Hannah's List (9 page)

“I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”

Nevertheless, Macy figured it wouldn’t be long before Sammy won over her neighbor. She’d let the two of them sort it out.

She put out fresh water for her animals and threw the dirty towels in the washer before grabbing her backpack and heading out the door. She left Sammy in the backyard, confident in Harvey’s kindness despite all disclaimers to the contrary. Her cats were inside the house.

When she went to start the car, she saw that she was desperately low on gas. Considering what a nice day it was, she decided to ride her bicycle.

She got it out of the garage and pedaled down the street. It really was a lovely morning.

I
’ve always been fascinated by how wise children often are, especially those with cancer. Despite the fact that they’ve been dealt a crummy hand in life, these kids are impressive. In my observation, children, by their very nature, are optimistic and in most cases far more realistic than their parents. I hadn’t been looking forward to this picnic, but my reasons had nothing to do with the kids.

My fear had to do with my colleagues. I was afraid some of them—like Patrick—would use the opportunity to set me up with one of their friends. My concerns were well-founded, judging by the way they’d reacted to the news that I planned to attend.

Saturday morning I arrived at the park around ten-thirty. The weather had cooperated, although there was a huge gazebo for shelter in case of rain. The rhododendrons and azaleas were in full bloom, just as they were in
Hannah’s garden at home. Splashes of soft color all around reminded me of a Monet painting. Children raced around, some with hair and others without. Today was a day for fun and laughter, games and prizes, food and friends. For this short period they could forget about everything associated with cancer. Their parents, too, could put aside their worries and fears and simply enjoy the day.

As I walked to the picnic area I saw Patrick O’Malley strolling toward me. He grinned and held up his hand in greeting. Although we worked in the same practice, we didn’t often get a chance to talk. I owed Patrick. He’d covered for me so I could be with Hannah, especially toward the end. That had made turning down his request nearly impossible. Patrick had asked me to help and I could do nothing less.

“Glad to see you made it,” Patrick said when we met. “And congratulations. I heard you’ve been nominated for Fischer-Newhart’s Pediatrician of the Year. That’s huge!”

I shrugged off his praise. The pharmaceutical company, which specialized in medication for children, gave a major award once a year in four regions of the country. This was my first nomination and it
was
a big deal. Of course, Linda knew and my parents, too, but I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else. Being singled out sort of embarrasses me. Always has. My goal is to be a good doctor and to make children well. That’s it. I don’t need any public acknowledgment.

The award was to be presented at a large banquet, the type of event everyone hates but feels obligated to attend.
The thought of sitting through the evening alone held no appeal. I could invite someone; I just didn’t know who.

I rubbed my hands together, eager to mingle with the kids. “Where do you need me most?”

“We could use some help with the games,” Patrick said, reminding me of his original request.

“Perfect.”

“Then
later you
can flip burgers.” He slapped me affectionately on the back.

Within minutes I was laughing and horsing around with the kids. I regretted my bad mood earlier in the week. I blamed Hannah’s letter for that. I wanted to argue with her, tell her I’d rather forget the outside world as much as possible, and she seemed to know that. I resented, at least a little, that a woman who’d been gone a year still had the power to manipulate me into something I had no interest in doing. Yet how could I refuse her?

A couple of hours later I was exhausted. I’d participated in the three-legged race, teaming up with James, a ten-year-old boy who probably wouldn’t see his eleventh birthday. We crossed the finish line first and James wore his blue ribbon proudly.

Somehow or other, I got conned into being a partner with Kellie, a six-year-old with leukemia, for the egg toss. We lost—the egg broke in my hands, much to Kellie’s delight. I wasn’t any luckier with the water-balloon toss, but managed to jump far enough back to avoid getting soaked. After that, I put on an apron that read The Cook Is King and stood in front of the barbecue, grilling ham
burgers. I noticed James wolfing his down and saw tears in his mother’s eyes as she watched her son eat. I suspected it’d been a long time since he’d had this much of an appetite.

It was the oddest thing. I could feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I’d woken that morning just like I did every day, instantly aware that Hannah was gone. She was the first person I thought of every morning and the last person every night. The pain had settled in my chest the way it always did. Yet here I was, only a few hours later, and it almost felt as if she was there with me, laughing, teasing, encouraging me to enjoy the event.

Despite the satisfactions of being with children, today reminded me that I’d most likely never have any of my own. Hannah had written in her letter that her greatest regret was not being able to have our child. I regretted it, too, and knew I’d miss out on that aspect of life. Hannah would’ve been a wonderful mother. I didn’t intend to remarry, regardless of her letter and her list, so I wouldn’t have the opportunity to be a father. That saddened me and yet, as I watched the children racing about the park, laughing and teasing one another, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe Hannah was right—at least in her insistence that I stop focusing on the past and look to the future.

By this point I’d read her letter so often I’d practically memorized it. Maybe I
should
look ahead instead of keeping myself locked in old memories. Still, I wasn’t sure that could ever include remarriage. My fear, I suppose, was that I’d never be able to recapture the special bond I’d
shared with my wife. I was afraid I’d measure every woman I met against Hannah. That would be unfair to Hannah and to the other woman.

When I finished my cooking shift, I grabbed a paper plate and helped myself to a cheeseburger. Potato salad’s a favorite of mine and I piled on a big scoop of that, as well as a giant pickle and a small bag of corn chips.

I found a spot and sat down on the lawn, legs stretched out, and balanced the paper plate on my thighs. I picked up my burger and took my first bite. As I glanced about the park I saw several other volunteers and friends. Each was paired up with someone else. For the first time since I arrived, it struck me how truly alone I was.

Patrick sat on the lawn with his wife, Melanie, and when he saw me he gestured that I should join them. I hated to barge in, but I didn’t want to eat by myself, either, so I stood and walked toward them.

“It’s so good to see you,” Melanie said as I lowered myself onto the lawn. Patrick’s wife is a nurse at the hospital and one of the kindest people I know.

I took another bite of my hamburger, surprised by how delicious it was. I realized I was hungry; no wonder, since the kids had kept me physically active for a couple of hours. I was actually
enjoying
the taste, a sensation I hadn’t experienced since Hannah’s illness.

“Who’s that?” Melanie asked, pointing out someone else who was sitting alone some distance away.

Patrick looked in the direction his wife had indicated, and I did, too. The woman seemed familiar. I’d seen her
earlier while I was involved with the children. I thought at the time that I knew her, but I didn’t remember from where.

“Isn’t that Leanne Lancaster?” Melanie asked her husband.

I nearly dropped my cheeseburger. “Leanne Lancaster?” I repeated.

“Do you know her?” Melanie asked.

I slowly nodded and a numbness spread down my arms. “She was one of Hannah’s oncology nurses.” More than that, Leanne Lancaster was the second name on the list Hannah had given me. Trying not to be obvious, I squinted at her. Leanne looked different—thinner, gaunt, pale. That must’ve been why I hadn’t immediately recognized her.

“I hate to see her eating alone,” Melanie said. She turned to me, then started to get up. “I’ll go over and sit with her.”

“Why don’t you invite her to join us?” Patrick suggested. “Do you mind, Michael?”

“Patrick,” Melanie warned in a low voice.

“What?”

“I don’t want Michael to think we’re matching him up.”

“It’s fine,” I said, interrupting. Little did they know Hannah had already done that. “Invite her if you’d like.” I hadn’t seen Leanne in a year. That we should come across each other now felt like more than coincidence. I couldn’t shrug off the feeling that Hannah had somehow arranged this.

As Melanie walked over to chat with Leanne, Patrick said, “So, how well do you know Leanne?”

“Just professionally.” I was cutting off any matchmaking effort before it could get started.

“She’s had a hard time.”

“Oh?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. “How so?”

“Her divorce.” As he said that, I recalled the comment in Hannah’s letter.

“Her husband was Mark Lancaster,” Patrick went on to explain.

The name caught my attention. “What about him?” I asked. “Who is he?” Hannah hadn’t given me any details about the divorce.

“He’s the guy who embezzled money from that charity benefit the hospital had a couple of years back. He’s an accountant and volunteered to collect the funds. An audit a month later showed a discrepancy of twenty-five thousand dollars. As it turned out, Mark supposedly ‘borrowed’ the money.”

I nodded. The scandal had shocked the hospital community, but for me, of course, it had been eclipsed by our personal tragedy.

“I don’t remember the outcome,” Patrick was saying, “other than the embarrassment Leanne went through and the divorce.”

My guess was that Hannah knew all about Leanne’s troubles; she was the kind of person others confided in.

My thoughts were interrupted when Melanie returned with Leanne. I stood as the two women approached.

“You remember Michael Everett, don’t you?” Melanie asked Leanne.

“Oh, yes. Hello again.”

She had a nice smile, I noticed. I also realized how much she’d changed. Leanne wore her dark brown hair shorter than she had a couple of years ago and she seemed…deflated somehow. Her style was very different from Hannah’s—“careless casual,” I’d call it—and she was taller by several inches.

My perusal came to an abrupt halt. I was doing the very thing I’d sworn not to, and that was comparing her to Hannah, at least in appearance.

“Do you still work at the oncology center?” I asked, making conversation while I considered the last time I’d seen her. It would’ve been two weeks before Hannah’s death. Since almost everyone, Hannah included, knew there was no hope, other medical professionals had started to withdraw. This emotional detachment is a protective device common in my field. Leanne had been the exception. She had remained Hannah’s friend to the very end, chatting with her, bringing her small gifts. Flowers, a magazine, some chocolate now and then. I’d been so consumed by my own efforts to deal with the fact that I was losing her, I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. I remembered it now and was grateful.

“I’m still at the hospital,” she confirmed.

“Leanne organized the volunteers this year,” Patrick said. “You and I both know what a big job that is.”

Patrick and I had done it several years ago, and it’d been a huge task. Thankfully, Hannah and Melanie had willingly lent a hand and made dozens of phone calls on our behalf.

“I had a lot of help,” she said, dismissing his praise.

“Patrick’s the one who coerced
me
into volunteering,” I told her.

“Me, too.” Leanne grinned and I had to admit she was lovely. She smiled less often than she should, I felt. I sensed a sadness about her and wondered if it had to do with her divorce. After close to two years, shouldn’t she be over that by now? It occurred to me with a sudden shock that I was thinking about her the same way others had about me. That my allotment of grief had come to its end.

The four of us sat and talked for a while. Not once did Leanne bring up Hannah’s name, which I appreciated. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk about her; Hannah was always on my mind and in my heart. But I preferred to reminisce about her life rather than her death. In not bringing up the subject, Leanne revealed a sensitivity I found rare among my friends. Most people seemed to feel obliged to tell me how sorry they were, especially if I hadn’t seen them since the funeral. I particularly hated being told that they understood how I felt. They didn’t; they
couldn’t.
I was thankful we didn’t need to travel down that troubled path. Perhaps Leanne avoided mentioning Hannah’s death because she didn’t want to discuss her own divorce. Either way, I was content to chat about the picnic, the children or just about anything else.

When we’d finished our meals, Patrick and Melanie drifted away and I was sitting alone with Leanne. I felt a moment of panic, not knowing what we had to say to each other without the buffer of my friends.

“This turned out to be a beautiful day,” I said and wanted to jerk back the inane words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Apparently, the weather was the most stimulating topic I could come up with.

“I’m glad. It’s always a risk when you plan a picnic in May.”

“Then why hold the picnic this month?” I asked. “We could count on sunshine in late August or early September.”

“I looked into that. When the picnic first began, the only time we could book the park was in May.”

I nodded; other organizations would have made reservations long before, seeing how popular this park was.

“Then later, when the committee tried to book another month, they ran into all kinds of roadblocks,” Leanne explained. “So it was decided to keep the May date and to count our blessings.”

That made sense.

An uncomfortable silence followed. I started to speak at the same time as Leanne.

“—”

“Would you—”

We both stopped and looked at each other. I motioned for her to speak first. She was a bit flushed, as though she found this situation as awkward as I did.

“I was about to say I’m grateful Patrick and Melanie invited me to join them.”

“I am, too,” I echoed, then realized she might misunderstand my meaning. “I was sitting alone, too.”

She glanced down at my wedding band. I’d never removed it. I considered myself married. That was when I
noticed the slight indentation on the ring finger of her left hand.

“I still feel…naked without my wedding ring,” she whispered as though reading my mind.