The Potluck Club (19 page)

I stopped in my tracks. “I take it you were expecting me.”

Kristen nodded. “As soon as I got home yesterday from church, I said to Horace, ‘Lizzie Prattle will be at the library first thing after school’s out.’” She looked down at her watch. “What took you so long?”

I smiled at her. “So you gathered together the information you thought I’d want to read.”

“I did.” She pointed to a computer desk behind the chair. “The computer is booted up and ready for you to surf the Internet if you want.”

“Thank you, Kristen,” I said, slipping behind her to take a seat in the desk chair.

Kristen walked toward the door, stopped, and turned. “By the way, the University of California San Francisco is making some wonderful progress when it comes to breast cancer. I’ve printed out some information and put it on top of the medical journals for you.”

I glanced down, nodding. “Thank you. I’ll start with that.”

Two hours later I was forced to stop in my labors in order to call Samuel to tell him I’d be late returning home. “And dinner would be . . .” he prompted.

“Apparently takeout,” I answered with a frown. As much as I love my husband, a few of his absolutes drill on my nerves. The first one is: a woman should first and foremost cook for her family. Nothing else—including work, social, or church obligations—should interfere with this rule. Samuel couldn’t so much as boil water if he had to, so I knew he’d be sitting in the family room, reclining in his La-Z-Boy, counting the minutes by the growls of his stomach. “What would you like?”

He paused before answering. “Why don’t you just go to the grocery store and pick up some of that already fried chicken? You can put some veggies from a can on the stove when you get home, and we’ll call that dinner. Oh, and pick up some of those brown-’n-serves I like so much.”

My frown grew deeper. Why didn’t
he
set some veggies on the stove? “That sounds good,” I said. “I’ll be there shortly. I’m just going to gather up my notes and say good night to Kristen.”

“I’ll be here waiting on you,” he said. “I
am
a little anxious to know what you’ve learned.”

That line brightened my spirit. “Good. I’m a little anxious to share it with you.”

“Sounds good.”

I started to hang up until I heard him say, “Hey!” I brought the phone back to my ear. “Yeah?”

“Michelle’s not here. She and Leigh went out for dinner.”

“So it will just be the two of us . . .”

“Just like old times,” he said with a chuckle, but I knew better. It would never be like “old times” again. When we were newly married we knew nothing of having three children so close together . . . of institutes for the deaf, of learning to speak with our hands . . . (or of dealing with an unwed son who would become a father). Now we had adult children. We had grandchildren halfway across the country we rarely got to see, some right here in town we see all the time, and we worry about them all. I sighed deeply. “Old times” didn’t include friends we’d buried too soon and those we were scared we might have to bury soon.
Father God
, I prayed silently.
Please . . .

It was an hour later before we were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, plates of fried chicken, Italian green beans, and brown-’n-serves between us. “Do you think Jan and Pastor Kevin know about UCSF?” I asked my husband.

“What about it?” he asked, taking a bite of a chicken thigh, his favorite piece.

“They have a cancer center where literally hundreds of clinicians are working toward finding a cure for cancer.”

“What about those who have already been diagnosed?”

“They’re giving them treatments. I’m sure some are part of the research.”

Samuel speared beans with his fork. “I don’t know if they know or not. Are you planning on telling Jan?”

I nodded. “I’ll call her later.” I glanced at the kitchen wall clock. “If it’s not too late.” Samuel took another bite of beans, and I continued. “Have you ever heard of J. Michael Bishop?”

He shook his head.

“Harold Varmus?”

Again, he shook his head.

“They’ve discovered cancer-causing genes. According to their research, it’s genetic mistakes that cause cancer.”

“It’s amazing what medical science is coming up with.”

I nodded, looking down at my so-far-untouched plate. “There’s a lot I don’t understand, of course, but there was a paper released recently about some gene that was identified as being key to breast cancer metastasis.”

“From?”

I looked around the room for the stack of notes I’d brought home, locating them on the corner of the kitchen counter, lying next to the now-empty chicken box. “Let me get my notes,” I said, rising from the table. When I came back, having looked through more than half my scribble, I said, “California Pacific Medical Center Research Institute.”

Samuel paused for a minute before saying, “Why don’t you let me talk with Pastor Kevin about all this? If all this research is going on close by, he may want to look further into it.”

“I think that’s a very good idea. When will you?”

“Tomorrow.” He looked down at his watch. “For now,
Law and
Order
is on. Dinner was passable,” he added with a wink, then left me alone at the table.

“Have fun last night?” I asked my daughter early the next morning. We are both forced to rise early in order to get to work on time, Michelle having to leave much earlier than I do. I could easily sleep in a bit longer, but our predawn moments over coffee and cereal have become a favorite part of my day. I love my time with my daughter—and then my time in the Word before I have to head back up the stairs and finish getting myself ready.

Michelle nodded her fisted right hand up and down, signing “yes.” She smiled at me, then continued. “Leigh and Evie want us to go to Silverthorne on Saturday for shopping and dinner.”

I signed back. “Sounds good. I’ll talk to Evie.”

“Good,” Michelle signed, then went back to her cereal. I watched her for a moment. My goodness, she was so pretty. Long dark hair pulled back in a thick ponytail. Porcelain skin. Large dark eyes that mirrored every emotion she’d ever felt. She was so beautiful . . . so perfect . . . except that she couldn’t hear.

Why my daughter?
I’d wondered more than a few times over the years. There was no answer for it, of course. Life happens, and life isn’t perfect.
“In a perfect world,”
I’d been known to say, knowing it was something I’d never see until I reached the pearly gates.

Michelle looked up at me. “What?” she said aloud. Her mouth was half full of cereal.

I smiled at her. “I was just thinking how pretty you are. Obviously without the cereal hanging out of your mouth.”

Her eyes rolled. “Mom . . .”

“I can’t help myself,” I signed. “I’m your mother.”

She swallowed, stuck her tongue out at me, then continued in her conversation. “Speaking of your children,” she signed, “your son called me yesterday at work.” Michelle’s job had installed a TTY telephone system just for her needs, enabling her to send and receive phone calls.

“Sam or Tim?”

“Tim.”

I felt my eyebrows lift. “What’s up?”

“Not the cost of living. Tim and Samantha have decided to build a new house.”

“Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Tim says he wants a bigger house.” I shook my head, bewildered. “But why?” I asked, raising my hands palm up.

“Mom,” Michelle spoke aloud. “Ask him. Not me. He’s your son.” She stood and walked her bowl and spoon over to the sink. “I need to get going,” she signed.

I merely nodded at her.
What’s going on in Baton Rouge?

“Have you spoken to Tim lately?” I asked Samuel as soon as he opened his eyes. He was still lying in the bed, flat on his back the way he’d slept as long as I’d been married to him, and I suppose his whole life long before that. How he manages to sleep flat on his back is a mystery to me, but he does.

He yawned. Morning breath hit me square in the face, but I overlooked it. If something was going on with my son, I wanted to know about it firsthand. As far as I was concerned, if Samuel knew that Tim and Samantha were planning to build a new house and had not told me . . . well . . .

I planted my fists firmly on my hips.

“No, why?” Samuel asked, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, stretched, and made his way to the master bath.

“Did you know he and Samantha are planning to build a new house?” I asked, following on his heels.

He stopped and looked back at me. “Really?” he asked, then continued on toward the bath, where he shut the door in my face.

I spoke through the door. “Why in the world would they want to do that?” I asked. “Their house is big enough.”

I heard the toilet flush and the sink water run before the door reopened. Samuel stood before me with a tube of toothpaste in one hand and his toothbrush in the other. “What are you stressing about, Lizzie? So the boy wants to build a new house. On his salary he can afford it.”

I watched him squeeze a generous amount of Crest onto the toothbrush. “A mother knows when something is up.”

Samuel chuckled in a way that bordered on loving condescension, if that makes a bit of sense. “All right, Mother.” He turned toward the bathroom sink. “I’m calling Pastor Kevin this morning. What about you? What are your plans with Jan?”

I pulled my nightgown over my head. If I didn’t get ready soon, I’d be late for school. “I’m calling her during my lunch break . . . will probably go over after school today. I thought I’d take her some of my lasagna from the freezer.”

“Sounds good,” he said, his words garbled from brushing his teeth. I heard him spit and rinse as I hung my gown on a hook inside our closet. For a moment I stood in the chill of the house, wearing nothing but my underwear. I just stood and stared at a rackful of clothes and wondered what to wear until Samuel came out of the bathroom and stopped short. “Well, good morning, sunshine!” he exclaimed.

Something told me I’d be late for work after all.

21

The town’s most cautious woman—
in a speeding car . . .

Clay took his time getting ready that morning. He even made a cup of coffee, using the hot plate in his room and an instant coffee bag. It wasn’t nearly as good as Sal’s, but it would do in a pinch.

He sat in his favorite chair—okay, the only chair—a La-Z-Boy recliner he’d purchased at a rummage sale sponsored by Grace Church some five or six or ten years earlier, turned on the television, and watched the morning news for updates from around the globe. He sipped on the less-than-perfect brew and made faces with each swallow, jotting words and quotes in his notebook. He called his editor, suggested they follow the recent news out of Brazil a bit more closely.

His editor agreed, giving him some extra time to check the Internet before heading over to the newsroom. In the old days he would have had to go to the office to check the AP wire. Clay praised the morning for the Internet.

Clay disconnected the line, then got dressed. According to the local weather, it would be a bit chilly, so he grabbed the jacket his mother had given him the year before on his birthday before bidding Woodward and Bernstein good-bye and then slipping out the door.

Moments later, he stood on Main Street, waiting for a slow stream of cars to pass before crossing over to Higher Grounds. When at last there was a break in traffic, he stepped off the curb, ambled about halfway to the center of the road, then jumped to the yellow line in caution as a car nearly plowed him over.

He spun his head around. No one was ever caught speeding in the center of town, and he wondered briefly where the fire was.

Clay’s brow furrowed.
Good grief
, he thought.
That was Lizzie
Prattle, the town’s most cautious woman when it comes to driving
safety.
He shook his head as though trying to dislodge a thought, then made the rest of the way over to the café.

“Wonder what that was about?” he said to no one, then pulled open the café’s door.

22

Café Chats

My gasp sent the ghost of my breath swirling above the icy river that
churned around me. I had somehow managed to pull free of my Bronco
as the rapids dragged it into the deeper currents. What had happened?
How had I come to be in these frigid waters? Clueless, I could only
struggle to survive the freezing torrents.

My next gasp for air was met by an ice-cold wave that pushed my
head beneath the raging river. My ears filled with water, and I could
only hear the fizzy shush of the roar above me. I pawed at the waves
surrounding me, somehow jutting one hand above the icy froth. My
hand was met by a strong clasp. I held tight, fighting to break my
head free of the pounding surge. My would-be rescuer’s face was lost
in the glare of headlights beaming through the mist, illuminating
my fight to live. The river’s icy grip pulled at my body as my fingers,
numb with cold, begin to slip from the hand that held mine. I gasped
one last lungful of air before my head disappeared beneath the waves
as my fingers slipped free. The frozen darkness pulled me downward,
engulfing my very soul . . .