Hidden Blessings Page 6

  He took her by the hand, bouncing to the music, and twirled her around.

  Kendra took a step back. “Are you drunk?”

  “Molly!” He waved an arm to someone down the hall. “Kendra’s here!” He pointed downward, above her head.

  A young woman with bright-red, faux-hawked hair breezed into the kitchen. Even with the new hair, Kendra recognized her from the funeral, where she’d worn a short plaid grunge dress. Now she sported black skinny jeans and a corset top.

  “Trey’s sister!” Molly grinned, hugging her, holding a plastic cup aloft. “Oh hey, I’m so sorry about the wedding.” Arm draped around Kendra, she lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I was looking forward to it.” A giggle escaped. “Trey was making me crash.”

  Kendra eyed her brother. The last time they’d talked, he’d been upset because his invitation didn’t include a guest. He’d accused her of excluding Molly because she didn’t fit Kendra’s “uppity DC crowd.”

  “What happened anyway, Ken?” Trey was back at the pot, now with a ladle in hand, scooping punch into a cup. “You investigated the dude? Found out he was cheating?” He tasted his concoction. “Didn’t want to be the last to know like Mom, huh?”

  “I can’t believe you’d bring Mom into it like that,” Kendra said.

  “Trey, where’s the punch?” someone yelled.

  “I’m coming!” Trey poured the contents of the big pot into another container and walked it out, with Molly behind him.

  Kendra leaned against a chair, feeling nauseated, head hurting. I just need to lie down.

  She moved back down the hallway, dodging bodies. “Excuse me . . . Excuse me . . . Hey!” A woman, dancing, jerked around and bumped into Kendra, spilling her drink. Kendra brushed the liquid off her shirt, feeling increasingly hot, almost suffocated.

  She grabbed her two bags from the entryway and headed upstairs, past pockets of people.

  Kendra walked into her room, clicking on the lights and dropping her bags. It was mostly unchanged from high school days, but she was too spent to reminisce. She collapsed on her queen bed as music vibrated beneath her. She peeked at the clock—12:20.

  How long will this thing last?

  Her head pounded with every pulsating beat. And the malt liquor, or whatever it was, that had spilled on her shirt was making her feel even more nauseated. She rose up a little, yanked off the shirt, and threw it on the floor, entertaining thoughts of calling the police. She was surprised none of the neighbors had. The only thing that stopped her was the possibility of Trey getting arrested. But it was tempting.

  Kendra closed her eyes, chasing sleep in a den of hoots and hollers and chants of “Chug! Chug! Chug!” Was this supposed to be her respite? A frat house?

  She hadn’t made any commitments yet. She could easily return to DC.

  But then she’d be back near Derek.

  Kendra felt her world closing in on her. She had nowhere to go.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LANCE LEANED AGAINST THE SIDE OF HIS CAR, WAITING FOR THE tank to fill at a rest stop near Montgomery, Alabama. He’d left Tallahassee at four a.m. and planned to make it back to St. Louis by early evening.

  Seeing his mother behind bars was always painful, though she tried her best to make it easy on her son. Smiling in prison khakis, Pamela embraced him and asked how he was doing, as if he’d come through the front door after a long day rather than through barbed wire and metal detectors. Every time he wanted to cry. She’d made a lot of mistakes, but this was his mom. Locked up. She’d served six years and wasn’t even halfway done.

  He walked across two islands to the convenience store for gum and more snacks. He’d made this trip dozens of times, and each time he filled the tank and restocked here. Each time he grieved. For her. For them. For bad choices they’d both made, always wishing they could turn back the hands of time.

  But he was grateful too. Over the past year he could tell his mom wasn’t pretending to be okay for his sake. She was okay. In her words, “everything clicked” that he—and others in prison—had been telling her. And now she was telling others.

  Lance paid for his goods, enjoying the memory of their conversation the day before.

  “I don’t see how she couldn’t see it.” Her mother spoke of a fellow inmate. “How could you not see your life is messed up when you’re in a prison cell? How can you not see you need Jesus?”

  Lance got a kick out of that. “Momma, you were in a prison cell for five years and didn’t see it.” He smiled at her. “Cut her some slack.”

  “But she could die tomorrow.” Her voice was animated. “She needs Jesus today.”

  She told Lance she was talking to more of the women, hearing their stories. Of the women in the visiting room alone, she seemed to know something of how each had gotten there. Alice’s boyfriend had asked her to pick up a package from a cousin in Florida, which turned out to be drugs. Convicted of conspiracy and intent to distribute drugs and given twenty-six years, she’d see her two young kids grow up from the visiting room.

  The woman across the room had a story that seemed unreal. Teresa had three kids, the youngest a cute four-year-old who was styling her mother’s hair. She’d never used or dealt drugs, but had agreed to hide her boyfriend’s stash. For that she’d gotten life in prison, because she’d been unwilling to turn others in.

  His mother’s story was similar: caught up with a boyfriend, letting him deal from her house. They’d both gotten arrested. But though he was the dealer, he got a fraction of her time because he rolled over on someone else. She had no one to roll over on. She got twenty years.

  Unlike Teresa, though, his mom had been a user . . . and it had impacted much of his life.

  Lance returned the nozzle, screwed the gas cap on, and jumped into the car, ready for more highway. He ramped up his speed, set the cruise control, and sank back into his thoughts. Maybe the stories made him sad more than anything. And not just those stories, but stories he heard almost daily in ministry about hardship, pain, and deep struggles. Who was exempt? He was starting to think that if he could see into people’s lives—their real lives, not the ones they wanted to show—he’d find everyone going through something, something that hurt.

  He stared at the stretch of highway, eyes welling with tears. Lord, there’s so much pain in the world. Sometimes I just wonder . . . where are You?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  KENDRA STOOD BEFORE HER CHILDHOOD DRESSER, GAZING INTO a mirror that had seen so many of her faces: hope, joy, anticipation, sadness—or what she thought was sadness—boyfriend problems, girlfriends gossiping behind her back, a less-than-perfect ACT score.

  But never had it seen despair. Or fear.

  Overnight, it seemed, her breast had changed. She examined it all the time now. It was her first thought in the morning and her last thought at night. And this morning when she looked, she gasped. Her left breast had swollen and grown more tender to the touch and gotten that pitted orange look she’d seen so often online.

  She’d known it was coming, but seeing it made it tangibly more real, more serious—more frightening. How much worse would it get? Would it stay so . . . deformed? Would she really need a mastectomy?

  She felt her arms begin to twitch, anxiety rising like goose bumps. There was so much to consider. So much she needed to know . . . and do. And she couldn’t even nail down whether her next few weeks would be spent in the Midwest or on the East Coast.

  Kendra sighed, moving away from the mirror. It was eight forty-five, and she wanted to be gone by nine. The facility at Wash U was only minutes away, but she needed extra time to find parking and fill out paperwork.

  She dressed quickly, threw her hair into a ponytail, and went out, glancing at Trey’s room as she walked past. It was empty. Descending the stairs, she spotted him and Molly camped in a messy living room. With everything on her mind, she couldn’t begin to figure out what was going on with him. But she couldn’t wait to talk to him—sober—to see where hi
s head was.

  Kendra walked through the kitchen to the garage, thankful they’d kept her mom’s Toyota Camry. Originally it was meant for Trey, but when their father went overseas and left his BMW, Trey naturally preferred to drive that. The old Camry with a zillion miles was perfect for her right now though. Comforting. It was almost like she could feel her mom with her as she made her way to this appointment.

  But only almost. As she walked through the doors of the cancer center minutes later, the scene was striking, for a lot of reasons. Patients young and old in wheelchairs, with shaved heads, walking alongside IV drips, smiling, sullen, looking hopeful, falling asleep. But no one else was alone.

  Dr. Contee was everything Kendra thought she would be. Knowledgeable. Attentive. Soothing. Unhurried. After an examination, Kendra pulled out a pad of questions she’d written, and Dr. Contee took her time answering each as best she could. It was a no-brainer. Kendra needed to be under this physician’s care.

  “Kendra, over the weekend you seemed fairly certain about wanting to pursue treatment here in St. Louis.” Dr. Contee, in her early fifties, wore stylish glasses and her hair pulled back. Even her white lab coat looked chic on her. “But today I’m sensing a hesitancy. May I ask why?”

  “I thought my brother might be able to help get me to treatments,” Kendra said, “but now I’m not sure he can commit to that.” She thought about it. “But the situation is really no different in DC. Being single . . .” She paused, swallowed the tears. “It’s just hard.”

  “Your mom had friends from church who occasionally took her to appointments. Would that be an option for you?”

  “No. I’ve been gone a long time and haven’t really kept in touch with anybody.”

  Dr. Contee typed something into her laptop. “Let’s work on this, because I’d like to get started with your chemo this Thursday.”

  “In three days?”

  “There’s no reason to wait, if this is where you’ll be.”

  Maybe she could drive herself, though it wasn’t recommended. Or take a taxi. Better to figure it out here in St. Louis, with Dr. Contee, than in DC.

  The doctor wasn’t done. Before she sent Kendra on her way, she walked her through next steps, ordered pre-chemo tests, and gave her a packet of material regarding local support groups and resources for cancer patients.

  Cancer patient.

  That’s who she was now.

  Kendra left with a cloud of thoughts. It was a lot to process, her time with Dr. Contee. She needed to drive somewhere and think. She navigated her way to Forest Park, less than a mile away, and in a flurry of twists and turns wound up near the zoo. Somehow it seemed just about right. She parked and walked in, starting as always on a path to the left. She hadn’t been here in years, but she remembered. That’s the way her mom would lead them. This was one of their favorite things to do when she was a girl.

  Thankfully, the midday St. Louis heat wasn’t oppressive. There was even a slight breeze once she entered the forest-like environs of the River’s Edge. She took her time, idling to watch the hippos romp through the pool and nose the viewing glass, staring at the slow gait of the Asian elephant. It was peaceful, communing with nature and animals. Almost too peaceful, as it coaxed a myriad of thoughts to the fore.

  Kendra had been many things. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Student. Attorney. Almost-bride. But cancer patient seemed to engulf them all. It was demanding. Exacting. It had stormed into her life and taken over. It had displaced her from her job and her condo, at least for now.

  It had taken Derek.

  Kendra moved on, amid running toddlers and strollers. And moms. She stopped, her breath sucked away. Would she never have that identity—mom?

  She found a bench and sat, a new grief washing over her. This was bigger than Derek, the wedding, the condo, or a job. This was everything. Her life had been swallowed up. Hopes, dreams, everything she’d envisioned—gone. And what did she have to look forward to instead? Two and a half years of treatment. Oh, and if it was “successful,” maybe three or four.

  The sights and sounds all around were almost haunting now. Even the bees and the flitting birds. All flaunting their joie de vivre. “Vivre,” for her, in any meaningful way, was over.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LANCE PULLED UP TO THE HOUSE AT FIVE THIRTY, SPENT BUT surprisingly refreshed. The last half of the trip he’d cranked the music, washing the sadness and even the tears in a sea of praise. That was probably the weirdest thing Jesus had done in his life—made a tough guy emotional. He felt things he didn’t feel before, which meant he hurt in ways he hadn’t hurt before. But praise music always brought him up. He had to laugh when, dancing with a single arm swaying as he drove, he got double takes from the occupants of other cars.

  He parked and got out, ready to walk around back to his entrance, when he spied trash in the front yard. Beer cans? He collected what he could carry and entered through the front door to find Trey and tell him to pick up the rest.

  A bigger mess greeted him inside. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Trey he was leaving. But he probably would’ve partied either way.

  Lance shut the door with his foot and headed toward the kitchen to the recycling can. Hearing footsteps, he looked up. “Trey, I’m glad you’re—” He could barely see in the shadows, but it was a woman, and not Molly.

  “Whoever you are, please turn around and go,” she said. “There’s no party tonight.”

  He walked closer. “Kendra?”

  She came down a few stairs, studying him. “Do I know you?”

  “It’s Lance. Lance Alexander. I don’t know if you remember me”—he wasn’t sure he wanted her to—“but we were in the same class at Clayton for a little while.”

  Kendra hesitated. “I do remember you.” She stayed the distance between them, arms folded around her. “You’re here for one of my brother’s get-togethers?”

  “Oh. No.” The cans clinked as he put them down. “These are empty. I picked them up in the yard. I just got home.”

  “Just got . . . home?”

  Lance cleared his throat. “I’m guessing you don’t know I moved in about a week ago, into the lower level.”

  Kendra descended a few more stairs, where he could see her better. She looked tired, as if she’d just awakened, her hair half ponytailed, half out, with stray pieces all around. But she was still as pretty as he remembered.

  “I’m sorry. I’m confused.” She took hold of the rail, as if to steady herself. “You moved in? How did that happen?”

  “I needed a place to stay, and your dad was looking for a tenant . . .” He shrugged, feeling awkward. He’d always felt awkward around her.

  She slumped suddenly, leaning on the rail.

  “Kendra, are you all right?” He went to her and helped her sit on the stair.

  “I just . . . have a headache . . . kind of dizzy.” She heaved like she was about to vomit. “I’m sorry . . .” Tears appeared, seemingly from nowhere. “It’s just been a lot. I’m so tired . . .”

  “I’ll be right back.” Lance went to the refrigerator and got a bottle of water. “Here,” he said. “Drink some of this.”

  Kendra shifted and lifted her head a little. “Thank you.”

  Lance watched her struggle with the cap. “I’ll get that.” He unscrewed it and gave it back. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I had a granola bar this morning and a hot dog at the zoo.”

  “Let me help you to the kitchen,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ll just go back and lie down.”

  “Let’s just see what’s in there.”

  He lifted her by her hand and supported her as they walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he placed her at the table. “Can I warm you up some chicken noodle soup?”

  “You don’t have to,” she said again, her voice barely above a murmur.

  Lance couldn’t not do it. He’d grown up making sure his mother ate. It was in his blood. “H
ow about this,” he said. “I’ll warm it up, and if you don’t like it or don’t eat it, my feelings won’t be hurt.”

  Hungry himself after the trip, he prepared two bowls and brought them to the table. “Try a little,” he said. “I think it’ll help.”

  Kendra sat up and spooned only a tad, blowing the steam. She tasted it, followed by another spoonful. “It’s really good, thank you.” She looked at him. “This is homemade.”

  He nodded.

  “You made it?”

  He nodded again.

  They ate in silence a few minutes, then Lance asked, “So when did you get here?”

  “Last night, at the height of the party.”

  “I bet that was fun.”

  “Exactly.”

  Seconds more passed. Then he said, “Look, Kendra, I feel bad being here. I don’t know how long you’ll be in town, but I won’t be in your way. I pretty much stay in the lower level, unless I’m grabbing something to eat.”

  She stared into her bowl. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about me. Please, just . . . live your life.”

  He quirked a brow, taking a breath to speak, then thinking better of it.

  “What?” she said. “Go on and say it.”

  “It’s just . . . I heard about the wedding cancellation,” he said. “I wondered if you were okay, that’s all.”

  The spoon on its way to her mouth began to quiver. She set it down, stared vaguely ahead, then looked directly at him. “I guess I have to get used to saying it, so I might as well start now. I’m not okay. I’m dying. Of cancer.”

  “What?” Lance stared at her, waiting for the punch line.

  She went back to eating her soup.

  “So your family knows?”

  “No one knows yet,” Kendra said, “except the head of my department at work. And my ex-fiancé. That’s why he canceled the wedding.”

  Trey and Molly came through the garage door.