Cocoon (6 page)

The doorbell pealed. “Will you get that, please?”

“Sure.” Barth slipped on loafers, ran fingers through his still damp hair, then stuffed his pullover into his jeans. He jogged to the door and opened it.

“Hi, Zoe,” he forced himself to say pleasantly. “Come in.”

Zoe brushed past him. “Where's my mother?”

“In the kitchen. Go on in and have some break –”

Her abrupt dismissal as she brushed past him, a silent
whoomph
of one, left him blinking and scratching his head. Looked like he had his work cut out for him just coaxing some civility from this prickly child of Seana's.

And it hit him like a sonic blast:
Zoe was also his child now
.

Lord help him.

“Hi, Zoe.” Billie Jean cosseted her coffee cup, still avoiding looking at him.

“Hi,” Zoe grunted, plopping down on a stool.

Seana snatched a bowl from the cabinet and poured Cap'n Crunch cereal.

“You're not going to eat that, sweetheart,” Barth said and went to the fridge for eggs, cream, cheese, and some fresh herbs he'd recently grown and harvested from a small herb garden out back.

“Oh?” Seana looked at him with mixed emotions glimmering in her blue eyes. He smiled with what he hoped was winsomeness.

“You need protein, not sugar. Remember?” They'd recently had several discussions about depression feeding off sugar.

Seana sighed and nodded. “Yeh. I do. You're right.” She dumped the cereal right back into the box and put it away. She sat back down at the bar, folded her hands, and looked at Zoe, who sat across watching the exchange with tamped-down features.

“Well, don't you want to congratulate us?” Seana ventured. What the heck?

Zoe blinked. “Congratulations.” The word came out flat. As flat as her blue eyes.

Zoe swung her gaze to Billie Jean. “Did you know?”

“When I read the sign on the front door.” Billie Jean shrugged tersely, studying her coffee as through a microscope.

Barth observed as he whipped up a bowl of egg whites, then added cream, herbs, and grated parmesan. He saw Seana deflate. Her courage still flapped valiantly, but, underneath, he saw her vulnerability and her hurt that family didn't celebrate her happiness.

His heart sailed to her. Time to react.

“Thanks, Zoe,” he responded pleasantly, getting Seana off the hot seat. Zoe shot him a cold look as he turned back to pour the onions into heated olive oil. The skillet was hot enough to begin sizzling without cooking too quickly. Barth was fussy about things like that. Loved good, healthy food. Well-seasoned and well-cooked.

He felt very ill at ease, however, in the cold, tense kitchen atmosphere and began to softly whistle, a thing that – during the worst of times – helped him deflect tension.

Zoe grunted something unintelligible as he whistled, and he felt her disapproval like the sting of a wasp.

Too bad. But he began to hum softly, hoping that wouldn't be as offensive to his newly acquired daughter.

He stirred the sautéed onions, lifted them out, and added them to the egg mixture, along with the other ingredients. He added more olive oil to the skillet, then dolloped a generous portion into the pan.

The foamy mix soon evolved into a succulent, aromatic omelet.

He scooped it onto a plate and added more grated cheese and diced, ripe, fresh tomatoes, also from his small garden out back. He presented it to Seana with a flourish. “Madame,” he placed it before her, along with a fork and napkin. “All you need is some orange juice.” He sauntered to pour some into a chilled glass and set it beside her plate.

He turned to Zoe. “Shall I fix you an omelet?”

“No, thank you.” Zoe didn't even look at him.

“You sure? Wouldn't take but a jiffy,” he entreated. He really wanted to break through that armadillo shell. For Seana's sake, he really cared.

“Absolutely,” she replied in a clipped, icy tone.

“Billie Jean? An omelet?”

“Nah. Not hungry. Thanks anyway.”

“Oka-ay.” Barth rubbed his hands together and turned back to the stove. “I'll have one then.”

Zoe turned her attention to Seana, who, Barth was certain, knew Zoe had something to say and wild buffalo wouldn't stop her. She was dead on.

“I just don't understand why you two up and sneaked off to get married. Why didn't you let us in on your plans?”

Seana bristled. “We didn't
sneak off
to get married. We simply eloped, Zoe. We did it because I didn't want to face ugly scenes that would take away from the happiness I feel.”

“So it didn't matter to you how it made Tim and me feel? And Billie Jean. We were totally left out, Mother, like outsiders. Even Joanie knew before we did; thinking I knew about it, she mentioned in the beauty shop how happy you were. She heard it at church after you told Pastor Keith and Louann.” She snorted. “How do you think that made us feel? Huh?”

Seana looked at Barth, who shrugged. They had not, after all, sworn the Meltons to secrecy.

“Hey, gotta go.” Billie Jean slid from the stool. “Another doctor's appointment. See you guys later.” Her swift departure punctuated the tension.

Seana sighed heavily and Barth felt her desolation. Yeh, he did, right down to his toes. And he also felt helpless to help her when Zoe despised his very presence, not to mention any counsel spilling from his lips.

“Zoe,” she murmured, “I wouldn't have hurt you and Tim for the world. Nor Billie Jean. But you're bound and determined to not like Barth. How do you think that makes me feel? And him? I love him, Zoe, and you're not willing to accept him.”

Barth scooped his omelet onto a plate, feeling like the reluctant voyeur. He was distinctly out of joint, but now that he was married to Seana, this was his problem, too.

He sat down across from the females and picked up his fork, no longer hungry. But he forced himself to go through the motions of eating. They didn't need another kaput family member right now.

Family member. Like it or not, he and the riled she-cat seated across from him were family.

“Accept him?” Zoe spoke as though he weren't there. “Do I accept things the way they are? Yes. Do I accept that you're starry-eyed crazy about him? Yes. Do I trust him? No.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Barth spoke up, a bit testy by now. “Have I done anything to offend you, Zoe? If so, I'm sorry.”

“The only thing you've done to offend me is to take over my mother's life like you're doing. For crying out loud, you're even controlling what she eats.”

“Zoe,” Seana intruded. “I like that he –”

Zoe sprang to her feet. “I know, Mom. You like everything about him. I get that.”

“You just need to get to know him.” Seana stood, and Barth watched her seeking desperately for some middle ground. Even a smidgeon of conciliation.

“That's just it, Mother. I don't know him. He comes out of nowhere, with nothing. I ask him questions and he dances around straight answers and –”

“Ask me anything you want,” Barth stood, too, determined to get past this impasse. “I've hidden nothing.”

Yet, he knew there were boundaries he could not allow her to cross. Not now.

Zoe whirled on him. “No, you just haven't revealed anything substantial about your past. I don't trust you.” She shrugged tightly and flattened her mouth into a cynical line. “Just who are you?”

“Stop it!” Seana's voice rose in a way Barth had never heard. “Zoe, I think you should go for now. I'm not going to allow you to attack Barth this way. He's a good man and I love him.”

Zoe grabbed her purse from the back of the chair. “Oh, I'm going, Mother. And I don't know when I'll be back. If ever.” With that she marched from the house, chin thrust out, leading the way.

Seana fell into Barth's waiting arms. “I'm so sorry, Barth,” she sobbed. “So sorry.”

Barth, feeling as inept as he ever had, held her close, rubbing her back and shoulders. “It'll all work out, honey,” he crooned. “They'll come around.” He knew the words were empty. Even to him. But he had to say them. “Just takes time.”

• • •

“Seana?”

“In the kitchen, Billie Jean,” Seana called from the sink later that day, where she was rinsing, blotting, then bagging newly harvested herbs to freeze for later use. She labeled them carefully in Zip Lock bags: rosemary, parsley, basil, oregano, cilantro, dill, sage, and thyme.

They were better fresh, but the crop was so plentiful, she didn't have the heart to waste them. She'd decided to share them with Zoe, Joanie, Billie Jean, and Chelsea, then freeze what was left over for her own later use.

The rash on her cheek began to prickle again.

“Hi, Sweetie.” She pulled a wan Billie Jean into her arms for a big hug. “You've been so absent I was about to send out a posse to find you. Lordy, I've missed you.” The five-five female was not as robust as she'd been a year ago. Those shoulder bones poking Seana from beneath her cousin's baggy shirt were a lot sharper than Seana had ever seen them. The former glowing skin was sallow and the gray eyes, dull.

“Missed you, too, you dad-blasted traitor.”

“Ahh, that's the girl.” Seana laughed and held her back for a better look. “Why, you're so skinny you don't cast a shadow.”

“Thanks a lot, Seana,” she said dryly. “You keep up that talk you'll give me the big head.”

“Come on and eat some of this vegetable soup we made for lunch. Got some corn muffins, too.” Barth had directed her to freshly ground corn meal with no additives, and, despite her misgivings, Seana found the golden muffins quite tasty.

“Nah. Not hungry. Just got back from the doctor.” Billie Jean sloughed over to the bar and climbed onto a stool. “Maybe a glass of your iced tea.”

“You got it.” That was one thing Seana would not forfeit – her Southern sweet iced tea. She did agree to using stevia with a small amount of organic brown sugar and discovered she couldn't tell it from processed-sugar sweetened tea. She poured a hefty glass, placed it on the bar, and took a stool opposite Billie Jean.

“So? What happened?”

She was astounded when Billie Jean dissolved into tears. Alarmed – extremely alarmed, she rushed around the bar and gathered the quaking woman in her arms, crooning and trying as best she could to calm her.

“Please, Billie Jean, tell me what happened?”

The haggard face lifted, tears streaming like summer gulley washers. “It's the Big C!” she croaked and shook her head from side to side. “I'm not scared. It's just so dad-blamed unexpected.”

Seana felt the breath knocked from her but drew her close and held on tight, weeping herself, as Billie Jean rode the rapids and finally hiccupped her way back to composure.

That's what frightened Seana the most: this was so uncharacteristic of her stoical, sometimes even flippant, cousin. Billie Jean could joke her way out of an Al Qaida standoff. At least she could out-BS anyone Seana had ever met. No. This was serious.

“Are you sure?” Seana rasped, her breath coming back in spurts and her heart beating fast and heavy as jungle tom-toms.

Then an amazing thing happened.

Billie Jean visibly bucked up, dried her face, and blew her nose soundly. “Yep. Sure as shootin'.”

“Where?”

“Bones. In my stupid bones. Mama always told me to drink up all my milk and take my vitamins and dang if they didn't cop out on me after all.” She gave a sharp huff of a laugh, her eyes lackluster.

“Yeh,” Seana nodded, trying to smile. “Aunt Jessie was a vigilant mama.”

The back door banged shut. “Oh, hi, Billie Jean.” Barth deposited the basket of tomatoes on the floor next to the sink. Then he took a second look and his smile faded. “What's wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle, making fresh tears burn behind Seana's eyes.

Billie Jean looked him in the eye, unflinching. “I've got bone cancer, Barth.”

“Dear God,” he muttered, went over to give her a big, comforting hug, and then pulled out a bar stool across from her. Behind the thick lenses, Seana saw concern glimmering. “That's tough, sweetheart.” He took a long pull of air into his lungs, visibly shaken. “What's the prognosis?”

“Oh,” Billie Jean took a deep drag of tea, “they said it's incurable but treatable.”

Barth sat there thinking for long moments. Then his features lifted. “Well, that's definitely positive.”

“You think?” Billie Jean's reply was laced with a trace of optimism.

Hope.

“Sure it is.” Barth helped himself to some iced tea and sat down again, his thoughtful expression intense. “Look. We've got some studying to do.”

“And some serious, ballistic praying,” Billie Jean added, a twinkle beginning in her gray eyes.

“You bet,” Barth agreed, grinning.

“You know, Barth,” Billie Jean thrust out her flat bosom and squared her shoulders. “I needed that one conniption fit. I won't have another. This ol' girl's gonna beat the stuffing out of the Big C. He don't know who he's tangling with.” She let out a victory
woo-hoo.

“Here's to Billie Jean's victory.” Barth raised his frosty glass.

Two more lifted to clink in agreement.

“To victory,” they chorused.

• • •

True to her word, Billie Jean faced the following weeks and months like a trooper.

She came ambling up the stairs on a frigid December morning, following her morning run. Her nose was still red and she was briskly rubbing her hands together to warm them.

“Got any coffee?” she bellowed.

“Come on in. There's plenty.” Seana hustled to pour a cup and slide the cream toward her.

“I know,” Billie Jean raised her hand to Barth. “No sugar.”

“Right. Sugar feeds disease.” Barth sipped his coffee, watching her in a concerned way.