The Color of Joy (14 page)

I set my plate down on the counter and rushed out of the kitchen.

*

“Baby…” Jake said.

I was never so happy to see my husband’s handsome face. Those thoughtful, loving eyes. Thank God he was all right.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Then he shocked me by bowing his head into the crook of his elbow and choking back a low, tortured sob. I’d never seen him weep before, not like that, and a hot tear rolled down my cheek.

“I guess they must have told you,” I said.
But how much did he know?

He leaned forward and met my eyes. “They said you have a brain tumor. I didn’t believe it. Tell me it’s not true. It can’t be.”

Dear God…

I reached out and touched the screen. “I’m so sorry, Jake.”

His eyes were bloodshot and glassy. “How could this happen?
Why
?”

Swallowing uneasily, I shook my head because I didn’t have those answers. I’d been asking the same questions myself. “Bad luck, I guess.”

He wiped a tear from his cheek. “How did you find out? Were you having headaches?”

I explained how it progressed from headaches and a few inconvenient episodes of forgetfulness to a full-blown seizure in my kitchen, and how Sylvie and my mother had called an ambulance and taken me to the ER.

Suddenly, Jake stood up. He knocked his chair over and disappeared from sight.

“Jake!” I shouted, leaning forward. For a moment I watched the blank wall in the background while I listened to the sounds of him pacing around.

Please come back.

At last he reappeared on the screen, picked up his chair and sat down again. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed.

“You’re angry,” I said.

“Yes. I can’t believe this is happening to you. That I wasn’t there to be with you, to take care of you.”

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I have good support here with Sylvie and Mom. You don’t have to worry about that part.”

He looked away. I saw a vein pulsing at his temple and knew he was fighting hard to manage his frustration. “They said you’re having surgery on Thursday?”

“That’s right,” I replied. “Can you come home for that?”

He nodded and I let out a breath of relief. “Thank goodness.”

“They’re flying me out in an hour,” he explained. “With the time change and connections, I should be home by tomorrow night. I’ll call you on your cell when I know more.”

I felt suddenly weightless and very blessed.
My husband was coming home.
“I’ll be so happy to see you,” I said.

“Me, too.” He touched the screen. “I love you, babe.”

“I love you, too. Fly safe.”

He kissed the camera lens and the screen went blank. Leaning forward over the keyboard, I cradled my head in my arms. Deeply and slowly I breathed in and out.

Jake…

I’d always been an optimist, but rarely had I felt more hopeful and happy than I did in that moment. Joy bubbled up within me and I found myself laughing and crying at the same time.

How miraculous. Even with a tumor on my brain, I still believed the future was bright. There was so much to look forward to because my husband was alive; he loved me and he was coming home to support me.

Wiping the tears from my eyes with the backs of my hand, I decided with certainty that come hell or high water, I was going to make it through the surgery. I began to visualize myself in the recovery room afterward.

The doctors will tell me I have a clean bill of health. Jake and I will both weep tears of joy. We’ll try again to have another baby. It’ll be a girl… Later, I’ll watch her play in a sandbox in the backyard. She’ll be three years old by then. We’ll have a puppy and I’ll be pregnant again…

Rising from my chair, I turned and jumped at the sight of my sister standing behind me. Laying a hand over my pounding heart, I said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I apologize,” she replied. “I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know if he’d be able to come home.”

“He’s on his way,” I told her as I brushed past to finish tidying up in the kitchen. “He’ll be home in time for the surgery.”

“Did you tell him about the baby?” she asked.

I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. “Not yet.”

She didn’t say a word, but I felt her disapproval like a cold outdoor breeze at my back. Maybe I should have said something, but I walked out because I didn’t want anything to spoil my mood.

*

The following morning I rose early for my appointment at the hospital, took a long hot shower, called a cab, and left the house while Sylvie was still sleeping soundly.

The cab dropped me off at the main entrance shortly before 7:00 a.m. I went straight to the blood drawing clinic where I only had to wait a few minutes before someone called my name.

Sylvie

November 13

As luck would have it, I slept late the morning of my mid-term, which meant I didn’t have time to shower or eat breakfast. I rushed out the door in a panic and was lucky not to get pulled over for speeding as I raced across town.

As soon as I found a parking spot and spilled out of my car in a tangle of limbs and books, I dug into my purse for my phone and texted Jenn.

By this time it was 10:50 a.m.

I slept in. How are you doing?

She immediately texted me back.
I’m doing great.

Good. Heading into my exam now. I’ll text you later.

Good luck
, she replied.

Since my instructor was strict about cell phones in class, especially during exams, I shut off my phone and slipped it back into my purse.

*

I suppose, under the circumstances, I should explain why I’d slept in that morning and didn’t text Jenn when I said I would.

The truth is, I’d tossed and turned all night long, wondering if I should have called Jake myself and told him about Jenn’s miscarriage.

Or forced her to do it herself.

Fine. I’ll admit it. I was eavesdropping on their conversation on the laptop again the night before, but the fact of the matter was this: She hadn’t said a word about the baby when she’d spoken to him and I was certain it was only going to make things more difficult when he arrived home. I doubted he would be quite so sympathetic when he found out she’d kept something like that from him.
Twice
.

I wasn’t sure if it was intentional on her part. Maybe she’d made a conscious decision not to drop another bomb on him last night when he was so distraught about the tumor. I knew how sensitive she was to his fears about losing another child. Maybe she wanted to tell him in person.

Or maybe she’d simply forgotten to tell him—which wasn’t out of the question, considering her condition.

And so… Last night I hadn’t slept. This was not unusual for me because I had a tendency to stress out about things I’d said or didn’t say. It always hit me hardest during the night. I would replay conversations over and over in my mind, analyze them to death, and wish I’d handled them differently.

My anxiety medications were helpful, but still, in extreme circumstances like these, I tortured myself by worrying about the future and the past. I had to physically restrain myself from calling my mother or therapist at 3:00 a.m. to ask for advice. What would
they
think? Would they advise me to call Jake immediately and break the news to him myself? Maybe Jenn needed my help to do that.

Or maybe that would be meddling. Would I be butting my nose in where it didn’t belong?

Anyway, that’s why I’d slept in—because I’d tossed and turned from midnight until dawn. It’s also why I was so distracted during my exam and for the rest of the day when I couldn’t stop debating with myself about what to do.

In the end, I called my mother after the exam and discussed it with her. She told me to butt out.

Then I called my therapist and she was able to squeeze me in for a quick fifteen-minute phone call. She also told me it wasn’t my responsibility. It was Jenn’s marriage. It was between the two of
them
. She coached me into trusting Jenn—despite her brain tumor—to know what was best and to let the cards fall where they may.

I’m still not sure it was the right decision, but I decided not to interfere. At least not while Jake was still in the sky.

I immediately knew that something was wrong when I pulled into the driveway. There were no lights on inside the house.

This came as a surprise to me because I’d texted Jenn more than a few times throughout the day to check on her, and each time she replied that she was fine. The last message said she was lying down to take a nap, so maybe she was still sleeping.

It was not until I turned on the lights in the kitchen and listened to the message on the answering machine that I allowed myself to take a flying leap right into the deep end of the anxiety pool. I finished listening to the message, searched the house, and immediately dialed 9-1-1.

*

“It took you long enough to get here,” I said to the uniformed police officer when he finally arrived and rang the doorbell. “Come in, come in.”

He entered the house and I nearly stumbled backwards because he was a large, strapping man.

“I’m Officer Jenkins,” he said. “Somebody called about a missing person?”

“Yes, it’s my sister. The dispatcher said you don’t normally consider a person missing until twenty-four hours, but this is a special case. My sister has a brain tumor and sometimes she gets confused or can’t remember things.”

He pulled out his notepad. “What’s her name?”

“Jennifer Nichols, but she goes by Jenn. She’s having an operation in a few days to remove the tumor, and she had an appointment at the hospital for blood work and a checkup today. She showed up for the blood work at 7:00 a.m., but she didn’t show up for her appointment with the doctor at noon. She was supposed to stay in the hospital and just read a book or something.”

“When was the last time you spoke with her?” he asked.

This was the part I knew would get dicey. “Umm…we’ve been texting each other throughout the day. She was replying to everything until about three hours ago. She said she was lying down to take a nap. I haven’t heard from her since.”

With his pen poised over the notepad, he paused. It took a few seconds for his eyes to lift and meet mine. “So it’s only been three hours? And you just got home? Maybe she woke up, went out shopping and her phone died.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “My sister’s not a shopper. But that’s not the point. The point is that she missed her appointment at the hospital and she’s not here. She’s not allowed to drive because she might have a seizure. Oh, God, what if she did go the mall and had a seizure?”

“I thought you said she wasn’t a shopper.”

“She isn’t,” I corrected. “Just…hypothetically.”

He regarded me with skepticism. “I’m sure you would have heard something if she had a seizure in a public place. Someone would have called an ambulance and if she was taken to a hospital, they would have contacted a family member.”

I waved my hands in front of my face and paced around the kitchen. “No, no, that’s not what happened.”

“What did happen, exactly?” he asked with a note of impatience, as if I were some sort of anxiety-ridden, PMS female on medication—which I totally was, except for the PMS—but I knew I wasn’t wrong about this.

“I came home to a phone message from the hospital,” I tried to explain in a calm voice. “It said that she missed her appointment at noon, and that if she wanted to reschedule, she had to call back. But there’s no good reason why she would miss that appointment. And if she didn’t go to it, why didn’t she at least tell me that and come home?”

He checked his watch. “Maybe she did but went out again for a bite to eat?”

I felt my heart begin to race. “Pardon me, Officer Jenkins. You’re not
listening
to me. My sister has a brain tumor and she can get confused sometimes or become forgetful. She might have wandered off somewhere. She might be having a seizure at this very moment.”

Was I overreacting? Maybe I was. I needed to lower my voice and talk slower. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t taking me seriously.

Officer Jenkins closed his notepad. “Do you have a picture of her?”

“Yes.” I moved quickly into the living room to the photo albums on the bookshelf, pulled out the most recent one, flipped through it and slid out a 4x5. “Here she is. Jenn Nichols. Last seen at the hospital for blood work at 7:00 a.m. This was taken last summer. Her hair’s the same now.”

“What would she be wearing?”

“A red winter coat with a hood. Probably jeans. I didn’t see her leave this morning, but she usually wears jeans.”

He took a good look at the picture and slipped it into his pocket. “Would you mind if I had a look at your cell phone texts?”

“Of course.” Pleased that he was at least taking an interest, I rifled through my purse for my phone, found her messages and handed it to him.