Abide With Me

“Oh. Then…you’re sure? You’re sure we should start today?”

“Why not? Let’s make today your first day toward full and complete recovery.” The doctor stood up and set the calico cat down on the ground. Within a heartbeat, the tiger cat leaped off of Andrea’s lap and scooted away.

The doctor held out her hand. “Shall we?”

By noon, Andrea had been home for half an hour. Her cell phone had been turned off, the machine was answering her home telephone was on, and she’d set the alarm clock, in case she fell asleep. She was lying on her tummy in her bed, watching the clock on her nightstand. “Time to roll, girls,” she murmured to her three cats, who were all in bed with her. Each treatment required that she spend half an hour in four different positions, to ensure the inside of her bladder was coated and treated with the chemo drugs.

It wasn’t a terrible way to spend a few hours, although resting was not something Andrea often made time to do for herself.

Unfortunately, none of the three sister cats made any attempt to move, and Andrea rolled onto her left side as gently as she could. Two of the cats rearranged themselves along the back of her legs, while Redd, the smallest, curled up next to Andrea’s cheek. Normally loving cats, yet independent, the “girls,” as Andrea called them, seemed to have an intuitive sense that something was different. From the moment she’d returned home from her first treatment, the cats had stayed close, as if they knew that she needed them next to her. It was yet another blessing in a very odd day.

Andrea looked around the bedroom, glancing up at the white border covered with ivy that she’d stenciled near the ceiling, after she’d painted the walls a very dark green. Every time she was in the room, she felt as though she had stepped deep into a forest where she felt safe and protected from the outside world. She smiled when her gaze rested on the pictures of her two children. Rachel, her first-born after several miscarriages, was now thirty, and looked so much like her father, she kept his image alive. Unfortunately, she had her mother’s stubborn streak and drive. A successful engineer, Rachel lived in Boston with her husband and their two daughters. Andrea’s son, David, was going to be twenty-eight in a few weeks, but although he was close in age to his older sister, he was completely opposite in temperament. Easygoing and spontaneous, David lived in the woods, in a small cabin in the New Hampshire, eking out a living as a cooper, making wooden barrels with seventeenth-century techniques and loving every minute of his austere lifestyle.

Andrea loved them both with a depth of feeling that never ceased to amaze her.

She was frightened that Dr. Newton might be wrong about effectiveness of the chemotherapy, but she was more afraid of letting her children sense her fear or think that she might not be there for them much longer. Blinking back tears, she snuggled against Redd.

Right now, Andrea needed time to get used to the idea that she was facing a year of chemotherapy. She needed time to get used to the idea she might, indeed, be her family’s first cancer survivor. She needed time to think of all the things she should do, just in case she wasn’t. If she had put one of her notebooks on her nightstand, she might have actually started one of her infamous “to do” lists. She needed time to…

“To pray,” she murmured aloud. Prayer was going to be the only way she would survive the next year. She checked the clock, rolled onto her stomach, waited for the cats to get settled again and spent the next half hour praying for strength and wisdom and gratitude for the blessings of this day. She also prayed that the chemo drugs inside her body would work well and keep in remission the cancer that threatened her life. And she prayed for the courage to face the plan He had designed for her life, even if that meant being called Home sooner than she had thought.

As she prayed, a seed of hope began to grow inside her. If Dr. Newton was right—if the chemotherapy went well, with no noticeable side effects—then Andrea might be able to get the weekly treatments finished before she had to tell her children or her sisters anything at all. She could sidestep their questions about the biopsy. Yesterday, with Sandra’s birthday occupying their thoughts, Jenny and Madge hadn’t even asked about the biopsy results. To be fair, Andrea had already told them that the results weren’t expected for a few more weeks.

If she could finish the six weeks of treatments before she told her family, she would stand a better chance of convincing them that her chemotherapy treatment was different from the treatments Sandra had endured—or Daddy or Kathleen or Mother, for that matter. Andrea would be able to convince them that she was going to be a survivor, because they’d be able to see it for themselves.

And by then, she would have a better sense of just how taxing the next year was going to be.

Now that was a plan!

Whether inspired through prayer or her own sense of independence, Andrea liked it—a lot. Her mind raced ahead to the schedule of doctor’s appointments she had set up for the next five weeks. All were early-morning appointments, so she could continue to work, showing homes or attending settlements in the afternoons. Nothing unusual there. She always talked to her children at night, when they were finished with their work for the day. No problem there, either. Since Jenny worked nights and normally slept most of the day, and Madge was usually busy with her volunteer activities, Andrea was convinced she had hit on the perfect plan.

There were some adjustments she would have to make. Getting extra rest, instead of the usual five or six hours of sleep each night, was a given. She also wanted to make an appointment with a nutritionist. Dr. Newton had been quick to respond to Andrea’s question about diet with honesty. Other than suggesting a low-fat diet, she could only second Andrea’s suggestion to consult a nutritionist. Andrea could search the Web, too. Other cancer survivors often offered tips that doctors may have overlooked or dismissed. Tips of that kind had helped to make Sandra more comfortable, and Andrea made a mental note to spend some time searching the Web tonight. She also decided to hire an additional real-estate agent for the office and scale back on her hours. Her children and her sisters had been asking her to do that for a number of years now, so they wouldn’t be unduly suspicious if she hired someone to help her at the agency, with “help” being the operative word.

Andrea had no intention of letting the reins go slack when it came to her business, or any other part of her life, for that matter. She was in control now and she would be in control of her life for the next year—she was determined to keep her life so normal no one in town would suspect a thing.

Twenty minutes after she had made her final roll to her back, a knock at her front door made her freeze in place. The sound was followed almost immediately by the door opening, which set off the security alarm.

“Yoo-hoo! Andrea? It’s just me. I can’t believe I caught you at home. Wait till I show you what I found for your kitchen! Wait a second until I turn off your alarm. I can’t believe you set that alarm during the day!”

Andrea groaned and closed her eyes, but try as she might, she could not come up with a single plausible reason she could give Madge for not getting out of bed…except the truth.

So much for her plan.

Trouble was, she had less than sixty seconds to come up with another one.

Chapter Three

M adge tapped the code, 1919, into the pad to deactivate the house alarm. She turned and glanced around the living room that crossed the front of Andrea’s five-room bungalow and headed straight for the kitchen, clutching her “find.” Her heels tapped on the gleaming red oak floors. “I didn’t bother to wrap it. I was going to—”

She took two steps into the antiques-filled kitchen, paused and pursed her lips. No Andrea. If she was in her home office, she could have met Madge in the living room. Must be in the bathroom? Madge set her pocketbook down, unwrapped the newspaper from the pitcher she had found at the thrift store, and set it in the center of the black-and-white enamel table. “A perfect match,” she whispered, quickly tucking the newspaper into the old enamel slop pail Andrea used as a trash can. “Filled that right up, didn’t I?” Frowning, she made a mental note to find a decent-sized trash can for Andrea, one that would match the rest of the black-and-white enamelware that served a dual purpose in Andrea’s kitchen.

All of the pieces her sister had collected over the years, from the small antique stove to the washstand and the enamelware hanging on the walls, were both decorative and functional, unlike the appliances in the ultramodern kitchen that Madge claimed was her favorite room in her house. How Andrea could manage without a dishwasher or a refrigerator with an ice dispenser in the door was no mystery. She barely cooked for herself and rarely entertained. She was not home long enough, not with running that real-estate agency of hers.

Madge shrugged. To each her own. Tapping her foot, she checked her watch. She had half an hour before her meeting with the Welleswood Beautification Committee, to plan the fall plantings for the avenue. She had hoped to spend that time with her sister. She grabbed her pocketbook, turned, walked back into the living room and gazed toward the small hallway that led to the bathroom, two small bedrooms and the office. The bathroom door was open.

Maybe Andrea was on the phone. Madge had taken only a few steps toward the hallway on her way to the office when she finally got a response from her sister.

“I’m in here. In my bedroom. Come on in.”

Madge smiled with relief and hurried her steps. “Finally redecorating? I warned you that you’d get tired of that dark green paint.” She stopped just inside the doorway of Andrea’s bedroom. The light in the room itself was far too dim, with the shades pulled tight behind the white lace curtains. Andrea was not checking new paint colors or hanging new curtains or even changing the sheets on the bed. She was lying flat on her back in bed with her cats settled beside her.

All three cats looked up at Madge, stretched or yawned and settled back down with Andrea, who offered a weak smile and patted the bed next to her. “It’s just a headache. I was trying to nap. Here. Come sit and talk to me while I wait for the aspirin to kick in.”

Madge narrowed her eyes. Her heart began to race the moment she remembered that Andrea had been waiting for the results of her biopsy. “You don’t get headaches. You never sleep on your back. And you…you haven’t taken a nap since you were six months old.”

Andrea closed her eyes. “How would you know I stopped napping when I was six months old? You weren’t even born yet,” she teased.

“Mother told me. And don’t try to change the subject. What’s really wrong?”

Andrea let out a sigh. “I told you. I have a headache. Maybe it’s…it’s my first.”

Madge tiptoed to the bed, set her pocketbook down on the mattress and eased herself to sit beside her sister. Gently, she stroked the top of Andrea’s head, and she knew—she just knew—that the results of the biopsy were not good. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. Emotion choked her throat. “You’re sick. You’re sick again, aren’t you?”

Andrea moistened her lips, opened her eyes and took hold of Madge’s hand. “I feel fine. I’ll be fine. The nodules they removed…well, I have to have a few treatments and then I’ll be good as new again. I had my first one this morning. That’s why I’m in bed. I have to lie in four different positions for half an hour each to coat the inside of my bladder. I set the alarm—”

The alarm in the bedside clock went off, interrupting Andrea but startling Madge. As Andrea sat up, all three cats scattered. One knocked Madge’s pocketbook to the floor and the contents spilled out. Her keys hit the floor with a clang and something, presumably her lipstick, rolled away, but all Madge could think about was the fear that wrapped around her heart.

Andrea had cancer.

Again.

“Why? Why does this have to happen again?” Madge cried, and dissolved into tears as Andrea’s arms wrapped around her shoulders.

“Hush now. It’s not so bad. Really,” Andrea crooned.

When Madge’s tears were spent, she sat back, hiccuped and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m such a baby.”

“Yes, you are,” Andrea teased. “But you’re a lovable baby.”

Madge hiccuped again and swiped at her cheeks. “Jenny’s supposed to be the baby. She’s the youngest. I’m older. I should be…more in control.”

“You’re younger than I am.”

Madge chuckled. When it came to age, she had no desire to be a single day older than she really was.

“And you certainly look a lot younger than me,” Andrea said.

Madge ruffled her sister’s hair. “You could look younger, too,” she whispered, then realized Andrea had done it again. “You’re changing the subject. Just like you always do.”