Glamour (7 page)

Then as I’m praying, I realize that God is right here with
me. He is the one relationship I can always depend on. No matter what, he does not leave me. He never will. That’s a huge comfort. I’m not alone. Not only that, but I know God has good things in store for me—relationships that will be strong and healthy and good. I’m not frozen in time … in fact, I need to keep moving forward to find them.

I’m about to start my Jeep when I remember Fran and what she’s going through. I’ve been praying for her, but I wonder if I can do something more. I know Fran’s not married and is currently without a boyfriend. Does she have family or friends around her? Or is she, like me, feeling lonely too? I take a chance and dial her number. Her voice is so weak and raspy that I’m sure I woke her.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Were you resting?”

“No … I was barfing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I … uh … I just wondered if you wanted any company.”

“Company?” She sounds shocked.

“You know, someone to hold your hair when you’re worshiping at the porcelain throne.”

“So you figured that one out?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t that difficult. Anyway, I’m just kind of doing my own thing today and I got to thinking of you, and I wondered if you needed someone to hang with.”

“Really?” I hear a trace of hopefulness in her voice.

“Do you like frozen yogurt?”

“Yeah … that actually sounds good.”

“Any favorite flavors?”

“Maybe something fruity. Surprise me.”

So I swing by Twinkles and get a raspberry and a peach
yogurt then drive over to Fran’s apartment complex. I’ve only been there once and can’t even remember which unit is hers, but seeing her little red car parked in a numbered spot tips me off.

“Come in, Erin,” she calls after I knock. “It’s unlocked.”

I let myself in and, to my surprise, she’s on the floor amidst a pile of cushions. And Fran looks, as Paige would say, like something the cat dragged in. Her hair is pulled back in a greasy ponytail, her sweats are grubby, her face is pale, and her lips are cracked and dry-looking.

“Are you okay?” I kneel down on the floor next to her.

“I’ve had better days.” She explains how she’s scheduled the chemo treatments during the end of the week and on the weekend so that she can work the other days. “Sundays are the worst.”

“Feel like some yogurt?” I hold up the white bag. “Peach or raspberry?”

“I’ll try some peach.”

I take out the little carton, open it, stick in the plastic spoon, and hand it to her. Then I sit down, lean against the couch, and begin to eat the raspberry one.

“This is good,” she tells me as she takes another bite. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“I’m glad.” Then, because it’s so quiet in here, I begin to talk. I tell her how I was at the tar pits feeling lonely and sorry for myself and how I prayed … and how it felt like a God thing that I ended up here.

“Like you’re my angel?” She makes a sad little smile.

“Or like God sent me.” I take another bite.

Sighing, she sets the yogurt carton on the rug and leans back on the cushions, closing her eyes. “I’m glad he did, Erin.”

She looks so tired and beat up. I wish there was something I could do to help, but this is all new to me. How do you help someone who’s sick like this? I see her half-eaten yogurt and suspect that’s all she can handle for now. “Want me to put the rest of your yogurt in the freezer?” I offer. “For later.”

She barely nods. “Thanks.”

I go into her kitchen, which is really messy, and put the yogurt in her freezer, which is surprisingly barren. I’m thinking Fran needs help. Just the same, I don’t want to overstep my bounds, so I go back to ask her if she minds me cleaning up a bit, but she seems to be asleep. She also seems to be shivering, so I find a couple of throws and cover her. She doesn’t even open her eyes.

Then I go back into her kitchen and start cleaning, throwing things away, loading the dishwasher, scrubbing down the countertop tiles and sink. Okay, it’s not exactly my favorite way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but at the same time, it feels really good to help someone. Fran continues to sleep while I clean, moving from the kitchen to the bathroom, which is seriously in need. Fortunately, it’s a small space that cleans easily.

After that, I timidly go into her bedroom, which smells so stale I go ahead and open a window. Then I strip the sheets from her bed, throw them into the washing machine, and remake her bed with fresh sheets. As I hurry to get as much done as possible before she wakes, I’m curious about Fran’s life. Does she have family nearby? Or friends?

Finally, I think I’ve done about all I can and I’m surprised to see Fran’s still sleeping. She is so quiet and motionless that I actually stand over her, staring hard to be sure she’s breathing. Then, reassured that she’s simply sleeping soundly, I return to
her kitchen and open the fridge. And it’s just as I thought—nearly as barren as her freezer. This is not good.

I quietly tiptoe out of the apartment, hurry to my Jeep, and drive to a nearby grocery store. Then I wonder … what does Fran like to eat? I try to remember how it feels to have the flu. What makes you feel better? I pick out the kinds of foods I think my mom would try to get me to eat. I get different kinds of fruit juice, saltine crackers, chicken noodle soup, applesauce, a loaf of bread, some fresh fruit and vegetables, a couple more cartons of frozen yogurt, and a quart of milk. Enough groceries to fill two heavy bags.

When I knock on Fran’s door this time, she actually opens it. “Oh, it’s you again.” She yawns sleepily. “I just woke up.”

“I—uh—I got you some groceries,” I say as I come in. “I hope you don’t mind. It looked like you needed some things.”

She blinks. “You got me
groceries?”

“Is that okay?”

She looks like she’s on the verge of tears. “Yes, of course. I’ll get my purse and pay you — ”

“Just let me get these into the fridge,” I say as I go into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. “We can settle up later. Are you feeling better?”

“The nap helped,” she says. “I was about to take a shower. I think I finally have enough energy.”

“Go ahead and do that,” I urge her. “I’ll let myself out after I put these away.”

“Thanks, Erin.”

As I hurry to put things away, I realize that she didn’t even notice that I’d done some cleaning. I guess that just shows how rotten she’s feeling. It’s like she’s oblivious to her surroundings. Besides, I remind myself, I didn’t clean to get her appreciation. I cleaned because it needed doing.

I can hear the shower running, so I decide to do a couple more things. I put the wet sheets in the dryer then quickly straighten her living room. And I write her a note, saying that I want her to call me if she needs anything and that the groceries are a gift. Then I leave.

I feel good as I get back in my Jeep. It’s a cool thing to help someone like that. But as I drive home, another part of me is worried. I’m thinking maybe I should’ve offered to stay with her in case she needs more help. At the same time I know Fran is a private person and it’s possible I’ve invaded her space enough already. In fact, by the time I get home, I’m hoping I haven’t offended her by cleaning her apartment. What if she thinks that was my way of saying she’s a slob?

Finally I decide that instead of obsessing, I should simply pray for her. And that’s what I do. I am still praying for God to do a miracle in her, but I’m also praying that God will bring more people into her life. It’s ironic, because there I was feeling sorry for myself because I was lonely. But poor Fran is not only facing a life-and-death challenge, she seems to be very much alone. In comparison, my life is absolutely full.

Fran calls me at noon on Tuesday and she’s
very appreciative of my help last Sunday, which makes me feel good.

“You sound so much better,” I tell her as I take leftovers from the fridge. “Maybe the chemo is really working.”

“I feel pretty good today.” She explains how her oncologist is using a “three days on, four days off” plan. “I get treatments on Friday, Saturday, and the last one on Sunday morning. So I only end up crashing on the weekends. Plus, my doctor thinks it’s the best way to treat the cancer—three days of aggression and four days to recover and rest.”

“So that’s what you’re doing today?” I ask. “Recovering and resting while you’re at
work?”

“Well … I’m taking it easy.”

“You sure were wiped out on Sunday,” I remind her.

“It was a rough day. But, really, I almost feel like myself today.”

She does sound better, and I’m hoping her treatments are working. I want to ask her if Helen is getting suspicious yet,
but I just hate rocking her boat. It seems so fragile and tippy already.

“Anyway, I’m on my lunch break and I’m going to take a quick nap. We’ve been putting together the tapes from Saturday.”

“The fashion fiasco show.”

“The footage is really hilarious. I think it’ll be a good episode.”

“Cool.”

“In fact, that’s why I’m calling. We scheduled a preview on Friday at ten. Can you let Paige know?”

“Will do.”

I’m encouraged to hear Fran’s feeling better, but I’m still concerned. Seeing her like that on Sunday was a little disturbing. Obviously, it was unsettling on a personal level because I really care about Fran. It was also disturbing on a professional level because I just do not see how she can maintain her job and her cancer treatment without derailing both. And when I think about the Bahamas trip coming up, I get seriously worried.

“Hey, you,” Mom comes into the kitchen with her arms full of bags.

“Hi, Mom. What are you doing home this time of day?”

“I took a long lunch break to do some last-minute shopping. I’ll make up for it this evening.” She peers at me curiously. “You seemed like you were in a bit of a funk when I came in just now. Everything okay?”

I take in a deep breath, wondering how much I should say.

“Erin?” She cocks her head to one side. “Is something going on with Paige?”

It’s ironic how she immediately goes to Paige when she
suspects trouble. And, in a way, she’s not too far off the mark. “Not
exactly.”

Mom sets her bags and purse on the table then goes to the fridge to retrieve a yogurt and an apple. “What is it then,
exactly?”
She gets a spoon and a paring knife then sits down at the breakfast bar with an expectant look.

“I promised to keep it a secret,” I confess.

Mom’s brows arch as she opens the yogurt carton. “A secret about your sister? From your mother?”

“No, it’s not a secret about Paige.”

Mom looks evenly at me as she dips her spoon.

“Can I trust you, Mom?”

She smiles. “I am your mom, Erin. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”

As she eats her yogurt and apple, I quickly pour out Fran’s sad story, even the part about finding her in such bad shape on Sunday.

“Oh, poor Fran.” Mom shakes her head. “That’s devastating.”

“I know. And I can’t believe she’s trying to work and do her treatments.”

Mom gets a thoughtful look. “Sometimes work can be therapeutic, Erin. When your dad died, it was going to work every day that helped me get through some of the hardest times.”

“I can understand that.” I nod. “But I’m not sure Fran has the physical strength to keep up. The Bahamas trip is less than two weeks away.”

“And Helen doesn’t know?”

“No. Fran made me promise not to tell anyone. In fact, I feel guilty for telling you.”

“Well, Fran should understand that. I’m your mom, after all—I have a right to know what’s going on in your life.”

“But you won’t tell Paige?”

Mom frowns. “Actually, she has a right to know too. But, no, I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to.”

“No, please don’t say anything. And I don’t want you to worry about this,” I tell her. “I mean, you’ve got your wedding to focus on.”

“Fran has put a lot on you with this, Erin. It’s a heavy load to carry.”

I give her a confident smile. “Because she trusts me with it. It’s okay. I’ll figure out how to handle it. I think it’s a one-step-at-a-time thing.”

“Maybe Fran will come to her senses and tell Helen what’s going on soon.”

“Or maybe, like she hopes, the chemo will work and she’ll get better.”

“Yes.” Mom doesn’t look convinced. “Hopefully that will happen.”

“And, believe me,” I say, “if I think Helen needs to know, I will tell her. It wouldn’t be fair to ruin the show or Fran’s health just to keep a secret.”

“Good.” Mom smiles. “I’m glad you can see that.”

“I know you won’t be back from your honeymoon when we’re heading to the Bahamas, but I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

“Yes, we will be like ships in the night. You girls leave in the morning and we get home that evening. But I’d appreciate being kept in the loop. You can always call me in France if you need to.”

I laugh. “Seriously, Mom, what kind of daughter calls her mother while she’s on her honeymoon?”

Fortunately, the week progresses without any complications or new developments with Fran. On Friday morning, when we’re all in the screening room to preview the BBB episode, Fran seems almost like her old self and I’m thinking maybe she’s right. Maybe she is going to beat this thing.

“Well, you girls really knocked that one out of the ballpark.” Helen is beaming at us as the lights come on. “The viewers are going to
love
this.”

“I didn’t realize I looked so awful.” Paige grimaces. “I’m not sure I want that image going public.”

Helen laughs. “It’s a little late for that. Didn’t you see that shot of you on
E!
last weekend?”

“Don’t remind me.” Paige shakes her head.

“Hey, it’s publicity,” I tease.

“And you handled it extremely well,” Helen assures Paige. “You both did. I’m proud of you girls.”

“Do you think we’ll take any heat for dissing BBB?” I ask Helen as we head to the conference room to continue this discussion.

She chuckles. “Well, I doubt they’ll be lining up to be a sponsor, but I suspect we were a little rich for their blood anyway.”