Patience has never been one of my virtues. Abuela gave me one of her novels to read, but I abandoned that after just twenty minutes. And so, I have spent the last hour and ten minutes draped over the foot of her bed, staring alternately at the droplets of rain trickling down the patio doors and at my cordless phone lying next to me. Sometimes for variation, I turn the receiver over in my hands to make sure that it is still in proper working order. Sighing heavily, I fold my arms under my chin and wait some more.
"She'll call, dear," abuela says, looking up from the same page in her book that she's been staring at for the past twelve minutes. She's scared too, though she won't admit that to me.
The procedure itself wasn't half as bad as the torture of waiting for the results. The not knowing is taking its toll on me. "I know," I answer. "I'm just anxious, that's all." Anxious, nauseated, tired, weary, but above all... terrified. Terrified that my entire world could change in the blink of an eye with this one phone call.
The ringing of the phone startles me and I sit up and back away from it. My eyes fly to abuela's, and she reaches for my hand and smiles reassuringly even as her body tenses with worry. This is the call that I have anticipated for the past seventy-four hours. Turning the receiver over in my free hand, I watch as each number button illuminates in time with the pulsing of the next ring. Holding it to my ear, I listen for the beep as I press the button labeled, 'Talk', and swallow hard before asking meekly, "Hello?"
Shaking my head 'no' at abuela when Bill's voice drifts over the line, I watch as she sags back against the pillows propped behind her. "No, Bill. I haven't heard anything yet. I know... I know that you want to be here. Yes... of course, I understand. I'll call you as soon as I hear something. Talk to you soon. Bye."
Pressing the 'End' button, I throw the receiver on the bed and close my eyes as I begin to massage circles into my pounding temples. Not bothering to open my eyes, I explain for abuela's benefit, "That was Bill. He had to drive to Chicago last night on business and he's feeling guilty that he can't be here with me today." He has absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. He spent his entire weekend helping Rick and Abby keep my mind occupied on anything but the surgery.
Knowing that he had a three hour drive to Chicago ahead of him, I begged him to leave after Abby's dinner last night, but he insisted on following me to the mansion to make sure I made it back safely. We said our final good-byes standing in the driveway and I waved into the darkness until I could no longer see his brake lights. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I couldn't help but think about how good it felt to be home. Home. "This is my home now," I said turning around to walk inside, and catching a glimpse of the slightly parted curtains in the second floor window drifting back together. Enjoying the show, Danny?, I wanted to scream. Instead, I let myself in and walked to my bedroom, quickly undressing and slipping underneath the covers of the bed I had already begun to miss.
"Why hasn't she called yet?" I whine in frustration, shaking myself back to the present. It was pointless to rearrange this afternoon's therapy session around this damn phone call. We've been done for nearly two hours, sitting here waiting to hear something. Raking my fingers through my hair, I have to suppress the urge to pull out every strand by the root. Glancing down at my watch, I say, "It's four forty-two. Her office hours are over at four. Doesn't she know that I'm sitting on pins and needles waiting to hear from her?" The rain continues to lightly drizzle as a huge clap of thunder rattles the window panes. I hope that's not an omen.
"She's probably got several other patients to call, don't you expect?" Leave it to abuela... the voice of reason. Unfortunately, my ability to think rationally abandoned me long ago. I nod my head and open my mouth to speak when the phone begins its shrill ringing once again. Just as before, abuela sits forward and reaches for my hand.
Before the second ring is even complete, I answer, "Hello?"
My eyes grow wide and I shake my head up and down as Dr. Sedwick's voice greets me on the other end of the line. Abuela squeezes my hand gently and I close my eyes as Dr. Sedwick speaks. "How are you feeling today, Michelle? How's the incision site?"
"It's fine," I answer, my voice quivering.
"Very good. Any tenderness or redness in the area?" she asks, and I can hear the sound of a pen gliding over paper as she jots down post-operative notes in my chart.
I know that she's being thorough but I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming, Do I have cancer?, into her ear. Instead, I keep my wits about me, answering, "Nothing. I haven't even had to have the prescription for the pain medication filled."
After a brief pause filled only with the sounds of more writing, she says, "Excellent, dear." I hear the muffled sounds of rustling paper before she clears her throat and says, "I have the results from pathology here in my hands, Michelle." Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes, fixing them on abuela's as she finishes, "The tests came back completely negative."
My heart jumps into my throat and I smile from ear to ear, shaking my head up and down enthusiastically as my eyes never leave abuela's. She makes the sign of the cross and reaches for her rosary, clasping her hands around it as she looks heavenward, moving her lips as she offers up a silent prayer to God.
Focusing my attention back to the receiver in my hand, I ask, "Completely benign?"
"There was zero pathology in the mass, the surrounding tissue, and the lymph node that I removed," she says, pausing briefly before adding, "You're healthy, my dear." No longer able to rein in my emotions, I press my fingers into the corners of my eyes and begin to softly cry. In this moment, I realize that my health is always something that I've taken for granted. Not anymore.
Abuela yanks several tissues from the box next to her bed and gently wipes my face. Her soft touch is healing as I lay my cheek against her palm. "Are you ok, dear?" Dr. Sedwick asks.
Regaining my composure, I say, "I'm fine. I'm just so relieved."
"Certainly," she says. "Well then... I'll want to see you back in three months to follow-up. You should call and schedule that appointment as soon as you can. And please, Michelle... please be diligent in doing your monthly self-breast exams. You may be prone to getting these cysts, so let me know if there are any changes in the appearance or texture of your breasts."
"Ok, Dr. Sedwick... I will. Thank you," I say, turning towards the door as Olga walks in.
"Let me reiterate... if you have any problems, don't hesitate to call. And if I don't hear from you, I'll see you in three months. Good-bye, dear," she says, hanging up.
I sit frozen for several seconds, the dial tone buzzing in my head. Finally, I remove the receiver from my ear and hit the 'End' button before scooting up in the bed and falling into abuela's outstretched arms. My body trembles in her embrace, and she instinctively holds me closer.
I hear Olga approaching the bed slowly, seconds before I feel her hand gently stroking my hair and back. "What's wrong, sweetie?" she asks, sitting on my other side, and I turn from abuela's arms into hers. I can say nothing as I softly cry into her chest, breathing in the scent of the perfume that clings to the wide white collar of her uniform.
Over my right shoulder, abuela explains for me, "Michelle found out that she had a lump in her breast during her doctor's appointment last Tuesday." I can hear Olga gasp in shock. She has known that something was bothering me since the morning that she found me in this room with abuela at six-thirty, but I can tell that she never expected it to be something like this. Maternally, she rubs small circles against my back as she rocks me back and forth in her arms. "On Friday, after the christening, she had it removed at Cedars. And now, the doctor has called to say that it is not cancerous."
Not loosening her grip on me, Olga makes the sign of the cross against my back, saying, "Gracias a Dios!" I can hear her voice breaking as she says, "Let us pray, Ms. Maria." Over my head, the two women recite the words to a prayer that seems completely familiar to them in their native Spanish language. I haven't a clue as to what they are saying, but I am completely moved as the beautiful words fall from their lips and am on the verge of new tears when the prayer ends. "Amen," they say in unison, and I feel Olga's fingertip make the four points of the cross on my back once again.
"Amen," I whisper as Olga sits back and looks at me, cradling my chin in her hand. Closing my eyes, I let her gently wipe the remnants of tears from my cheeks.
In mock protest, she puts her hands on her hips and says, "Well... I wish someone would have told me this before I started dinner. Otherwise, I would have planned something a little more celebratory than meat loaf and mashed potatoes."
Laughing, I reach for another tissue and blow my nose, saying, "That sounds wonderful to me." Then inspiration striking, I add, "I'd love it if the three of us had dinner together. How does that sound?"
Abuela shakes her head enthusiastically and Olga says, "I'll go prepare the formal dining room. We haven't had cause to use that room since the day of Pilar's funeral when all of the friends and relatives stopped by to pay their respects."
My eyes fly to abuela's and I see that she is staring at Pilar's smiling portrait on the fireplace mantle across from the bed. "Oh please, Olga. I don't want you to go to any trouble on my account."
Grabbing my hand, abuela forces me to turn to her as she says, "I insist. It's about time that that room is used for a happy occasion. There has been enough sadness around here lately to last ten lifetimes."
I nod in agreement and Olga leaves to finish preparing dinner. "I've got a few calls to make," I say to abuela, reaching for my phone on the bed. "And I'd like to wear something a little more festive than this to dinner," I add, tugging at the pant leg of the scrubs I wear to every therapy session. "So... if you'll excuse me. I'll see you at seven?" I ask, and she nods in reply, smiling as I leave the room.
"Damn... he's not home," I mutter as Rick and Abby's voices ask me to leave a message after the beep. "Hey, Rick. It's Michelle. Just wanted to let you know that the tests came back negative. I knew that you'd want to know, so you're the first call I made. Let's try to get together for lunch this week. Call me tomorrow. Love you. Bye."
Picking up the small tablet from the nightstand, I dial the number to Bill's hotel room in Chicago. "Hello?" he asks after the first ring, panic in his voice.
Setting the tablet down, I lie back against the fluffy softness of the pillows on my bed. "Hey, Bill... it's me."
I hear him take in a deep breath and hold it before asking, "Well?"
"I'm fine. It was a cyst, that's all. Completely benign," I answer, and I can hear him release the shaky breath into the receiver. "Thanks again for everything, Bill. I mean it. You're a great friend, you know that?"
The heaviness that has been between us since I first told him about the lump vanishes, and we are back to our usual banter when he says, "Tell me something I don't know."
Laughing, I ask, "How's business going?"
"I don't want to talk about business right now. Let's talk about where I'm going to take you to celebrate when I get back to Springfield. I'm thinking dinner at Towers. How does that strike your fancy?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer to his own question.
He knows that I have loved The Towers since I was a little girl. I have vivid memories of eating there with mom and dad. I always ordered Shirley Temple's and if I close my eyes, even now, I can still feel the way that the fizz always burned my nose and throat when I took that first sip. Even after mom died, dad and then later Rick and Jesse would take me there to celebrate every special occasion in my life. "Ooh... and then what?" I ask greedily.
"Hmm," he says, trying to plan our night. "Well... then I'd have to say... dust off your dancing shoes, girl, because we're going to paint the town at the new salsa club that just opened." I feel like squealing. He knows how much I love to dance. Jesse didn't have a bit of rhythm, so he never took me dancing. Racking my brain, I try to remember the last time I danced with someone. Bill... graduation night... a year ago. I am long overdue.
Smiling, I say, "Hurry back. I can't wait."
Yawning, Bill says, "I'll see you on Thursday night." "Michelle?..." he asks, pausing to choose his words. "I'm really glad that everything turned out all right," he says sincerely.
Flipping through the pages of the photo album next to the bed, I find a picture of Bill and me in our black caps and gowns, our arms around each other, goofy grins on our faces. Jesse snapped this right before the ceremony, I think. I barely recognize myself. I am not the same woman now that I was then... thankfully. I thought that I was going to marry Jesse and raise a family with him. Instead, God led me here, and I'm attracted to a man whose emotions turn on a dime. I wonder what's in God's Masterplan. "I know, Bill. Me too. Goodnight," I say, hearing him yawn again.
"Good night, sweetie. Pleasant dreams." Hanging up, I push myself up off of the bed and run to the closet, looking for something beautiful to wear to dinner tonight. I've spent the past six days since my doctor's appointment walking around like a zombie. No more. It's time to return to the land of the living, I tell myself, spotting a short black dress with a halter top neck.
Throwing it on the bed, I locate a pair of sheer, nude pantyhose and my favorite black heels. Digging into the heart shaped jewelry box on the fireplace mantle, I retrieve a pair of pearl drop earrings and a matching bracelet. Lining up each item on the foot of my bed, I step back and smile at my selections. "Perfect," I say, running to the bathroom and turning on the shower.
Pulling off my clothes, I stand nude in front of the mirror and examine my body. Lifting my left breast, I walk closer to the mirror, standing just a few inches from it. The internal sutures are already starting to disintegrate because the wound is now barely perceptible to the touch. In fact, if it weren't for a tiny faint pink scar, you'd never be able to tell that anything was ever wrong.
Grabbing the bottles of vanilla shampoo and conditioner from the basket next to the lavatory, I step behind the shower curtain and cleanse six days worth of worry from my flesh.
For all the complaining I've done about wearing makeup, I can't help but revel in my femininity as I sweep the smoky gray shadow over the lids of my eyes. Applying liberal amounts of mascara to my lashes, I watch as they grow to twice their proportions. After a dab of shimmery, tinted lip gloss and some bronzer on my cheekbones are added, I am left with the monumental task of deciding what to do with the rapidly frizzing curls on my head. Working a small amount of styling gel through my hair, I settle on a simple but elegant french twist. Satisfied with the finished product, I blow a kiss to my reflection and walk into my bedroom in my bra and panties to dress.
"Six-forty," I say aloud, looking at the clock. "Perfect." Sitting on the bed, I gingerly slip into my pantyhose and then step into my dress, fastening the halter around my neck. As I step into my heels, I put on my earrings and the bracelet. Smoothing my hands down my sides and over my hips, I thrill in the feel of the velvety material hugging every curve of my body. Walking back to the bathroom, I take one final look at my reflection, bypassing the bottle of perfume on my way out. I don't want to dilute the aura of vanilla that surrounds me.
Giggling as the flared skirt swishes when I walk, I knock on abuela's door and let myself in. A hand to her mouth, she gasps, saying, "Ay, que linda!" I know very little Spanish, but I do know a compliment when I hear one. "Beautiful," she exclaims as I walk towards her and sit on the bed, crossing my legs.
Smiling, I tell her excitedly about my conversation with Bill. No longer able to contain myself, I very nearly shriek, "He's taking me dancing, too! Do you know how much I love to dance?" Seeing her smile warmly, I take her hand in mine and ask, "Do you know how long it's been since I've been asked to dance?" I feel euphoric.
"It's so good to see you happy again, dear. It suits you." Squeezing my hand, she adds, "You deserve every bit of happiness that comes your way, Michelle."
Standing, I lean down and give her a hug, whispering in her ear, "Thank you, abuelita." Heading for the door, I turn and say, "I'm going to find us an exquisite bottle of wine to go with our dinner. See you later."
Unable to remove the smile that seems to be permanently affixed to my face, I quickly make my way past the study to the door to the wine cellar. The door creaks when I open it and a musty smell rises up to greet me as I turn on the light switch. The low wattage bulb dimly lights the room and I take each wooden step slowly and carefully as I make my descent. I don't know much about wines, so there is no great consideration that goes into the bottle that I choose. I choose it simply because it is a red wine, and I know enough to know that beef should be accompanied by red wine.
Cautiously, I retrace my steps up the stairs, turning the light off as I close the door behind me. I've only taken two steps into the hallway when I notice that the intricate pattern of lights on the floor created by the overhead crystal chandelier is now obscured by a dark shadow. "Danny," I gasp, looking up. "You startled me." His hair and suit are damp and I realize that it must still be drizzling outside. When he says nothing, I explain, holding the bottle out in front of me, "We were just going to have dinner. Do you want to..."
Silencing me with a hand in the air, his eyes travel over every square inch of my body. I feel completely exposed and vulnerable under his penetrating stare. "Where is he?" he asks, looking over my shoulders. "Hiding in your room, is he?"
Wrinkling my brow, I look at him, confusion clouding my mind. "Who are you talking about?" I ask.
Shrugging off his jacket, he shakes the rain from it, insisting, "Who? Don't play dumb with me, Michelle. Bill Lewis... where is he?"
I watch as he drapes the jacket over his arm and runs a hand through his hair, waiting for him to make eye contact with me. When he does, I say, "Bill's not here, Danny. Why would you think that?"
"Come off it, Michelle," he insists, turning away from me briefly. Turning back, he places his hand on his hip and adds, "When I passed the dining room I saw Olga setting out the fine china and crystal glassware." Raising my shoulders, I exhale sharply, waiting for him to continue. "When I asked her what she was doing, she said that she was 'getting the room ready for Ms. Michelle's dinner'," he says, making quotation marks in the air with the first two fingers of each hand as he says the last eight words.
I am baffled by his attitude and demeanor. "I don't understand what you're getting at, Danny," I implore, raising my free hand in the air in confusion.
Pointing a finger mere inches from my face, he says through clenched teeth, "Well... let me spell it out for you then, Michelle. I don't appreciate you using my maid to cater your little romantic dinners with your boyfriend." Tears sting the backs of my eyes and throat, but I rein my emotions in. I refuse to cry in front of this man. "And furthermore... I don't approve of you sneaking into my wine cellar to steal a bottle for the two of you," he finishes, snatching the dusty bottle from my hand.
I study his hand, watching him grip the neck of the bottle, his thumb raking over the cork. Keeping my eyes trained on his burgundy leather loafers for fear that I will burst into tears if I look at his face, I try to feebly explain, "Danny... Bill is not here. You have to believe me. You misunderstood Olga. The dinner is for all of..."
Cutting me off, he interrupts, spitting venomously, "Goddamnit, Michelle. Quit lying. Give up this ridiculous ruse. You really expect me to believe that you got all dolled up to spend a quiet evening at home?" He pauses, waiting for my eyes to meet his before finishing, "Come on, Michelle. That's a 'fuck me' dress if I've ever seen one."
Feeling a mixture of hurt and anger, I briefly try to assess which is the stronger of the two emotions. Clutching my fists at my sides as tears slide down my cheeks, I step forward, and realizing that anger has won out over hurt, I draw back my hand and slap him squarely across the cheek and jaw. His head whips to the side and I don't wait to see what the mark of my hand looks like as it blossoms upon his face. Instead, I run from him as fast as I can on three-inch heels.
So much for the happy girl of a few minutes ago, I think, reaching for abuela's doorknob and walking in without so much as a knock. "I'm sorry," I say, bursting into the room, steadying myself with one hand on the doorknob and the other on the door frame. "You and Olga are going to have to have dinner without me." As if on cue, Olga walks up behind me, a concerned look on her face. I take my hand off of the knob long enough to let her squeeze into the room, and I watch as she takes a seat on the bed next to abuela. From the looks of things, she apparently overheard the little exchange between Danny and me.
"What's the matter, mi hija?" abuela asks, and I shake my head back and forth.
Dabbing at my eyes, I see Olga mouth the word, 'Daniel', to abuela before I continue. "I'm afraid I've lost my appetite. I'll see you in the morning." As I close the door and walk to my own room, I hear whispered Spanish words falling from Olga's lips in record speed.
Holding on to the bedpost at the foot of my bed for support, I kick my heels across the room. I watch as one flies through the mesh screen of the fireplace and lands underneath the hearth in a pile of old ash. "Great," I mutter, curling up in the bed on my side, facing away from the door. Sobbing into my pillow, I will sleep to come surely and swiftly.
After several minutes of squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I hear abuela's voice reverberating loudly over the several intercom boxes located in strategic places all over the house. "Daniel Antonio Santos... this is your abuela, son. I need to speak with you. Please come to my room right now." In just a few minutes, I hear a soft knocking on her door followed by a creaking as it opens. Before it shuts, I hear her say, "Come in, son. You and I need to have a serious talk." Knowing that I'll be the topic of that discussion, I draw my knees up to my chest and grab the pillow beside me, covering my head to drown out the world around me.
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