Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,67

fact she’d never been pregnant. All things she’d noted on those forms. All things she’d been unable to forget since she’d slicked Ivory soap over her breast and felt…something.

Under any other circumstances, she’d have rushed to Dr. Sterling’s office weeks ago, and her doctor would have insisted on a diagnostic mammogram, rather than a simple screening.

But much as she’d like to create an alternative reality, one in which she could afford unlimited doctor’s visits even without insurance, she couldn’t. “No. I haven’t seen her.”

Since Elizabeth was taking advantage of a program offering free mammograms to uninsured Marysburg residents, Cailyn likely understood the situation without further explanation. At the very least, she didn’t ask any more questions.

“All right.” Brown eyes kind, Cailyn gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to get crystal-clear images.”

And then the normal routine began. How many times had she had this procedure? Seven? Ten? Definitely every year since she’d turned forty, and Dr. Sterling had ordered at least one baseline mammogram before then. By this point, Elizabeth knew the basics of how to angle her body and her arm, how to lean into the machine when necessary and hold still.

Her left breast compressed between the glass plates, and as always, she noted its resemblance to an unbaked loaf of ciabatta. Dimpled, off-white, and vaguely rectangular.

Two images, like normal. Then the tech helped her switch sides, and her right breast went between the plates. More pressure as they squeezed together once more, spreading her into an even layer as effectively as her favorite rolling pin did pie dough.

Elizabeth tried to concentrate on that vision, letting its familiar sweetness distract her. Rolling out a disc of dough and transferring it into a pie plate. Cutting off the overhang and crimping the edges. Inspecting the little bits of butter within the dough, which would provide flakiness as they melted and steamed in the heat of the oven. Filling the shell with thin-cut apples, tossed with cinnamon-sugar, lemon juice, a few more pats of butter, and a pinch of salt. Weaving a lattice of dough strips for the top and brushing them with cream for extra browning.

From the humid warmth of her mental bakery, she heard and obeyed Cailyn’s gentle directives. Position. Freeze. Reposition. Freeze.

Then Cailyn told her to breathe again, and Elizabeth inhaled deeply, her chest loosening for the first time in weeks. The two standard images of her right breast had been taken. Any moment now, the tech would tell her to put the gown back on and return to the dressing room. She’d don her bra and sweater and find out in a few days that the stupid lump was meaningless, nothing of concern.

This horrible month would have a happy ending, and she could go back to worrying about normal things, like that rattle in her car or whether she had enough extra money to maintain her small monthly donation to Planned Parenthood.

All stressful considerations, of course, but not nightmarish. Not anything that would keep her sleepless for weeks on end, waiting for the next free mammogram event nearby.

But Cailyn didn’t smile and say they were done. Instead, she bit her lip. Fiddled with the machine, looking at God knew what on the screen.

Another repositioning, and then the tech took one more image. Two more.

Elizabeth coughed as the pressure in her chest returned and ratcheted tighter.

“Are you okay?” The smile crinkling the corners of Cailyn’s eyes had disappeared. “Do you need a minute?”

She didn’t need a minute. She needed insurance. She needed her mom. She needed a stalwart barrier between her and a world abruptly turned frigid and terrifying.

“I’m fine.” Another approximation of a smile, and then she couldn’t help but say it. “Does everything look okay?”

Every year, she asked the same question, and she always got the same answer. The tech couldn’t make that determination, and the radiologist reading the images would send a report to Dr. Sterling within five business days.

Usually, though, the tech would seem relaxed and smile in a way that told Elizabeth what she needed to know. The images were fine. She was fine.

This time, however, Cailyn remained silent for several heartbeats before speaking, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Your doctor should hear from the radiologist within three to five business days.” Another pause. “Or sooner. The radiologist might have time to look at this today. I’ll check with her.”

The kindness, the probable reason for it, paralyzed Elizabeth in a way a brusque dismissal wouldn’t have.

“Even