Leaving Normal (20 page)

I He held up the small piece of wood, about three

I inches long.

I "I always keep one in my helmet." He finished sand-

I ing the rough sides of wood. "A lot of guys do."

She noticed his firefighter helmet lay upside down on the bench, its rim marked with dings and scars. Inside there were crosspieces of black elastic bands and beneath one of the bands was a picture. He caught her looking and followed her gaze, somewhat hesitantly.

Seeing the object of her focus, he slid the worn-out photograph from the elastic, and almost with embarrassment said, "I forgot to take this out."

It was a picture of his ex-wife and stepdaughter, and she had the sudden feeling that there was more to the battered hat's scars than just the obvious. Tony had been scarred inside his heart, a place that he could hide, but it was obvious now that he'd been deeply hurt.

"I think it's sweet you kept a picture of the people you loved inside your helmet," she said, wishing for some utterly strange and unknown reason that a man would love her enough to carry her photograph into a burning building with him.

Tony didn't say anything. He took the photo and dropped it into one of the drawers of his tool chest. Then he put the wedge in his helmet.

"Can I see that?" she asked.

He handed the helmet to her and she examined the E-13 symbol over the front crown.

"How come the numbers come off?" she asked, referring to the way the E-13 badge was affixed with small fabric hooks.

"In case I leave one station for another. I don't have to replace my helmet—just put another patch on the front."

"Oh."

There was an eagle emblazoned on the dark helmet as well, and the helmet's overall weight was heavier than she'd anticipated. Just holding it, she was in awe of his profession. She wondered how many times he'd worn it, how many lives had been saved because of him.

"Thanks," she said, handing it back to Tony.

He opened the Ram and tossed the helmet onto the seat. Then to her, "Want to come inside, have a cup of coffee?"

She hadn't expected an invite, that hadn't been the reason she'd come over, and yet…

His cell phone rang and he collected it from the work bench.

"Sorry," he muttered to her, then into the receiver, "Hello?"

A look came over his face, awash of "Been there, done this before" as he replied, "You'll have to call the fire station for that. We're taking the applications over there."

She watched him; his eyes grew hooded, disinterested, and yet he seemed vaguely flattered.

"I know that," he said. "Yeah. But I'm not the only one to give my opinion and you really need to Jill out the form. No. I'm not available."

He shrugged apologetically at Natalie.

"No. I don't date women I don't know. Yes, I'm sure." He cut the call short, then half smiled. "How my cell-phone number has gotten out beats the hell out of me. But it's been ringing all the time."

It was no mystery to Natalie. Half the female population in Boise probably had sniffed out his number and wanted a date with him.

"Coffee?" he asked once more.

She smiled regretfully. "I've got to get back home and finish some things. But thanks anyway."

"Another time."

"Sure." But she knew she probably wouldn't.

As she walked down the driveway, she glanced through her mail to give herself purpose—something to do other than focus her every thought on Tony Cruz and wonder if he was watching her leave. Or if he felt anything at all for her… and why she even cared. Or wanted him to…

Dead ends. Anything between them would be a dead end, or so she reminded herself. Neglecting to remove his ex-wife's picture from his helmet was testament to the fact he wasn't ready to move on, that he still mourned the loss of a family…that he probably wanted a family of his own and would begin one. But not with her.

Never with her. She was so done with that part of her life.

The return address in the corner of a letter caught her attention. St. Luke's B.C.D.C.—Breast Cancer Detection Center.

She slid her finger into the flap, withdrew the white letter inside and skimmed it, her steps slowing as she did.

Your mammogram has revealed areas of concern that need further investigation. Please contact our office to schedule an ultrasound.

That's all she saw, everything else blurred and the rest of the mail in her hand fell to the driveway as her footsteps ceased to carry her forward.

Breast cancer… Oh, God, please don't let me have breast cancer.

Natalie had an ultrasound on three spots the mammogram had picked up, and while they were smaller than pea size, they couldn't be aspirated and had to be removed for biopsies.

Several days later, she was admitted to St. Luke's Hospital for a needle localization and general surgery. The procedure was done on an outpatient basis and the preliminary results were positive.

She had fibroadenoma, small ones deep in the tissue. They were not cancerous, but given her family history, it had been safer to remove them.

She'd come home by noon that day—groggy, tired, sore and just wanting to sleep. The stress had worn her down and she'd crashed hard, her mind numb.

She woke sometime around four in the afternoon, the pain of her two small incisions starting to ache. Sitting up in bed, she looked down the opening of her top, pushed aside the lining of her bra and gazed at the white tape and gauze.

She'd have scars. Two of them.

The doctor said the incisions were each about an inch in width. The needle localization was something she never cared to experience ever again in her life. It had been hell on earth, the pain comparable to labor.

Emotions swirled in her head and she fought back tears of relief and upset, blaming it on the effects of the general anesthesia and drugs. She was beyond happy the procedure had turned up nothing, but the surgery left an imprint on her. Literally.

It was bad enough being in her forties with a body that wasn't what it used to be. Now she had to deal with changes that were out of her control. She had no idea what her breast would look like. But as she thought the worst, she quickly, and almost guiltily, shoved her wor-ries aside knowing what her mother had gone through with the loss of an entire breast shortly before the loss of her life. What Natalie had to deal with was nothing in comparison.

Slowing getting out of bed and going downstairs, Natalie found her father sitting on the sofa watching
Oprah
.

"Hey, Dad…" she said, her voice sounding scratchy.

A worried expression painted her father's face. "I thought I told you to ring the bell if you needed anything."

Fred shot up from the sofa, came to her and put his arm around her waist to walk her to the oversize chair.

"I'm fine." She hadn't needed the small bell to chime for assistance. She wasn't in that much pain, but it was a dull throb. And she was fine to walk on her own.

He brought her to the chair and she sat. He quickly picked up the afghan and covered her legs and feet. "Do you want your slippers?"

Realizing she'd left them upstairs, she nodded.

Her dad was gone and back in less than a minute, slipping her feet into warm wool slippers.

Looking attentively at her, he asked, "How about some soup?"

"Later." She gazed at
Oprah
, not paying attention to the program. She felt a little foggy. "How's Sarah doing at the shop?"

"Good. I talked to her about an hour ago."

Her father had been with her since she'd gone to the hospital this morning. He'd absolutely insisted. He'd had a panicked look on his face that neither sister could deny—he feared he'd lose a daughter the way he'd lost a wife. He would be damned if he wasn't the one to be by her side throughout the whole procedure.

He'd stayed with her up to the time they took her into surgery, made sure she was all right in recovery while

Sarah worked with Meagan in Hat and Garden. After school, Sarah's daughters were coming in to help, too. It was times like this Natalie was reminded how wonderful her family was.

"Dad, you don't have to stay anymore. Go home and check on your squirrels and birds."

"I'm not leaving." Fred sat down on the couch, crossed his arms on his chest. "You look pretty good."

Her hand rose, smoothed her bed head and tried to tame a piece of hair. "I'm sure."

"I'm not talking out of the side of my mouth. You've got some color in your cheeks. You look really good. I'm just so glad that—" His voice broke, cracked. "Just so damn…glad you're all right."

Grateful emotions welled in her heart. "Me, too, Dad. I hope I don't have news like that again."

"You won't." Fred wiped his eye, blustered and sat straighter. He put on a cheerful smile. "I brought you something."

"What?"

He stood, went into the kitchen and then handed her a box. "It's to vacuum the crumbs off your table when you're done eating."

Quizzically, Natalie stared at the colorful picture on the outside of the box. It looked like a small, space-age DustBuster. She read aloud, '"Great for crumbs, nuts and small messes that are too easily swept to the floor.'" Gazing up at her dad, she asked, "Do I have crumbs on my floor?"

"I've never seen any."

"Oh. Well, thanks, Dad…I'll…ah, thanks."

Fred took the box, his mouth souring. "I didn't really buy it for you, I bought it for myself and I know I'll never use it. If you don't want it, I can give it to Sarah."

"No, that's okay. I might use it. But, Dad, if you don't want it, why not take it back? Where'd you get it?"

"Target." Was that a tinge of red creeping across his cheeks, down the front of his neck? "I can't take it back. I mean, I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"All right." Natalie sensed there was more to the story, but he wasn't supplying more information so she waited, hoping he'd add something.

"I went to the new Target."

'That's nice," she responded, thinking—
and what of it
?

"It's a good store. But they don't sell the flavor of slushy that I like."

Her father was a Target connoisseur. Everything and anything that could be bought at Target, he bought there. Christmas presents, birthday presents, everyday household items. Dad had his little ritual, she'd seen him do it before: popcorn, slushy, the latest circular and a list of items he needed. It was an event when he went.

"I think they change the flavors, Dad."

"Good. That's what I was thinking, too. That's why I'll go back to that new one. They had a nice housewares department. Do you need anything? Some drinking glasses or silverware?"

"No, Dad. I'm good."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Natalie's mind wandered. There was something new simmering in her dad. A sort of spark, a joy, a fluster— she hadn't seen such a thing in him in a long, long time.

He'd had to contend with demons after Mom died, years spent trying to rebuild the emotions that had un-raveled upon her death. He'd taken it hard, taken it the worst of them. It took five years for him to regain his sense of humor the way it had been. A year or so later to show an interest in all the things he used to do, even those he'd done without Mom.

Now he led an active life, kept busy and seemed to be in harmony with the world, his life, his surroundings and family.

But there was definitely a change in him.

Curious, she spoke aloud, "You sure seem anxious to go back to the new store. Any particular reason?"

"No. None. Why?"

"Just wondering." She leaned her head back on the chair's cushion, an encouraging smile on her mouth, hoping he would spill his guts and just tell her he had a "new" friend. "Dad, do you think you'll ever be ready to date a woman?"

"Why do you ask that?" His response was spoken almost gruffly.

"It's not a bad thing. I was just thinking that it's been a long time to be alone. I want you to be happy."

"I am happy. Happy as a clam."

The latter was spoken almost as a reassurance to himself rather than a reply to Natalie's question.

"Even clams like other clams," she teased, trying to get him to smile. She shifted her position and grimaced.

"You should take one of your pain pills." Her dad was in the kitchen retrieving the pill bottle. "You'd better have some soup first."

"I will."

"What kind do you want?"

"Sarah bought some chicken noodle."

The click of the gas range came to life, a pan was put on the burner and soon the smell of canned chicken soup wafted from the kitchen. Her dad came back into the living room, sat across from her and held out the pills. "It says to take one. It's Vicodan."

"I've never had it before."

"You should eat the soup first." His silver eyebrows were bushy slashes above his eyes.

"I will. On one condition." She tucked her slippered feet beneath her, the pink shorts she'd slept in leaving her legs bare. Even in the wintertime she got too hot in bed with long pajama bottoms—those damn night sweats—but as soon as she got up, her legs were always cold even with the heater on.

Her shoulders were bare, the straps of her tank and bra offering her no warmth. The fabric, a soft white cotton, was wonderful to sleep in; she loved it. She owned three of the same shirt.

"What condition?" he asked.

"You go home now. You've been with me all day and it's been a long one. I'm going to be okay, so no more worries." She got up, shuffled into the kitchen and felt the minor pulse of a headache at the back of her skull. General anesthesia did that to her. It never failed. She ended up with a killer headache. "I can manage. See— I'm getting my own bowl."

"But you don't have to."

"I know that. But I can, Dad. Please." She turned, gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I love you. You were great to me. Now go. I'll be fine."

Indecision marked his eyes, his mouth pursed a moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I wouldn't say it if I wasn't."

"All right then. I'll go home, but you call me if you need anything. I'll be back over before you hang up the phone."