Slow Moon Rising (30 page)

“Me,” I answered.

Gray turned right. “You shouldn't. I've told you that. I hold myself fully responsible.”

He eased into the left lane, following the signs for the restaurant.

“What's the old saying?” I asked. “‘It takes two to tango'?”

“Still,” he said. Gray pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and brought the car to a stop. He turned the key, removed it, and clutched it in his hand. He turned to me, and that same hand pushed my hair over my shoulder. “Look at me,” he said.

I did.

“We've been over this and over this.”

I felt tears burn my eyes. “And still, we're not moving forward. Even our pastor told you that
you
were not to blame, Gray. Didn't he say that when two people are in love and about to get married, a trauma such as Carole's murder can cause emotions already too close to the surface to spill over? Isn't that what he said?” Tears slipped down my cheeks. I was so tired—so tired
—
of the strain between us.

“Verbatim. And in my head I know he's right. But in my heart”—he pointed to his chest—“I blame myself. I shouldn't have let you into my apartment that day. Not that day. I needed too much and—”

“And I was all too willing to give you everything you needed. Don't forget that.”

That dreadful, rainy day in September, when the deed was done and we could do nothing but hold each other, we both cried. Gray begged me for forgiveness, which on one hand I somewhat appreciated, but on the other only brought additional shame to the humiliation I carried. I told him then—as I'd told him many times since—that of course I forgave him.

But our problems grew when he could not forgive himself. The very afternoon we buried Carole, he pulled me aside in his family home and told me we either had to get married right away or break up. “The way I see it,” he said, “this is the only right thing to do. I was going to propose at Christmas but . . . now that we've been together . . . physically . . . we'd be foolish to think we wouldn't do it again.” He pinked as his eyes squeezed shut. “Wanting you was already bad enough. Now it's worse. So . . . pray about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow morning. I'll call you then and you can tell me what you've decided.”

Gray's eyes were filled with so much sadness and angst, I didn't have the heart to ask him what I should do if God didn't have an answer for me by then. Besides, I knew my answer.

The last thing I wanted was to get married on the sly. And the other last thing I wanted was to live my life without Gray. The latter being more critical to me than the first. I
naïvely assumed that with both of us having asked God for forgiveness, we could move on as if nothing had happened. I told Gray the next day that, yes, I would marry him. “Just arrange everything,” I said. “We'll keep it quiet like you've asked until after we're married.”

Our pastor insisted on conducting what little bit of premarital counseling he could work in beforehand, and that we continue with counseling at least two times a week after the wedding. We'd been faithful to that, although—where Gray was concerned—it didn't seem to be helping. He continued to carry blame, which to me was tantamount to throwing God's forgiveness back in his face. That burdensome guilt had seeped into every fiber of these precious early days of our lives together. Even our most intimate moments were plagued by the shame Gray could not let go of.

We both cried when we discovered I was pregnant. And we asked ourselves if we should pretend it was one of those quirky things that sometimes happens to a couple on their honeymoon. Or would we own up to our sin?

“That's for you to decide,” our pastor had said. “But in all honesty, I don't see where it is anyone's business but yours, Ami, and yours, Gray. No one—and I mean no one
—
should be so rude as to ask.”

“But if they do?” Gray asked. “Then to lie is to sin again, is it not?”

“It is,” the pastor said. “Which is why I suggest you two decide soon how you intend to answer should someone ask.”

So far, we were answerless. Forgiven but broken. Tired but forced to keep going.

“Ami. Gray.” Anise greeted us in a whisper as she opened the door to the house in Cedar Key. Scents of fresh-ground coffee and sugar cookies met me with full force. I held my breath until my stomach adjusted. “You're finally here.”

“What's wrong?” I asked, exhaling. The silence within the house held more power over me than the coffee and cookies. So did the grim look on her face.

“Nothing. Dad's just fallen asleep in his chair and I didn't want to wake him.” She pulled me into the entryway with Gray close behind. “How was your trip? Are you tired?”

I removed my jacket as my eyes studied her. “Long. And yes.”

She looked at Gray as though nothing was wrong as she took our jackets and hung them on a coatrack that hadn't been there the last time I'd come. “Y'all were on the road how long?”

“Nearly eight hours, what with meals and rest stops,” Gray answered.

I gave him my best “no you did not” look, hoping the mere mention of my frequent trips to the bathroom would not give away our secret. When Anise looked at me, I calmly said, “I had too much to drink at breakfast and lunch.” I pointed to the coatrack. “New?”

She nodded. “Pier One. Isn't it perfect for the entryway?”

“I like it. Yes. Why is Dad asleep at one-thirty in the afternoon?”

Anise clasped her hands together. “He's just overly excited about your being here. Woke up too early this morning.” She
glanced at the still-opened door. “Do you want to bring your things in now or wait?”

“I'll go get everything,” Gray said. “It's just one suitcase and a big bag full of Christmas gifts.” He kissed my cheek before adding, “I'll be right back.”

Anise wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “How are you, Ami? How's married life treating you?”

Not that great, thank you.
“It's . . . different. I was single too long, I guess.”

“You?” she said with a smile. “I was single nearly forty years. And I've only been married twelve.” She blinked. “Twelve. But I have loved . . .
loved
being married to your father.” Her gray eyes shimmered beneath new tears.

“Anise? What's going on? I can tell something's not right.”

She shook her head. “Nothing we need to discuss right now. Just some changes in our lives that we'll talk about tonight as a family.” She patted my arm and drew me into the family room, where my father slept in his recliner. Faint snoring filled the room, nearly inaudible under the tune from a Christmas movie playing on the television. “We were watching the holiday lineup on Hallmark when Dad dropped off.” Anise picked up the remote from the table next to Dad's cushy leather recliner. With a casual push of a button, the television went mute.

Even with her nonchalant attitude, I couldn't believe what I saw. “How much weight has Dad lost?”
And why does he look so pale?

Anise sat on the sofa, and I right beside her. “Anise?”

“Dad's not been feeling well, Ami.” Her eyes avoided mine. “We've asked Heather and Jayme-Leigh to come in today
rather than wait. Heather and her family have nearly taken over Harbour Master Suites. She called just before lunch to say they were here.”

“Are Jayme-Leigh and Isaac staying at Kim's?”

Anise nodded. “They'll be in town in a couple of hours. Jayme-Leigh closed the office early.” She patted my arm. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Do you have any decaf tea?”

My stepmother's brow furrowed.

“Just a mood I'm in,” I said, hoping to sidestep what, to me, was obvious.

Anise seemed to brighten. “I have ginger tea.”

My rolling tummy leapt in anticipated relief. “I can't tell you how perfect that would be,” I said.

Kimberly

Dad's news hit harder than when we were told of Mom's prognosis. Surreal. That's what it was. Surreal. I kept thinking,
Where is the script for this?
as though I should have been handed one upon entering my father's home. Something to skim before greeting my sisters. To memorize, if there was time, so I could know what I'd been slated to say at my father's matter-of-fact medical report. How I should react. Even the questions I should ask.

“I don't know,” Heather said after moments of stunned silence. She cleared her throat, as though the words she wanted to say had gotten stuck there. “I don't know a lot about leukemia, but I do know there are various types.”

“That's right,” Jayme-Leigh supplied. The adults sat together in the family room. Some on the sofa and love seat. Others in chairs brought in from the dining room. Dad sat upright in his recliner with Anise on the armrest. Her arm draped protectively over his shoulder. Dad's hand rested on
her knee, caressing it. “Dad has AML,” Jayme-Leigh continued. “Acute myeloid leukemia.”

Heather stood and faced Jayme-Leigh. “You knew already? You knew and you kept this from the rest of us? How long have you known?”

Andre pulled her back to her place on the love seat. “Sit down, Heather. This is not the time.”

Heather's pale complexion turned crimson. An angry face jerked in the direction of her husband. After their eyes met, and communicated, the natural peach returned to her cheeks. “Sorry, Jayme-Leigh.”

Jayme-Leigh nodded in acceptance.

“Dad?” I said. “Will you answer Heather's question?”

Dad was visibly exhausted. Earlier, he'd blamed it on a sleepless night in anticipation of his family being together. Of seeing Ami for the first time since she and Gray married. I hadn't fully bought it; something about the night of the boat parade, the nosebleed, and seeing the gaunt look of my father since wasn't jibing. Now I understood. I understood all too well.

“Do you mind if I explain it?” Jayme-Leigh asked.

“Somebody explain it,” Ami said before burying her face in her hands. “Oh,
Daddy
!”

Gray slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer. “Shh-shh-shh. Listen to your sister for a minute.”

Jayme-Leigh looked to Dad. “Dad?”

Dad nodded as though he only had the energy for that much.

Our sister leaned forward, clasped her hands together, and looked at each of us, eye to eye, trained physician to the “family of the patient.”

“AML—in Dad's case, adult acute myeloid leukemia—is a type of cancer. The bone marrow—that's the flexible tissue in the interior of your bones—makes abnormal white blood cells, or red blood cells, or platelets.”

“Platelets,” Ami repeated. “What's that?”

Jayme-Leigh touched a deep scratch at the center of her hand as she looked at Ami. “It's the cells in the blood that, when you cut yourself like I did the other day, gather at the wound and keep you from bleeding too much. They're produced in the marrow.”

“Oh.”

Gray squeezed Ami closer to himself again, her arm draped between his knees.

“Keep going,” Heather said.

“So, AML is a cancer of the blood and bone marrow.”

I pressed my palms together, looked first to Steven, then to Dad and Anise, and finally to Jayme-Leigh. “I take it you and Dad have already talked about his prognosis?”

“We have.”

“Naturally,” Heather muttered.

“Heather,” I said. Then to Jayme-Leigh, “What about treatment?”

Anise shifted uncomfortably on the armrest but remained planted firmly next to Dad, who swallowed hard enough that his Adam's apple bobbed. “Girls,” he began, “I've had a number of tests, including a bone marrow aspiration, and . . .” He closed his eyes. “Jayme-Leigh . . .”

Jayme-Leigh's jaw appeared locked in place until, finally, her lips parted. “First you have to understand that there are subtypes of AML and that becomes part of this equation.
Dad's age is another part. Our best hope would be to get this thing into remission—”

“Our best hope?” Heather said.

“Wait, wait,” Andre interjected. “I know something about this kind of thing.” He looked around the room. “You've taken time to look into all this, right, Dad? There are a lot of options out there.”

“We're looking at two phases of treatment right now.”

“Explain,” Heather all but demanded.

“It's a lot to understand, Heather,” Jayme-Leigh said.

Heather's eyes flashed. “Don't talk to me like I'm stupid,
Jaymes
.”

“I'm not. Look, Heather, I'm a doctor and I've had to spend hours studying this. It's not my specialty.”

“Ladies,” Steven said. I looked at him. He glanced Dad's way. “Is this helping your father?”

Dad blinked slowly, a silent thank-you.

Ami spoke next. “Can we just get to the bottom line? I'm really, really not in the mood for a science lesson or health class or . . . whatever.” All color had drained from her face.

Heather's frustration exploded in hers. “That's rich, Ami. You don't come home in—what?—forever? Dad is sick, he could be dying, and
you
don't want a science lesson? How much more spoiled can you be?”

“Whoa.” Gray raised a hand toward Heather.

“Stop it!” Anise slapped her hands together as she stood. “Right now, all of you! I won't have this, do you understand me? I won't!” With that, she collapsed on the chair's armrest again and buried her face in her hands. Her sobs were heartbreaking.

Dad gathered her in his arms.

“I'm sorry,” Ami said.

“You should be,” Heather seethed through clenched teeth.

“Don't talk to her like that,” Gray demanded. “And she's not spoiled. She's pregnant and she's not feeling well.”

“Gray.” Ami turned, warning him with her eyes.

“I'm sorry. But I'm not going to let her talk to you like that.”

“Ami?” I asked. “You're pregnant?”

Now she, too, burst into tears, as though expecting a baby was the worst possible thing that could happen. Which I found somewhat strange, considering Dad's diagnosis. I glanced at Steven. “My gosh, what a mess.”

Isaac stood. “Can I have everyone's attention here?” he shouted over the din.

Remarkably, the room's ruckus died down to a few shocked gasps and overwrought sniffles. “I've watched your father and stepmother agonize over this news, I've witnessed your sister work herself silly every night, researching, trying to find an answer to this . . .” He looked at Dad, then to Ami. “Ames, yours is both fascinating and exciting news. And I can imagine the last thing you want is to listen to gory details. If you need to lie down, please don't hesitate to go to your room and rest. I'm sure Gray can fill you in later, no?”

Gray nodded. “Sweetie? Do you need to lie down?”

Ami shook her head. “I'll be fine. I want to know about Dad.”

“Isaac?” Dad said. “Will you and Jayme-Leigh explain everything while
I
go to my room and lie down?” He looked at Anise. “Hon? Come with me, will you?”

No one spoke as they wrapped their arms around each
other and, with a good night, left the room. When we heard their bedroom door open and then close, Isaac said, “Okay. Like JL was about to say, the first thing we want to do is to try to get this thing into remission. So, we have what is called ‘remission induction therapy.'”

“What will that do?” I asked.

“Kill the cancer cells.”

“Then?”

“Next is postremission therapy. We want to destroy any remaining cancer cells that would cause a relapse. Now we can look at chemo . . . radiation . . . stem cell transplant . . . clinical trials . . .” Isaac returned to his seat next to Jayme-Leigh. “Do you want to explain about donors?” he asked her.

“Basically, it's this,” she said, again giving each of us her individual attention. “We need to see if one of us is a candidate as a donor for Dad. Typically, his siblings would be first in line, but—”

“They're both dead,” Ami whispered to Gray.

“Ami, you're out. And, well, so am I.”

“Why?” Heather asked. “Are you . . . ?”

Sadness fell over Jayme-Leigh. “No. No, no. Truth is, I had cancer myself a few years back. So . . . I most probably wouldn't be—”

“Cancer?” I asked. “When? What kind?”

Jayme-Leigh raised her hands to stop me. “It doesn't matter right now. I'll tell you later. I will. I promise.”

Heather shook her head. “Let me see if I have this straight, Jayme-Leigh. You knew about Dad. We all know you knew the truth about Mom. And now you're telling us you had
cancer and never told any of us about that either? Is there anything else we need to know?”

Jayme-Leigh stared at Heather without blinking or answering until Steven said, “So that leaves Boo and Heather.”

“That's not very good odds,” I said.

“Just so you know and, hopefully, won't put too much pressure on yourselves, most donors come from donor banks,” Andre said.

“That's true,” Isaac said. “But we'd like to start with family first. So, as soon as we can, we'll test and see.”

“What about the grandkids?” I asked.

Isaac shook his head. “Only the ones over eighteen.
If
it comes to that. But, with each generation, the likelihood of being a match lessens.”

“Got it,” I said.

For several minutes no one said anything. Finally, Jayme-Leigh offered an apology. “I'm sorry. For not being able to say anything about Dad to the rest of you until tonight. For not telling you about my cancer. For . . . well, for a lot of things.”

“I'm sorry too,” Heather said. “For . . . a lot of things.”

“Me too,” Ami said.

“What are you sorry for, sweet Ami?” I asked.

She smiled weakly at me. “For not coming home more often.”

I went to her, dropping to my knees and wrapping her in my arms. “You're here now. That's what matters.”

I hardly slept, and when I did, my dreams were fitful. Mom—beautiful one moment and skeletal the next—flitted
in and out. My father—young and tanned—stood on the beach of Cedar Key. He threw a Frisbee to my sisters and me, all of us in our teens and standing bikini-clad and waist-high in the gulf. Each of us screaming, “Dad! Throw it to me! Dad!” Laughter filled the seconds between our cries. Without warning, his youth disappeared and he stood before us, the older version of himself, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Jayme-Leigh, Heather, Ami, and I struggled to get out of the water, to make it to where he fell to his knees.

Ami said, “I have to take care of the baby.”

I looked at her. She had stopped in her push to get to Dad. She now wore a white peignoir that billowed in the water. She cradled a newborn in her arms, and I felt torn between running to my sister and her baby and running to my father.

“Kimberly,” Jayme-Leigh called to me. I turned toward her voice. She now wore a hospital gown. “I have to take my chemo now. Go get Dad. You're the oldest. Go get Dad.”

By now Heather had made it to shore. She yelled at me, “Boo, I've got it. I'm the closest now. I'll get Dad, take him to the hospital, and help him with his chemo. Don't worry, I can handle it.”

Then, in that way dreams have, I was sitting in my father's office break room, crying into a paper towel, Dad sitting beside me. “I think you have a lot to salvage. And I know . . . I
know
. . . that the Lord can . . .” His voice trailed.

“What, Dad? What can the Lord do? Dad? Dad?”

Steven gently rocked my shoulder. “Boo. Kimberly. Wake up.”

I opened my eyes to early dawn in our bedroom. My tongue felt swollen, my mouth dry. Moist tears clung to my eyelashes. “What?”