I slid them all together. Looked at each one, sheet by sheet. Credit card invoice by credit card invoice.

Robb & Stucky, where I'd bought our new bedroom furniture.

Thomasville, where I'd bought the living room and dining room furniture.

Macy's, where I'd bought the new china. And the new stemware. And the new flatware.

Dillard's, where I'd bought the new sheet sets and comforters.

Bed, Bath, & Beyond, where I'd bought the new towel sets.

Home Depot, where this whole thing started.

Oh, if Andre had only listened to me when I told him we should move to a new house. But no. He had to be practical. Logical. He just had to sit down and talk budget with me.

“If the budget is my job,” I'd asked him from the middle of the kitchen—arms folded, feet braced apart as if I were about to lunge—“then why can't you just trust me?”

Andre sat in one of the kitchen chairs. He was as relaxed as a cat on a sunporch in the middle of the afternoon. Leaning back. One leg crossed over the other. Shirtsleeves cuffed and
rolled twice toward his elbow. And looking as handsome as the day I'd married him, just less boyish, more man.

“Heather, honey,” he said, almost as if the words were one. Heather-honey. I should have my name changed on my birth certificate. No longer Heather Elaine Claybourne. Instead, Heather Honey Dutton. “I do trust you. You've done a great job all these years, and goodness knows I didn't give you a whole lot to work with in the beginning. But I don't see what in the world we need to move for. This house is plenty big. It's in a good school zone. The kids have their friends right here in the neighborhood. We're near the church. We're near my work.”

I threw up my hands. “I'm suffocating, this house is so small.”

“It's nearly four thousand square feet.”

“Thirty-five hundred and that includes the garage.” I walked to the sink, turned on the water, and ran the dishcloth under it.

“Which is still plenty big enough for this family.”

I added soap to the cloth, wrung it out, and started wiping the countertop, picking up whatnots, wiping under them, setting the whatnots back down. “Look at this, Andre. I cannot get some of the stains off this countertop. It's cheap and you know it. And even if I bleach it, what about . . .” I pointed to a place where the linoleum was seamed together. “That?”

“What about it?”

“It's buckling.”

Andre chuckled. Stood. Walked over to me, slid his arms around my waist from behind, and gently stilled my hands.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he whispered. “Goodness gracious, woman, but what you don't get all upset over the littlest things.”

His breath blew warm on my neck, and I shivered. He could talk me into anything—and obviously he had, what with us getting married mere months after meeting. Ten months later we were holding twin babies.

“It's not little.” I groaned, though I knew I wouldn't win this one.

“Tell you what let's do,” he said, turning me to face him. He placed his hands on both sides of my face, splayed his fingers, and drew my lips to his for the tenderest of kisses. “How about if we remodel the kitchen. You go down to Home Depot tomorrow. Talk to someone who knows what they're talking about—goodness knows I don't—and see what it will take to redo the countertops, the cabinets.” He glanced over his right shoulder. “The appliances are fairly new so I don't think—”

My shoulders sagged. “Oh, Andre, really. You can't expect me to upgrade this kitchen and not get new appliances.”

“Okay, okay. We'll look at new appliances.”

I grinned with such fervor my cheeks ached. I placed my hands on his waist, tickled my way around his trim torso until I had locked him in my arms. This time, it was me drawing him close and kissing him. When I leaned back to look into his eyes, I said, “What's my budget?”

A growl escaped from his throat. “Woman . . .”

“Well, I need to know,” I said, pretending to be coy.

“Let's say twenty grand.”

“That's it?”

His face—handsome and perpetually tanned—grew somber.
“I'm not kidding, Heather. That's as much as we can afford. You may keep the books, but I'm not so naïve that I don't look into them once a month.”

I laid my forehead against his wide shoulder. “Okay, okay. Twenty and not a penny more.”

“Now then,” he said. “I believe the twins are at swim practice and Lenny is at Richie's. Right?”

“Mmmhmm.”

He bit my earlobe. “Then my timing is perfect,” he whispered.

It took three months to renovate the kitchen. Three months and nineteen thousand, eight hundred, and eighty-three dollars (and sixty-four cents) to be exact. The last bit of white dust and the last manufacturer's sticker had been removed in time for Thanksgiving 2006. I invited the whole family to come for dinner, including Ami, who declined.

Since she'd graduated from high school, we'd hardly seen her. She rarely called. And I frequently kicked myself in the rear for the fight we'd had seven years previously.

“But will you try to come home for Christmas?” I'd asked her.

“Yeah,” she said, totally noncommittal. “I'll see what I can get off. But, just so you know, since being accepted by the Atlanta Ballet . . . I mean . . . this is a busy season.”

“But surely you'll have Christmas Day off?”

I heard the deep sigh from the other end of the line. “I said I'll see what I can do and I will, okay?”

So, Thanksgiving Day, there we were, enjoying the fruits
of my new kitchen, all of us, save Ami. Of course, Anise brought several health-conscious dishes and then went on and on about the difference between a Southern Thanksgiving and a Northern one.

“If she doesn't like the way we eat,” I mumbled to Kim, “then why doesn't she go
home
and enjoy the holidays with
her
family.”

Kim popped my hand. “Shush, Heather, before Dad hears.”

“I don't care,” I said, but I whispered the words all the same. Not that he
could
hear, what with the kids yelling through their game of touch football in the backyard and the volume of the televised game in the family room. I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Kim . . .”

Kim turned to me. We stood together side by side in front of my new stainless steel stove, Kimberly adding seasonings to the white acre peas while I stirred the giblet gravy. “Hey, girl. What's wrong?”

I swiped at a tear. “I know I shouldn't act like I do.” I sniffled. “I do, but I can't seem to help myself.” Several tears made their way down my cheeks. “I just miss Mom so . . . so much, Boo. Some days I feel like I'm going to die right along with her. Like, I can't take another breath without her here.”

Kim stopped long enough to rub my back. “I know, Heather. Me too. But Anise
is
nice and Dad seems really happy.”

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My heart was raw when it came to losing Mom. I'd never felt as though I'd truly had either of them—Mom or Dad. Kim was the firstborn; she'd had them all to herself for a season of life. Even though I was the baby, Jayme-Leigh had been born smart. She and Dad had
what seemed like an instant connection. And, it always felt like Mom and Kim had their love for photography and artsy things. Me? I had my baby dolls and then I had Ami, and then, later on, a few beauty pageants that drew Mom's attention.

With Mom gone, I'd had a chance to have just a little piece of Dad. Ami still needed him, of course. Jayme-Leigh and he spent hours together at work. But I could be a sort of surrogate mother for Ami and wife for Dad. Not in any weird way, just in the way that filled his need for a cook. A laundry washer. A floor sweeper. I was willing to do it all, just to have a little piece of him that was all mine. But, then, before I had a chance to settle in to my new role, here came Anise. I quickly found myself sharing Dad with a practical stranger. I wanted to be as accepting of her as my sisters had been, but I just couldn't seem to get past the hurt and anger growing inside me.

I took a deep breath, ready to change the subject. “By the way,” I said, “I've noticed Charlie is getting gray fast.”

She smiled at me. “Premature gray, I believe they call it.”

I nudged her shoulder with mine. “He's still hot.”

She giggled, cut her eyes at me. “I know, right?”

I slammed the spoon against the side of a new two-quart pot and said, “We are so lucky. You, me, Jayme-Leigh. All of us married such gorgeous men.” Then I laughed, truly laughed, and it felt good.

Kimberly opened the drawer next to the stove and pulled out an oven mitt. “Let me check the bird,” she said.

I stepped aside as she pulled the door toward her. I rested against the lip of the Silestone countertop just as the heat blew across me. I crossed one ankle over the other, figuring
every wild curl on my head had just frizzed in delight. “Have you ever noticed how Jayme-Leigh manages to stick close to the men when the women are in the kitchen? She's in there, right now, watching a game, for crying out loud.”

“It's who she is,” Kimberly said, basting the turkey with its juices. “Besides, I'm thinking something else is going on with her.”

“Like what?”

Kim shrugged as she reached for the oven mitt she'd removed just seconds before. “I can't put my finger on it, Heather. Just . . . something.”

I hadn't noticed anything. Nothing more than her usual absence and indifference in my life. “I guess you also noticed Anise is right in there with her.”

Kim looked up at me and rolled her eyes. She slid the rack holding the guest of honor back into the oven and shut the door. “Heather, you told her not to be in here, remember? She did ask.”

I grabbed my sister's dark blonde hair, wrapped it into a makeshift ponytail at the nape of her neck, and tugged playfully. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

She pinched the tip of my nose; I let go of her hair. “Will you please stop being so rotten and give her a break? Just for today?”

I pretended to think about it. “No,” I said. “Not today. Not any day.” Then I tweaked her nose as she'd done mine. “Okay. Maybe
one
day. But in the meantime, big sister, keep your nose out of my rottenness.”