Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer (2 page)

 

 

H
ope slipped out
of Kendall's bed at sunrise while he lay on his back, snoring softly. It was a rare occasion when she woke up before him. Most times he was up and preparing breakfast for her whenever she slept over at his loft. However, the same wasn't true when he slept at her Harlem brownstone. They usually lingered in bed, either talking or making love. For Hope, early morning love-making was the best medicine for starting her day.

She made her way to the guest bathroom and filled the bathtub with water. She had decided to use this bathroom instead of the one adjoining the bedroom so she wouldn't wake Kendall. Half an hour later she had brushed her teeth, bathed, and pulled a black, sleeveless cotton knit sheath dress over a set of matching lingerie. She had just finished brushing her hair and securing it in a French twist when Kendall's image joined hers in the wall mirror.

“You're leaving now?”

Turning, she smiled at him. “Yes. I have a breakfast meeting with my editor at seven and a GYN appointment at nine-thirty.” She had requested the early morning meeting to discuss the possibility of her continuing to write her column if she decided to accept the talk show position.

Kendall angled his head. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Not really,” she answered truthfully. “Even though I'm on the Pill, my cramps are getting worse and my flow heavier.”

“Do you want me to go to the doctor with you? My flight isn't due to leave LaGuardia until three this afternoon.” He was scheduled to attend a four-day conference for African-American CPAs in Las Vegas.

Closing the distance between them, Hope kissed his stubbly cheek. “No, thank you. I want you to have a safe flight, and don't forget to have some fun.”

He frowned. “You know I don't gamble.”

“I wasn't talking about gambling. You can always take in some of the shows.”

“I'll think about it.”

She kissed him again. “Don't think too hard, darling. Gotta go or I'll be late. My driver will be here in a few minutes.” She had contracted with a car service to drive her around the city because it was more convenient than taking the bus, subway, or attempting to hail a taxi to take her uptown at odd hours.

She rushed out of the bathroom and pushed her bare feet into a pair of suede-covered mules. She gathered the stack of letters, put them and several disks into a manila envelope, then slipped them into her leather tote, along with her laptop computer. Making certain she had everything, she picked up her tote and shoulder bag, and headed for the door.

 

The driver pulled up
to the curb in front of a diner a block off Hudson Street. Getting out, he circled the car, opened the rear door and extended his hand to help Hope alight.

She gave him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “You're welcome, Miss Sutton. I'll be back to pick you up at nine.”

Hope thanked him again, then headed toward the twenty-four-hour diner where she frequently met with her friend and editor, William Cullen. She spied him as soon as she walked into the restaurant. He rose to his feet in his favorite booth, waiting until she sat across from him before retaking his seat.

“Good morning, Bill.”

William's bright blue eyes crinkled. “Good morning to you, too. I hope I'm not out of order when I say you're positively glowing this morning. Is something spectacular going on in your life I should know about?”

Hope stared at the tall, freckled, raw-boned, middle-aged man with a head full of flyaway graying red hair, to whom she owed her journalism success. They'd met for the first time when William had become the temporary guardian for his at-risk adolescent niece, Erin, during a family court PINS hearing. He and the girl had been referred to her as private clients for individual and family therapy sessions. Toward the end of treatment, he had asked her to write an advice column for his newspaper.

“I've been offered a position as a late-night, call-in host for an Atlanta talk radio station.”

The color drained from William's face. “Let's order something to eat, then we'll talk.”

Hope ordered half a cantaloupe, scrambled egg whites on wheat toast, and coffee, while William requested a mushroom omelet with a rasher of bacon and tea. Over breakfast she outlined the terms of the radio station's proposal.

“I don't want to stop writing the column.”

“And you don't have to,” William said quickly, “but will that become a conflict of interest for you?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. I'm scheduled to meet with the station's producer in three weeks.”

William lifted a reddish eyebrow. “If they don't have a problem with you working for them and the paper, then I'd love for you to continue. What I need to ask is, will you have the time to do both?”

“I believe I will.”

“And if you don't?”

“I refuse to consider not being able to do both. Instead of delivering my disks to you by messenger, I'll attach them to e-mails. I love the personal contact of writing too much to give it up right now.”

“And I don't want you to.”

William gave Hope a long, penetrating stare. She was one of the most intelligent and confident women he had ever met. And if she hadn't worked for him, he would have considered asking her out after she had discharged him as one of her clients.

Hope lingered long enough to have a second cup of coffee. She gave William the envelope with the letters and disks and promised she would have another batch completed before the end of the week. She checked her watch. It was minutes before nine.

“I have another appointment.”

William paid the bill and escorted Hope out of the diner and onto the sidewalk teeming with New Yorkers. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Uptown.” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses to ward off the rays of the bright Manhattan sunlight. “My driver will be here soon.” Seconds later, a sleek black car cruised up to the curb.

William opened the rear door, smiling at Hope after she slid gracefully onto the leather seat. He nodded, closed the door, and stood motionless, watching the car as it moved into the flow of uptown traffic. There was no need to wish Hope luck with the radio show. She had something more precious than luck.

She was blessed.

 

Hope stared up at the ceiling
. She did not think she would ever get used to the degradation she felt during an internal examination. Just lying on her back, heels in the stirrups, legs and knees spread, and someone peering into her with a light was tantamount to helplessness. The sound of the doctor removing his latex gloves signaled the end of her ordeal.

Dr. Booth stood up. Deep grooves furrowed his lined forehead. “As soon as you are dressed, I'll see you in my office.”

Why, Hope thought, did the doctor's statement sound like a pronouncement of doom? Words he had said to her many times before were delivered in a monotone void of emotion. Sitting up, she ripped off the paper gown and retreated to a small dressing room.

A sixth sense told her that there was something wrong. Within seconds she recalled the letters from women who had written about being diagnosed with ovarian cancer, delivering a stillborn, miscarriages, mastectomies, and so many other women's health problems. Most times she had to remind them that medical personnel offered healing; clergy, salvation; and mental health professionals, hope.

And if there was something wrong with her, who would be there to offer her the hope she would need?

 

Hope sat at
one of a quartet of bistro tables shaded from the sun by a large black-and-white umbrella and took a sip of herbal tea. Her right hand shook slightly as she lowered the china cup to a matching saucer. “I've been diagnosed with endometriosis.”

Dr. Booth had described the origin, symptoms, and treatment options, while she'd sat numbed by the possibility that she might not be able to bear a child. She'd never imagined that she would
not
have children.

Hope's best friend, Lana Martin, a registered nurse turned professional herbalist, went completely still, her hazel eyes widening. “What has he recommended?”

“He's increasing the dosage of my hormone therapy. I have to take the Pill every day for the next four months to stop my period. I'm scheduled for a follow-up visit early October. At that time he'll assess whether I'll have to undergo surgery to remove the endometrial lesions. The last alternative is a hysterectomy. His other recommendation was to ‘go home and have a baby.' ”

Lana shook her head and smiled, shoulder-length reddish dreadlocks moving around her flawless gold-brown face with the motion. She knew Hope's doctor wanted to suppress her ovulation for an extended period to curtail endometrial tissue growing around her ovaries, colon, bladder, or fallopian tubes.

“He's right, you know. I like his advice for you to go home and have a baby. Damn, Hope, you're thirty-eight years old. What are you waiting for? A change of life baby?”

“I'd like to get married first, thank you.”

“What's up with you and Kendall?”

Lana mentioning Kendall's name reminded Hope that he had proposed marriage twelve hours before. She took another sip of the fragrant rose hip tea, peering at her friend over the rim of the cup. “Last night he asked me to marry him.”

“Hot diggity damn! Of course you told him yes.”

Hope stared at a trio of Japanese mimosa trees shading the backyard patio and flower garden of the Harlem brownstone. Lana and her physician husband, Jonathan, had bought the abandoned property five years before. They'd renovated the building, installed an elevator, and used the first floor for Jonathan's private practice, the street level for Lana's herbal enterprise, and the second and third floor for their living quarters.

Sighing, she shook her head. “I didn't give him an answer one way or the other.”

“Are you crazy? You've dated the same man for three years and you can't give him a simple yes or no?” Lana rolled her eyes. “You're no different than the people who write to you about not being able to commit.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Hope's features. “It has nothing to do with my not wanting to commit.”

“Then what is it?”

“I've been offered a position with an Atlanta talk radio station. The station's program manager is coming to New York to meet with me at the end of the month.”

Lana's jaw dropped. “Oh, shit! That does change a lot of things.”

Hope smiled for the first time since leaving her doctor's office. “You've got that right.”

“Does it mean you would have to relocate?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do with Kendall? And if you accept the position, when would you leave?”

“If I decide to accept the offer, and if all goes well with my health, then I'll move in late fall.” It was easier to answer Lana's second question than the first. She did not know what was going to happen between her and KC.

“What about Kendall?”

Hope glared at Lana. She was as tenacious as a dog with a bone. “I don't know,” she answered truthfully. “I suppose we could marry and he or I can take turns commuting between here and Atlanta for the next year. He still has another year before he can opt out his share of his company's partnership.”

“I suggest you marry Kendall, accept the station's offer, then move into one of those fabulous upscale communities with the rest of the bougie black power couples. In that order, of course.”

“You're a fine one to talk. You and your husband are the epitome of bourgeoisification. Not only have your home and practices been profiled in
Essence
but that layout in
Architectural Digest
was the cherry on the cake. So, back it up, girlfriend, when you talk about bougie black folks.”

Lana threw back her head and laughed. Sobering, she said, “I have some herbal options for your condition. I'm going to give you printouts of several recipes. They're premenstrual and postmenstrual roots and herbs. You're also going to have to change your lifestyle. That means watching what you eat and drink. Limit the amount of coffee and alcohol you drink. Lighten up on red meat. Lowering your intake of animal protein and animal fat can decrease harmful levels of foreign estrogen in your body.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes. I always tell women with endometriosis who come in to see me to avoid drinking milk, juice, or bottled water that comes in plastic containers. Look for glass bottles instead.”