over my round stomach, I said, “This might be the end of that chair.”
But James didn’t laugh at my little joke. He patted his thighs again and I went over to him and sat. As I talked, he squeezed me tighter and tighter against his body. By the time I reached the end, explaining what I knew of my treatment, our faces were pressed together and I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks.
I cried for the first time since hearing Dr. Soo tell me I had cancer. I wasn’t crying for the life I might be leaving. Months of talking to Mama had taught me that death didn’t have to mean leaving at all. I cried for James, whose heart I might break, for my beautiful, scarred husband who continued to hold me even though his legs must surely have already gone numb under my weight. My tears fell for this strong man who surprised me by managing not to weep, even though I knew from our decades together that he must be screaming inside. I cried for James, who never expected, or needed, me to be that fearless girl from the tree, just me.
He wiped my face with a paper napkin and asked, “So, when do we start treatment?”
“Tuesday,” I said. I had made plans to start on Tuesday because that was usually James’s late day at work. I wanted as much time as possible to get myself together afterwards, in case my first day was rough.
He caught on immediately that I had planned to use his work schedule as a way to maneuver around him. He said, “Decided to do it on my late day, huh? Sneaky. And a little cowardly, I’ve got to say.” But he didn’t look too angry. And he didn’t let go of me.
He asked, “What time do we go to the hospital?”
“James, you don’t have to come. There’s a service at University Hospital that’ll drive me home if I don’t feel good.”
He acted like he hadn’t heard me. “What time on Tuesday?”
I told him, and it was settled. He would take Tuesday off from work and go with me to the hospital for my first treatment.
James said, “If you don’t tell Clarice and Barbara Jean soon, you won’t have to worry about any cancer. They’ll kill you themselves when they find out. You wanna call ’em now, or do you wanna call the kids and Rudy first?”
I said. “I’ve got a better idea. When do you have to go in to work?”
“I told ’em I’d be in around noon, but I’ll call in and stay here with you.”
“No, I won’t need you for the whole day, the morning’ll do.” Then I began to unbutton his shirt.
James might sometimes be slow on the uptake, but he read my intentions right away. “Really?” he said.
“Sure. Who knows how I’m going to feel after Tuesday. We’d better get it while the gettin’ is good.” I kissed James hard on his mouth. Then I slipped off of his lap and reached out for his hand to pull him up from his chair.
As we walked to our bedroom, our hands clasped together so tight that it hurt, I thought, How on earth could I ever have underestimated this man?
After I told Clarice about my chemotherapy routine—each cycle would be five days long, followed by a few weeks of rest before the next cycle started—she drew up a chemo calendar that designated who—James, Barbara Jean, or Clarice—would be in charge of me on each treatment day. She did several hours of research to determine the best foods for fighting cancer and designed a diet for me. Then she arranged for weekly deliveries of vitamin- and antioxidant-rich groceries to my house. She hired a personal trainer for me. A thick-necked former marine sergeant who worked on injured football players at the university, he showed up at my door one afternoon barking out orders and vowing to whip me into shape. And she penciled me in for a laying on of hands at Calvary Baptist’s Wednesday night prayer meeting, which was no small feat seeing as Reverend Peterson didn’t even consider the members of my church to be Christians, and felt that praying over us was a waste of energy.
I appreciated her efforts. But I had to show Clarice that she wasn’t going to boss me through cancer the way she wanted to, even if I had to be a bit childish and ornery about it. I shifted my appointments