The Faded Photo Page 17

  The next treatment, that patient might show up with the same person, but there would be less fussing and conversation. And by the third visit, there would be silence.

  Far from being clairvoyant, Frances could almost read the minds of the visitors. On the one hand, they were grateful that they weren’t the ones sitting in the recliners. But on the other hand, they were offended that their sacrifice of time and attention was not elevated in status. The lack of appreciation and gratitude was clearly an affront of the gravest kind. As Frances always said, everyone wanted to be a superhero.

  The truth was, however, that the superhero was the person seated in the recliner, a clear plastic tube running into their chest, neck, or arm. An hour or two of companionship did not override the twenty-four-seven battle that each cancer patient had to endure. The valiant nature of the war against cancer could never be supplanted with a frozen dinner, bouquet of flowers, or chair-side companion. Those were offerings that people were just supposed to give, with no expectation of glory. Unfortunately, Frances knew far too well that glory played a part in the reward; without gratitude, people too often became disgruntled with their role as caretakers.

  As she stared at the back of Madeline’s head, the wiry and thinning gray hair poking out from beneath her scarf, Frances felt guilty. She didn’t know much about her, at least not much more beyond the fact that she, too, had cancer. But she’d learned, rather abruptly, that there were problems brewing beneath the surface, problems that clearly pained her new friend.

  “Why doesn’t your son come with you, Madeline?”

  The words just popped out of her mouth. Frances blinked, surprised that she’d blurted out such a private question. She hadn’t even been thinking about Madeline’s son.

  “He’s too busy,” Madeline said, her voice flat and emotionless.

  “He lives nearby?”

  Madeline pursed her lips together and nodded her head. “James and his wife, Dina, live in Madison.”

  Frances raised an eyebrow when she learned that Madeline’s son and wife lived in the next town over. “Oh?”

  “In my house.”

  “Oh.”

  “And with my cat.” Another pause. “At least I hope.”

  Taking a deep breath, Frances tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

  “They moved in after my husband died,” Madeline went on. “I always heard that no one should make rash changes after the death of a spouse. Apparently, James hadn’t agreed, and kept trying to convince me that Pine Acres would be a much better place for me to live than my own home.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Frances said quickly. “It’s none of my business.”

  Madeline glanced at her. “You have the right to ask.”

  Another wave of guilt.

  Every person around them with toxic chemicals dripping into their veins had their own set of problems. Madeline was no different. As a friend, Frances wished that she could provide a better support system for Madeline. Obviously, she didn’t have one, and neither did Frances.

  She felt as if she owed Madeline an explanation, an excuse for her prying behavior.

  “My curiosity,” she said slowly, “comes from the fact that I have a situation with my family.”

  The only reaction from Madeline was the shifting of her body so she could sit back and listen to Frances rather than watch for the birds. Her facial expression, however, didn’t change.

  “I . . . well . . . they don’t know.”

  Madeline’s eyes opened wide. “They don’t know?”

  “About the cancer.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Her lack of further inquiry did not discourage Frances into silence. Instead, she suddenly felt like she needed to explain. In some ways, confessing the truth to Madeline was making her feel liberated, much like she had felt when she had shaved her head. “I mean, it’s just cancer, right? Why should everyone’s lives be disrupted? Millions of people go through it every year, and most of them survive. Cancer destroys enough by itself without causing more collateral damage in its wake.”

  “Collateral damage.” Madeline repeated those two words softly.

  Frances looked up.

  This time, it was Madeline who broke the silence. “Every war has collateral damage, Frances. Whether it’s cancer or divorce or bankruptcy, or some other tragedy. Wars can bring people together, just as much as they can tear them apart. Families are supposed to stick together and support each other through those events, not avoid leaning on each other.”

  “It’s not that . . .”

  Madeline frowned. “Your nurse is coming,” she said, turning her head back toward the window.

  It was Laura, sunny and bright Laura, who greeted Frances with a big, happy smile. “Hello, gorgeous! How’re you doing today?”

  Frances watched as Laura began to unpack her sterile kit of instruments to connect the AC line to her port.

  “Fine, I guess. Eddie said my blood pressure is better?”

  “It’s still a little high, Frances. Moving forward, we need to keep an eye on it, maybe check it at home a few times a day, OK?”

  Frances made a mental note to stop by the pharmacy for a blood pressure monitor. “Check it from home. Got it.”

  Laura began unwrapping the sterile kit and slipped on her gloves. “But at least it’s low enough that we can administer your chemo.” She gave a little laugh. “Thank God for small favors, right?”

  Not certain how to respond to that comment, Frances remained silent. She felt, rather than saw, Madeline peering over, most likely paying attention to what Laura was doing.

  “OK, you ready for the needle?”

  Frances nodded as she shut her eyes. This time, she barely flinched when Laura broke skin.

  “Easy, right?”

  “Hardly.” But Frances smiled at the young woman.

  “I can only imagine,” she replied while flushing the port.

  After she turned on the machine and the saline drip started to pump, she hurried away to fetch the AC drugs. They were always mixed fresh just after the saline drip had started. Frances suspected it was to ensure that no medicine was wasted.

  “You take a young gal like that,” Madeline said in a slow, reflective voice. “What drives her to be around dying people all day long?”

  Frances shook her head. “We’re not dying.”

  “We’re all dying,” she corrected. “It just so happens that the people in this room are fighting to delay the inevitable for a little while longer.” She paused for a few drawn-out seconds. Frances could tell from the pensive look on her face that she had more to say on the subject. “I never liked being around old or sick people. In fact, I avoided it. When my grandparents and parents were sick, I refused to visit them.”

  She fought the urge to catch her breath. “Do you regret that?”

  “No.”

  It was impossible for Frances to imagine not having the chance to say good-bye when her grandparents fell ill. Perhaps if her mother lived closer, she might have confided in her about her cancer. Her mother would have insisted on being by her daughter’s side. She would have flown to New Jersey and taken over the house as well as Frances’s treatment. As she envisioned her mother’s reaction to the entire chemotherapy center, she cringed. Her mother would take one step into the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center and she’d begin organizing a crew of volunteers to deliver newspapers and magazines, water and ginger ale, or even to bring patients blankets and pillows. She was, no doubt, a take-charge sort of person, only she preferred to lead and leave the dirty work to others.

  “What about your sister?” Frances asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your sister.”

  Madeline made a noise deep within her throat. Then, rather than answer Frances’s question, she asked one of her own. “You have any siblings, Frances?”

  “Two, a brother and a sister, but I’m not close to them.”

  Madeline perked up, apparently gai
ning new interest in the conversation. “Why’s that?”

  She shrugged. “They think too much about themselves.”

  At first, Madeline didn’t react. Her eyes glossed over and she took a deep breath.

  “Is it the same with your sister?” Frances asked tentatively.

  “No.” That one word came out fast, spoken in a clipped tone. “Not at all,” she added.

  They didn’t have time to continue their conversation, because Laura appeared, waving two large syringes, one filled with red liquid and the other clear, as if she were holding a coveted door prize in her hands.

  “You look so happy,” Frances said lightly.

  “Someone has to look happy around here,” Laura answered while making a silly face. For a moment she looked ten years younger, and Frances found herself appreciative of the woman’s happy-go-lucky attitude. As if reading her mind, Laura said, “Seriously, though, it does help. A positive attitude goes a long way in making this whole ordeal more manageable. You know, over the years I’ve found there are two kinds of patients: those who give in, and those who fight on. I can tell you’re a fighter.” She glanced at Madeline. “Like her.”

  “Ha.” Madeline scoffed dismissively. “A fighter. Right. For two years now!”

  If Laura detected the sarcasm in Madeline’s voice, she ignored it. “Exactly. Fight on, ladies. Fight on.” She snapped the syringes into the machine and pressed two buttons. It began to make a whirling noise and then started clicking. “There you go! You’re all set. Sit back and relax for a spell.”

  Relax. Frances didn’t know the meaning of the word anymore.

  “Easy for them to say, eh?” Madeline quipped after Laura walked away. “They aren’t the ones sitting here getting poked and prodded!”

  Frances didn’t respond. She didn’t need to; it was understood. After all, they were members of the same club.

  “All that talk about family,” Madeline said, returning to their previous conversation. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

  It wasn’t something that Frances had thought too much about. Holidays in the Snyder house were usually fairly low-key. There was often some arguing over who would travel to visit Ellen and Dan Snyder, Nicholas’s parents. Over time, however, the brothers had developed the habit of alternating years. Fortunately, this was not Nicholas’s year.

  Indeed, Frances was more than glad. She was looking forward to a little quality time with just her family. “Staying home!” she said breathlessly. “Hallelujah!”

  “Oh yes. I know! Those holidays are never easy,” Madeline said. “I’ll never forget the family problems that always seemed to evolve around a well-planned but poorly executed Thanksgiving table.” She paused, thinking for a moment before adding, “Christmas, too.”

  Frances smiled. “Glad to know I’m not alone.”

  “Siblings?”

  “No. In-laws.”

  “Ah!” Madeline chuckled. “It’s always been a curiosity to me how we worked so hard to get them to like us when we were courting, and then, once married, those in-laws became out-laws.”

  “Out-laws. Yes, that’s a perfect description.” She shut her eyes for a moment. “Will you go to your son’s house for Thanksgiving, Madeline?”

  Another laugh, only this one was without mirth. “Pine Acres will have a nice dinner, I’m sure,” she said quietly.

  Their conversation ended abruptly as Frances’s chemo machine began to beep. Within seconds Laura was back, pressing buttons and mumbling about the machine.

  “I hate this machine. We just had it serviced, and already it’s acting up.” She pushed more buttons, and within seconds, the whirring sound began again with the rhythmic clicking following shortly thereafter.

  “There! Now you should be all set,” Laura said, then smiled.

  After a while Frances looked over at Madeline. Her face was turned toward the window, eyes on the empty bird feeder, indicating that she didn’t feel like talking anymore.

  By the time Frances got home, it was later than usual. She wouldn’t have a chance to take a nap, which she desperately needed, before the kids got home from school. Instead, she started on some of her chores that she’d been neglecting. Between visiting with Madeline and volunteering for the school book fair, Frances had let the laundry pile up, and the house needed thorough cleaning, especially with Thanksgiving the following week.

  “Mom!” Carrie called out the moment she barged through the front door. “Where are you?”

  The question, practically screamed out as if Frances should have been standing at the door, ready to greet her and cater to Carrie’s needs, sent a shiver down her spine. For some reason her nerves were on fire. When she heard the sound of the front door slamming shut and the book bags being tossed on the floor, she felt a wave of anxiety that she couldn’t explain. While she recognized that no one knew the sacrifice she was making in order to keep harmony within the household, it wouldn’t have killed them to just hang up their backpacks.

  “Can you two please pick those up?” she called out in a sharp tone.

  “Jeez!” Carrie bounded into the kitchen. “Someone’s having a bad day, or what?”

  “Or what,” she responded, not trying to hide her derisive remark. “You know, without your father home, I have even more on my plate. Both of you could chip in a bit and try not to leave your stuff all over the place.”

  Carrie headed toward the refrigerator, flinging open the door and pulling out a bowl of freshly washed grapes.

  “Well, it’s not like you have other stuff to do!”

  “Carrie!” The audacity of her daughter’s comment caught her off guard. “That’s uncalled for!”

  But Carrie seemed unconcerned with the scolding as she popped a grape into her mouth and stared at her mother.

  “What?” she asked with feigned innocence.

  “Manners wouldn’t kill you, you know,” Frances snapped. “And I’m not here to serve you. I have a life, too.”

  Carrie gave a little laugh and took the bowl over to the table.

  “Hey, Mom! Guess who’s starting quarterback on Sunday?” Andy walked into the room, carrying both of the backpacks, and set them on the floor near the table. “Coach told me today. And if I play well, he said he’d consider starting me for the Thanksgiving game!”

  “That’s great, sweetheart.”

  Carrie made a face.

  Ignoring his sister, Andy looked at his mother. “You think you might make the game?”

  Once again, her nerves fired up. For so many years, she’d struggled through countless baseball, basketball, soccer, and football games. Sports had never been her thing. She knew she hadn’t been attentive this year. In fact, she wasn’t certain she’d been to more than one or two games.

  But to commit to this Sunday? She had no idea how she was going to feel after her chemotherapy, although she had been taking the antinausea medicine. But those pills didn’t help with her fatigue. With the weather being colder, the last thing she wanted to do was sit outside on a metal bleacher for over two hours watching a football game.

  “We’ll see,” she managed to say.

  Her answer did not please him. She could see that by the way he frowned. “Come on, Momma!”

  “Please don’t call me that,” she snapped. “And maybe I’d be able to go to more games if you two helped out around the house! I mean, seriously, Andy. You, too, Carrie. We have Thanksgiving next week.”

  “So what?”

  “Yeah, it’s not such a big deal. It’s just another family dinner,” Carrie chimed in.

  Frances shut her eyes and shook her head. They all had so much to be thankful for, more than they knew. How could she possibly explain this to them? How could she let them see that it was important to her?

  “I’m tired of this conversation,” she mumbled.

  “Seems like you’re tired all the time,” Andy shot back. “You’re always going to bed right after dinner. You never watch a movie or spend time with us
anymore.”

  “Where is this coming from, Andy?” She stared at him, surprised by his outburst. If anything, he was normally the one who kept the peace instead of making waves. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t trying. Despite everything that she was going through, she was still making certain that there was food in the house, the dry cleaning was picked up, and everything was as normal as she could possibly make it. “You know how much I do. It’s a lot of work cleaning up after four people and keeping a nice house.”

  “It’s better to have a nice family than a nice house,” he retorted angrily. “Never mind. Don’t go to my game. I don’t care, anyway.” He leaned down, grabbed his backpack, and stormed out of the kitchen.

  Carrie looked after him, her mouth full of grapes.

  “Wow. He’s mad.”

  Frances took a deep breath, counting to ten when she wanted to toss something at her daughter instead.

  “That’s a teenage boy for you.”

  “At least I’m not the one on your bad side this time,” Carrie commented before adding in a snarky “for once.”

  Frances looked at her, speechless.

  With a contemptuous smile, Carrie stood up and grabbed her bag. She slung it over her shoulder and grabbed the grapes.

  “Guess I’ll go to my room now.”

  Standing at the counter, Frances raised her hands to rub her temples. She knew she’d been short-tempered with the children, something that she always tried to avoid. For a second, she contemplated apologizing to them. But then she noticed muddy footprints tracked across the freshly washed floor.

  Please God, give me the strength to get through this.

  Then, as if on autopilot, she walked over to the laundry room and grabbed a mop. With a new sense of calm washing over her, she wiped away the muddy footprints left behind by her children.