She lifts the lid of the soup, spoons out a yummy-looking bite, and lets it cool before tasting it. Just as the recipe card instructed, she seasons it with a bit more salt, pepper, and cayenne pepper, and tastes it again. “So good,” she says to herself, looking into the pot. Andrea was right: she’s nothing like her mom.
TWELVE
September 1972
John makes his way to the workshop after Joan and the children are in bed. He hasn’t had the chance to be out here in over two weeks and picks up the table leg he started working on over a month ago. Standing it on top of the worktable, he tries to size it up, thinking about his next step, but he can’t think and pushes his forehead against the leg, tears pooling in his eyes. He shuts his eyes tight against them. He drove Joan to a follow-up appointment with Dr. Kim today and expected to take her out for lunch at her favorite restaurant.
“The cancer has spread to your lungs,” Dr. Kim said. “We need to be more aggressive with your treatment.”
Joan’s eyes filled with fear as John said, “Can you stop it? Can it go anywhere else?”
“We will try everything we can to stop it,” Dr. Kim said. “Yes, it could continue to spread. I’ve consulted with Dr. Levy, who is the best surgeon for this type of cancer, and my office will set up an appointment for you to meet with him as soon as possible.”
“I’ll need surgery?” Joan asked.
“If you need surgery,” Dr. Kim said, “Dr. Levy is the most qualified. We won’t know anything until he runs more tests.” She stepped away from her desk and sat next to Joan on the sofa in her office. “We’ll do everything we can, Joan, but you need to fight this. You need to stay positive and strong. Can you do that?” Tears covered Joan’s eyes, but she nodded. “I don’t know everything about this disease, Joan, but I promise you that I’ll fight alongside you.” Dr. Kim squeezed Joan’s hand and a tear fell over Joan’s cheek.
John did not ask about prognosis; he couldn’t bear to hear it, but deep down he knew. He could sense it in Dr. Kim’s voice and see it in her eyes. They set up the appointment to see Dr. Levy early the next week, and he took hold of Joan’s hand, leading her out of the office, through the parking lot, and to the car. He noticed again how fragile her hand had become just in the last month. As each day passed, he was convincing himself that she was getting better, but all that had changed today.
“John.” Joan’s voice was small. “What if—”
“No!” he said. “There is no ‘what if,’ Joan.”
She turned to look at him in the car. “Yes, there is. We both know there is.”
“We will do other things in addition to surgery and medication and treatments and whatever,” he said, grabbing her hand.
“What other things?”
He looked out the front window, staring at the Chevy pickup truck in the parking lot. “I don’t know. We’ll pray.”
“We are not praying people, John.”
“Then we will become praying people!” John snapped, controlling his voice. “We will find people who pray.”
She smiled. “John, you and I both know many people who have been prayed for and they died anyway.”
He nodded. “And lots have been prayed for and they’re still living today. Shouldn’t we at least try?”
John sets the table leg back down and puts his hands on the worktable, leaning on it. Tears drip onto the table, turning brown sawdust into a rich coffee color. “I don’t pray,” he says aloud. “I don’t know how. But I believe in you, God. I always have, I think. Ever since my grandparents told me about you when I was little. Even though my family never went to church, even though Joan and I don’t go, I believe you are who you say you are. I believe that you made the world. I believe that you’re the one who raised Jesus out of that grave. And I believe that you can heal Joan.” He begins to sob as he leans onto the worktable. “I know you can. Will you? Please. Please, God. Will you do something for her that only you can do?” His throat fills and he can’t finish.
September 2012
Gloria enters her office and smiles; a paper plate covered with pieces of cake sits on top of her desk. It looks like a small