Forever Friends (2 page)

He relaxed a bit and nodded again as if he understood.

She saw the fear in his eyes then, the slight edge of worry that kept him jerking behind and around him every time he heard a noise. She didn't know if he was only jumpy because of being in jail or if he was still coming off something.

“How long have you been in here?” Charlotte asked.

“Three weeks,” he answered.

She figured that he would have gotten any drugs out of his system by then. His restlessness was from being in the jail. His grandmother's suspicions were right.

“And do you know when they'll post bond?”

He shook his head and swiveled around. A door slammed behind him.

“Don't matter anyway,” he responded. “Mama said she won't pay anymore and she won't let Granny give me any money.”

Charlotte nodded. “And your dad?” she asked, not knowing any of the circumstances surrounding Sherry's divorce or of the relationship Lamont might have with his father.

He just shook his head.

The absent father, Charlotte thought. Throughout the entire time that Serena had been in trouble, their dad was nowhere in the picture. The first time, more than ten years ago, when she had called to ask for help for her sister, he told
her that he didn't know what he could offer in terms of assistance since the money was tight in their house and he was unable to return to North Carolina. When she had asked about them coming to Texas, he said he didn't think it was a good idea for them to stay with him.

That was the only time Charlotte had spoken to him about Serena's addiction and the problems in their household. That was the only time she had asked for his help.

“Have you seen your lawyer?”

“Right after it happened,” he answered. “But I don't know nothing.”

Charlotte thought about asking about the charges but decided it wouldn't mean anything to her anyway. Besides, she told herself, I'm not an attorney; I'm a pastor. I should stick to my own duties.

“You scared?” she asked, modeling Marion, her therapist, who always got right to the point.

He shook his head and sat back on his stool as if the question offended him.

“Your grandmother seems to think you might be scared since this is your first time in an adult unit.”

The young man spun around nervously as if he were concerned that someone might have heard what his visitor just said.

Charlotte leaned on her elbows.

“Look, I know this is awkward. Peggy, your grandmother, just wanted me to see about you.” Charlotte slid her fingers together. “She said you were upset when you got ar
rested, that you've never been in an adult facility before and that it shook you up pretty bad.” She sat forward on the stool. “I just came to check on things.”

The young man eased a bit and nodded again at the young woman. “I'm all right now,” he answered. “Tell her I'm fine.”

“Okay,” Charlotte responded. Then there was a pause in the conversation.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

He shook his head.

Charlotte checked her watch, unsure of what to ask next. The steel door that she had come in opened and slammed shut, and the pastor flinched.

“You scared being here?” Lamont leaned in toward Charlotte.

She felt it was a fair question. “Yeah,” she replied. “I thought it was pretty unsettling coming here.”

She sat back. “I've never been in a jail,” she confessed. Then she continued. “I think it's cold and loud. And frankly,” she added, “all these people with guns make me jumpy.”

“Yeah, in Juvie, only a couple of the guards had guns,” Lamont replied, his face softening.

He had given her something with that exchange, and Charlotte decided not to push for anything extra at that moment.

The young man stared at her as if he had more to say, but then he was startled by an announcement made on the PA system overhead.

There was an awkward pause, and Charlotte seemed unsure of what else to ask. She decided to focus on simple questions.

“How's the food here?”

“It's all right.” Lamont shifted on the stool. “They have a canteen where you can buy stuff.”

“They let you keep your money?” she asked.

“Nah, I ain't got no money.” Then he dropped his head. “One of the other guys who's been here awhile, he gives me some of his food. He don't eat too much.”

Charlotte studied the young man, handcuffed and dressed in the county jail worksuit. She had seen the bruises on his wrists when he first sat down. As his frightened eyes darted from side to side and his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, Charlotte thought about freedom. She considered living unchained and unobserved, being permitted to walk without restraint and make her own choices about where to go next and how long she could take to depart and arrive.

She thought how afraid the young man must have been, locked and vulnerable in a cell with potentially dangerous men. She wondered what had been taken from him and what he had lost. What were the consequences of his mistakes? And even though Charlotte wasn't sure she really liked the teenager, and even though she believed that what Lamont was learning in jail was necessary for him to break out of his addiction and criminal behavior, she was still sympathetic as she watched the young man through the glass.

He started to bounce his right leg in a sort of nervous way,
his entire body shaking from the effect, and she figured she needed to talk about something. She thought that perhaps the silence was making him feel more disconcerted. She considered talking about his grandparents, but before she could give any information or ask any questions, the guard who had brought Lamont came up behind him and yelled, “Time's up!”

Lamont quickly rose to his feet and offered only a brief nod toward the pastor as a means of good-bye.

“I'll see you later,” Charlotte replied as he started walking away. The abruptness of his departure left her feeling disoriented and unaware of what she needed to do to leave her booth.

She sat on the stool for a few minutes trying to remember the way out, consoling herself that the visit hadn't been a complete failure. Finally, she recalled the hallway, the large steel door to her right, and the holding cell, the direction from which she had come. She got up from her stool and walked out of the small chamber. When she got to the first door of the holding cell, it suddenly opened in front of her. She walked in, it closed, and the next door opened. She headed out, retrieved her purse from the locker, went to the first police officer she had met, picked up her license, handed in her visitor's badge, and walked out the front door.

She stood outside and breathed deeply. It was a satisfying winter afternoon, cold without too much wind, bright sunshine, crisp, fresh air. It's a clean day, her mom would some
times say when Charlotte and Serena would get home from school and sit with her on the porch.

On those days her mom wasn't wearing a lot of makeup or flashy jewelry. Her clothes were neat and ironed. She'd smile and ask them how things were at school. She'd brush their hair or hand them pieces of sour candy, pieces of gum, or long, narrow chords of licorice. Serena would show her the pictures she had drawn in class, and Charlotte would get as close to her mother as she could. She'd seem calm and interested and normal, and Charlotte was sure things had changed.

A clean day, she would say, and the little girl thought it meant the longed-for break in time when everybody got to start over, when everything wrong was made right, a brief reprieve from reality when all that was cluttered and broken and strewn about was picked up, fixed, and set aside, a day of redemption finally signaling a change.

It was what her mother had truly desired and what Charlotte had never really found. Joyce could make it seem real for a while, make it appear as if it were really happening, but then Charlotte would hear the clinking of bottles in a bag, see the light in the kitchen burning after midnight, and she learned that a clean day was just something intended about the weather, the angle of the sun on a chilly day, a wish that within a few hours had faded like a winter day into a cold, dark night.

Charlotte stood at the entryway of the county jail, breathing in the memory of her mother's words and the realization
of her freedom. She stood, considering in the vastness of the outside and the permission that was hers to come and go anywhere she wanted.

She walked to her car thinking about Lamont, about his family and their sorrow. It could just as easily have been Serena she was visiting in jail, or it even could have been she herself who had turned to drugs. She wondered if it was grace that had saved her from that life and why her sister or Lamont hadn't been granted the same portion.

Lifting her face, she felt the gentle winter breeze stirring in her hair, the strength of the midday sun warming her neck and shoulders. She folded her hands together, and without knowing what words to say, she said a brief prayer for the young boy she had just met. She prayed for the healing of his heart, God's protection and mercy, and the opportunity she hoped for him one day soon to rediscover the opportunity, the gift of freedom. She prayed for Peggy and Vastine and Sherry, all of whom carried and wrestled with the weight of Lamont's misery. She prayed that all of them, including herself, might one day be completely free.

The young woman opened her eyes and took in the air that was hers to enjoy. She unlocked her car door, stood for a moment, and then turned the key, relocking the door. She was disappointed that she had missed the doctor's appointment with Margaret, and now it was too late to join the women for lunch in Greensboro. She thought for a moment and decided that she might as well get something to eat there.

She buttoned her coat and threw her scarf around her, and except for the large area on the inside of her leg where her panty hose were ripped and exposed, Charlotte felt warm and content.

Seeing a sign for a coffee shop, she headed in that direction without seeing Dick Witherspoon and his sister-in-law as they hurried out of the office across the street and got into his car.

M
argaret, your mammogram is clear; the results from your blood tests are great; the CAT scan didn't show anything abnormal.”

The doctor pulled the chart away from his face and studied his patient. “Of course, it does appear that you may have a spot.”

Margaret's heart sank. She held her breath, fixing her eyes on the man's lips as she waited for the words she thought would be heavy enough finally to break her fragile heart.

“On your sleeve.” He pointed to the inside of her elbow where some blood had soaked through onto her blouse.

Margaret glanced down and saw the stain. She looked back at her doctor with an expression of indifference and a bit of contempt that he would joke at such a time.

He immediately realized the weight of her anticipation, cleared his throat, and concluded his remarks. “I'm sorry. Let me go on.” He smiled reassuringly. “The tests are all normal. You're in great shape, Margaret, cancer free.”

The woman exhaled. She bowed her head and whispered, “Thank you,” a quiet prayer of gratitude, and then opened her eyes. She nodded in approval at her physician and sat quietly, letting his words float above her, waiting until they drifted down upon her and soaked into every fiber of her being.

“Normal tests. Cancer free.” The words washed over her like rain, clean, perfect rain.

It had been just over a year since the diagnosis, twelve
months, two weeks, and four days since the first mention of this offensive and malevolent clump of cells that grew within her breast tissue and threatened her foundation of life. Twelve months, two weeks, and four days of procedures and tests and waiting to see. Twelve months, two weeks, and four days of uncertainty and fear and sleepless nights and dogging ideas of demise. And Margaret hoped but wasn't sure that the rain of her doctor's words was enough to ease the year of emotional and spiritual drought.

It had been for more than four complete seasons that she had been living a pretense while entertaining anxiety that nobody, not her siblings and family members, not her doctor, not even her closest friends, could possibly understand. As hard as she tried not to do so, for more than a year she had been preparing herself for the worst while trying to appear as if she believed the best.

Margaret was sure she had fooled everyone into thinking she was strong and equipped and prepared to handle any treatment, any further surgery, any bad news. No one else, she thought, saw the lag in her thinking or the dulling of her purpose. No one else knew of the colorless way she now dreamed and she believed that she had managed to hold all of her trouble inside. But in spite of what she hid from others, in spite of how she thought she appeared, the truth was, in the past twelve months, two weeks, and four days, Margaret had lost her edge.

She did not know for sure the exact moment it had happened. There was not one day when she felt it loosen and slip
away, an hour when she watched it narrow and disappear. It had been like a sand dune on the beach, sifting and sieved; it was simply there one summer and gone the next.

She had talked openly regarding her concern, potential metastasis and a recurrence. She had gone to the library, read medical reference guides and stories of healing. She had learned how to access the Internet and find the latest information about breast cancer. She had asked questions of her physicians. She'd read reports and even gone to a medical conference. She had spoken of what might happen if the tumor spread. She'd done everything she thought she should do to be defensive and healthy and prepared, but none of the education or information or resolution could stop the simple and gradual way she had come undone.

Over time and without evidence, Margaret had convinced herself that the cancer had returned, had sneaked through bloodlines and brain waves, and was growing all over her body.

As hard as she had tried to maintain a rationality in her thinking, a levelheadedness during the time right after her surgery, as diligently as she had tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, there were moments when she thought she literally felt her cells bump and divide, moments when she was sure she heard tumors bud and flower across organs, moments when she was drowned in the perception that she was riddled with the disease and was taking her last breath.

And it was in these moments, these dark and petrifying moments, that Margaret readied herself for death. And no one, not Jessie or Charlotte or Louise or Beatrice, no one had
been with her; no one had struggled alongside her; no one had stood ground with her when she wrestled and was finally overcome by the terror. This she'd had to do alone.

So that now, even as she sat in her physician's office hearing the words she was convinced she would never hear, seeing the proof on paper, the clear evidence that nothing abnormal was growing inside her, Margaret realized how deeply those moments of terror had eaten away at her confidence and eroded her sense of peace. And she was not sure she would ever be able to recover what had already been lost.

It would take a lot of time, she thought as she sat across from her doctor, to eradicate the damage of doubt, months, maybe years to tighten up what had been stretched and pulled loose, a lifetime perhaps to patch up what was threadbare and unattached. And yet maybe, Margaret prayed in her fleeting and hopeful thoughts, maybe I can now finally be free.

She waited in the wake of the good news, trying to imagine herself healed, trying to think how it would be not to take note of every change in her body, but she knew that even with the positive prognosis proven and displayed, it remained difficult to hold such confidence, to keep it in her mind.

“I am so grateful, Dr. Morgan. I couldn't have made this journey without you,” she said, laying her hands across her lap, trying to be pleased. “You have been extraordinary.”

The physician smiled. “It is always a pleasure to deliver favorable results.” He picked up her chart again, checking over the reports.

“I don't think you need to come back for a year.” He flipped the pages one after the other. “Mrs. Peele, I am officially releasing you until your next annual physical exam.” And he wrote a note in the chart and closed it.

“And, Margaret,” he peered at her intently, “try not to worry about things anymore.”

His patient stood up. It startled her that he had noticed her anxiety, and she wondered if he had in fact discovered it or if this was what he said to every patient he dismissed. She nodded, without question, and tried to begin to honor his advice.

“I will do my best,” she responded, feeling a forgotten lightness in her chest. And suddenly the silence between them became awkward.

“Well, nothing personal, Dr. Morgan, but I'm really glad that I don't have to see you any time soon.”

He pushed his chair away from the desk and walked around to where Margaret was standing. He held out his hand. “It is not taken personally.”

The woman reached for his hand and then wrapped her arms around him in a hug. She pulled away, astonishing even herself, and then retreated. “Thank you again,” she said, a bit embarrassed.

“You're welcome.” And he headed over and opened the door. “Stop by the nurses' station and ask them for a little peroxide to get out that stain.” He pointed to her arm.

She noticed the spot on her blouse again.

Then he asked, “So, what will you do now?”

The older woman moved toward the door. “I'm not sure,” she replied. “Maybe I'll take up tap dancing or roller skating.” She did not mention trying to mend the hole in her heart, sewing together the fraying strings of her faith, or recovering the loss of peace. She did not ask what he suggested for such intensive repair.

“Well, just make sure you wear knee and elbow pads,” he answered. “For the skating,” he added. “I don't guess the dancing could be dangerous.”

She waved and faced the hallway. “At my age, doctor, anything could be dangerous.” Then she paid her bill and walked toward the main office, forgetting all about the bloodstain.

Louise, Jessie, and Beatrice were sitting in the first row of chairs, reading books and turning pages in magazines. Margaret watched them for a few minutes, imagining their reactions; and she stood at a distance, just savoring the thought of telling them.

She loved looking at these women, her three best friends. Louise, square and broad and always acting tough, a woman's woman with the heart of a child. Jessie, tall with wide sweeping arms that reached around any hurt thing. A smile that could not be contained. And Beatrice, short and round, her smooth hands and blue eyes always busy to temper sorrow. Margaret loved seeing them there, knowing they were waiting for her, hoping for good news. She studied them, the familiarity of their faces, the short hairstyles, still a reminder of what they had given to her when they'd shaved
their heads after her surgery. She stood at the door and remembered how fortunate she was to have such women in her life. Forever friends, they called themselves, because they knew what they had would last.

Earlier in the month, when she first knew about the appointment, she had told the women that it wasn't necessary for them to come with her, that she was fine to go to this visit alone. But Jessie had shaken her head, waving her off, Louise had spat out some obscenity, and Beatrice had simply pretended not to hear. Even Charlotte had written it on her calendar weeks ahead. None of them would consider it. Nothing was going to change.

In this past year of her life, someone had gone with Margaret to every one of her appointments. It had been a combined effort on the part of her friends. She hadn't known how it had been put together, who had masterminded the attention, but right before every scheduled visit, somebody showed up at her house, ready to drive her into town. Oncologist, surgeon, physical therapist, her regular physician, even the pharmacist—she had not faced an appointment on her own. And they had made it quite clear that they weren't about to miss this last one.

Jessie had changed the date of her departure for Africa, determined that she would not be absent from this event. Even though there was a price adjustment for her airline ticket, she paid the extra money and told James without apology they would be leaving a day later than planned.

Charlotte had come by the day before and, in tears, can
celed going with them only because she had been asked to see someone in jail out of town. The only slot available for a visit had been the same time as Margaret's appointment. She promised to try to meet them for lunch or at least stop by the house when she returned to town.

The other women decided that all of them would go with her to see the doctor, promising not to go into the examination room this time but to wait in the reception area. They unanimously agreed that if it was good news they would go out together for lunch. And if it was bad news, well, they'd figure that out when the time came.

Margaret walked into the waiting room, and the three women leaped to their feet, books and magazines falling to the floor.

“Well?” It was Beatrice who asked.

Margaret stood quietly for a minute and then declared, “All clear.”

“Well, thank you, Jesus!” Jessie said, throwing her arms up in the air.

Louise placed both hands across her chest and sighed heavily, and then before she knew what had happened Beatrice pulled her into herself and started to jump.

Margaret stood back, laughing.

“Would you please get off me?” Louise pushed the other woman away. “I'm not the one who got the good news! Why don't you jump on her?” She and Jessie stepped away and pointed at Margaret.

Beatrice turned and started to grab her other friend.

Margaret quickly moved aside. “That's all right, Bea,” she replied. “Let's just celebrate with lunch.” And she hurried toward the door, holding it open for the three women.

Louise and Jessie gathered their things, followed Margaret, and walked through the door, stopping just as they got outside, but Beatrice would not be turned away. She waited in front of Margaret until her friend acquiesced and held open her arms. Beatrice fell into them and, twirling, lifted her off the floor.

“I am so happy!” she said, the tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Yes, Bea, so am I.” Margaret relaxed, and Beatrice finally put her down.

They remained at the door while Beatrice took out a tissue to wipe her eyes.

“I have been so worried for so long,” she said, blowing her nose. “Lots of people, you know, they find out it's spread to other places,” she added. “But I never said anything because I knew this was really hard for you.”

Margaret was surprised. “What do you mean, this was hard for me?”

Beatrice returned to the chairs, picked up her coat and purse and Margaret's jacket from the coat tree, put the magazines and books back on the table, and headed out the door. Margaret walked out behind her, taking her jacket and slipping it on.

“Oh, really, Margaret, you don't think anybody bought
that tough-woman routine, do you?” Beatrice put the wet tissue in her pocket. “We all thought this was taking you under.”

“Wait, who all thought that?” The two women joined Louise and Jessie in front of the main door.

“Everybody, didn't we?” Beatrice faced the others.