The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(73)

“I should have phoned,” Peggy said.

By now I’d detected reluctance in her voice.

“Bad news?” If it was, I didn’t want her to delay it a second longer. She’d given me the weekend as a gift and instinctively I realized that without her having to put it into words.

“I tried to call yesterday,” she murmured, “but then I remembered your shop’s closed on Mondays, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t leave a message.” The reason was obvious now. The news she had to give me couldn’t be left on an answering machine.

“No,” she said, her voice uneasy.

“What is it?” I asked, steeling myself for the worst.

“Oh, Lydia, I’m so sorry. Dr. Wilson looked over your bloodwork and he’s scheduled a series of X-rays for you. He’d also like to see you in his office at your earliest convenience.”

“All right.” It went without saying that the cancer was back. Another tumor was forming in my brain even as Peggy spoke. It was growing back and nothing would stop it this time, no surgery, no drugs, nothing. Had I been alone, I would have insisted Peggy tell me the worst of it then and there. But I couldn’t do that with Brad in hearing distance.

“Can I make you an appointment with the radiologist for tomorrow morning at eight?”

“Fine,” I mumbled.

“Dr. Wilson will want you to bring the X-rays for an appointment here at nine.”

“Okay.” I was numb. I’d been given this reprieve of six years and I felt cheated not to have more. I wanted so many more.

Twice now, my father had been my strength, but this time he was gone and I was alone. Mom was incapable and Margaret would be furious when she heard this. I couldn’t help believing that my sister would find some way to blame me for the return of my tumor. She’d say my need for sympathy had encouraged its growth. I almost groaned as I imagined her reaction.

“Bad news?” Brad asked when I replaced the receiver.

I hadn’t noticed he was no longer in the back room. The coffee had obviously finished brewing because he held a mug in his hand.

“No,” I lied. “But unfortunately I won’t be able to make dinner on Friday.”

“Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” How I managed to smile I’ll never know, but I did, gazing up at him with a look worthy of an acting award.

Brad left soon afterward and if he suspected anything was wrong, he didn’t let on. I’d give it an hour or two, then phone him on his cell and make sure he understood that our relationship was over. I knew I was taking the coward’s way out, but I didn’t want to argue about it or discuss the details with him. I didn’t want to hold out false hope or have it held out to me. Experience is the best teacher. I would make it easy on Brad and save him the trouble later.

Just when I’d begun to feel that I had a real chance at life, it was being snatched away from me—again. I knew this routine, having lived it. The tests come back with questionable results. A consultation is followed by even more tests, extensive ones that require an overnight stay in the hospital.

Then the prognosis is delivered by a grim-faced Dr. Wilson, who would squeeze my hand before he left the hospital room.

I’d always wondered what that little gesture was supposed to mean. At first I thought Dr. Wilson was telling me to be brave. To fight the good fight, to give this battle my all. Now I know differently. He was telling me how sorry he was. He’s only human, and there’s only so much he can do.

As soon as I could, I’d break all ties with Brad. Someday he’d understand and while he might not thank me now, I knew he would later.

CHAPTER 35

CAROL GIRARD

I t’d been a week since Carol’s miscarriage. Doug slept soundly beside her, but she was wide awake. Staring at the digital display on the clock radio, she saw that it was 3:27 a.m. Knowing it would be impossible to fall back asleep, she stole quietly out of bed. Walking blindly in the dark, she made her way into the silent living room.

All her lost dreams, all her and Doug’s abandoned plans for the future, fell upon her like a collapsing building. There would be no baby. She wouldn’t cuddle an infant in her arms or know the joy of nursing her own baby at her breast.

An entire seven days had passed since the miscarriage and, other than that first dreadful night, Carol hadn’t stepped foot inside the baby’s nursery. She couldn’t; it was just too painful. The door had remained closed, and she was sure Doug hadn’t gone in there, either.

Over dinner last evening, he’d suggested they call the department store and arrange to have the baby furniture returned. They had no reason to keep it, and while she knew her husband was only being practical, it felt as if he’d plunged a knife straight through her heart.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to them. They were so much in love and they were good people. Everyone who knew them said they’d make wonderful parents.

Carol had hoped this gut-wrenching agony would lessen with time. It’d only been a week, but the ache, the emptiness inside her, hadn’t even begun to dissipate. If anything, it’d grown worse. The only solace she’d found had been with her online support friends. They understood and had wept with her.

Leaning her head back and closing her eyes, Carol clamped her arms around her middle and started to rock in grief and pain and loss.