The Healing Quilt (8 page)

After this evening's entertainment, Beth now knew what composting was, but she also knew for a solid fact that Garth had never evinced the slightest interest in building a compost heap—bin, barrel, or whatever.

“You know God is the original recycler. He never wastes anything. He calls us to be good stewards of this earth he gave us, and recycling everything we can is one way to do it. Even to those newspapers I saw stacked up by your kitchen door. I use all mine for mulch.”

Thank you, God, were home again.
Beth smiled as warmly as possible.“Good night, and thanks again.” She got out of the car and saw Harriet do the same, then bend down to the flowerbed.

“You are most welcome. You go on in, and I'll just give your roses here in front the treats that we have for them. Roses respond well to loving conversation, too, you know. Why, you must come over one day and see my rose bed. Tell Pastor I'll bring goodies for the staff meeting in the morning. ‘Night.” Mrs. Spooner climbed back into her car, the roses sufficiently fed with worms and alfalfa leavings, reversed, and was out on the street before Beth made it halfway to the front door.

I'm sure Garth will be delighted to see you in the morning.
She chuckled to herself as she let herself in the front door. Since the garage light was still on, she knew Garth wasn't yet home, so she left the empty Baggie on the hall table where he would see it first thing. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she paused. The ghost of the last weeks seemed to have disappeared. Her cheeks had some color, her hair curled softly on her shoulders as it used to, and the woman in the mirror stood straight like the former Beth. Had getting out to one meeting where she'd been more repulsed than invigorated worked magic after all? Or was the other Beth lurking in the bedroom, ready to come out and grab her?

“It wasn't so bad after all, was it?”

Teza lifted one shoulder in the way she had of disparaging something that was said. “Just took time away from the important things, that's all.” She slid from the car and bent back down to look in again. “You've got
your
mammogram scheduled for Monday. See how much
you
like it.” She shut the door and stepped back, waving Kit out of the yard and down the lane to the road.

“Always has to have the last word. Always.” Kit watched her aunt through the rearview mirror. And no, she was not looking forward to it either, but duty called. Besides she had to live up to her own word. “Oh, chicken feathers.” She thumped the heel of one hand on the steering wheel. “I forgot to ask her about the picnic.” The Fourth of July celebration was only four days away, and Jefferson City went all out to have an old-fashioned celebration, not only patriotic but reminiscent of the early years of the city, now well over a hundred years old. People dressed in period clothing, mosdy turn-of-the-twentieth-century, and rode in antique cars, horses and buggies, and big-wheeled cycles. The parade could be counted on to bring in entrants from all over Jefferson County and those surrounding it. As far as local folks were concerned, the Fourth of July parade equaled the Daffodil parade in Tacoma in the spring or the Rose Parade in Pasadena, California, at the New Year.

This would be the first year in a long time that she had no offspring taking part in the parade in some fashion. Ryan had played tuba in the high-school band, Amber belonged to a clown group from the time she was twelve, and Jennifer had been a member of the high-school drill team. For years Kit helped with uniforms and grease paint, always assisting whichever group she was mothering at the moment, then driving farther down the parade route and joining the cheering section before helping again at the end.

“Another milestone.” She took in a deep breath to calm the tension zinging out to her fingertips and buzzing the backs of her eyes. Back in the early days, before his job took him on the road so much, Mark had helped build floats or booths or whatever needed a man—or anyone for that matter—who was good with a hammer. Glue gun had been her specialty, so the both of them were in high demand.
Ah, Mark, where are you? How are you? Are you thinking about the hometown parade? You could come home, you know.
Like a shooting star, hope flared and died when she saw the still-empty driveway. Missy met her at the door, demanding attention. After pats and ear rubs, she fled out the door into the backyard.

Kit set to making the pies she had promised for their church women's booth, storing three rhubarb and two apple in the freezer and baking crusts for both chocolate and lemon meringue. She'd bake the frozen ones the morning of the festival, since she didn't need to be at the parade at sunrise or thereabouts.

Three days later Kit rearranged her clothes after suffering through her yearly mammogram. Her chest still stung from being smashed between the two cold plates. She turned as the technician nurse reappeared and hung the films on the viewer.

“So, Marcy, how am I doing?”

“Clear as far as I can see. Doctor will have to read them to be sure.” The woman with dark hair, cut cap-style, smiled over her shoulder. “You have been doing self-exams, right?”

“Yes, I do. Thank goodness, I'm done with this for another year.” Kit finished buttoning the front of her white cotton camp shirt. “You know, I've got some questions if you have a minute.”

“Sure do.” Marcy snapped off the viewer and removed the films, sliding them into a folder in one smooth motion. “Now, how can I help you?” She perched on a wheeled stool and faced the tall casual woman who leaned against the wall.

Kit searched her mind for the right way to bring up a subject growing more painful by the day and more confusing.
Just jump in. Why do anything other than normal?The
voice in her mind sounded exasperated.

“Why…?” She rolled her lower lip, rubbing it with the tip of her tongue. “Now, Marcy, please don't take this personally, okay?”

“Me? Take something personally? Come on, Kit, think who you're talking to.” Marcy's eyes crinkled at the corners.

“You're right. You know Annie Nelson has advanced-stage breast cancer?” The nurse nodded. “But yet she had her yearly mammogram less than six months ago. And she was always faithful about that, especially after the previous mastectomy.” Kit felt a flicker of anger somewhere in her middle. “Her mammogram came back clear.” No way should Annie have had cancer. Or at least not to such a degree. Kit thought about her neighbor several doors down, a young woman with two school-age children and a husband who looked as though he'd been given a terminal sentence himself with the news. They were talking radical mastectomy again with certainty now that the cancer had metastasized.

“I know.” Marcy glared at the hulking machine that took up most of the room. “That's the reason right there. This machine is so old, Noah might have had it on the ark. It just doesn't pick up the minute clusters of cells that the newer, state-of-the-art machines do. And…” She paused as if considering how to continue. “Now mind, if you ever tell anyone I said this, I'll deny it till I die. These old machines use so much radiation that they can be harmful.” She stared down at her clasped hands. “I'm sorry.”

“So why didn't someone tell us this before? Why do we have to learn about it in the newspaper? Why don't we have one of the new ones? It's not like we're close to a major teaching hospital or anything. We count on Jefferson Memorial Hospital to take care of us in this town.” Kit paced to the window and stared out. “So why is there no new machine here when we've had so many breast cancer reports? I've even heard the word
cluster
bandied about.” She stopped pacing to look directly at the nurse. “You read the articles in the paper.”

“Of course.” Marcy stood, taking a step back, and ducked her chin. “Same old, same old. Money or lack thereof. And something most people don't know, Medicare and other insurances have cut back on what they pay for mammograms and the radiologist to read them, so our department has become a serious drain on the operating budget.”

“But it's so important!”

“Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what I know.”

“Sorry.” Kit resumed her pacing. “Then why the new look? That hospital refurbishing cost thousands of dollars.”

“More than you know. While the start-up money was donated, they went way over budget, and now all the departments must cut back to pay the bills.”

Kit shook her head. “This doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Who was the nitwit that authorized all that?” Her mind leaped onto a treadmill and upped the speed to the max.

“Why, Jefferson City's own golden boy.” Sarcasm dripped from Marcy's tone. “None other than our new head of the hospital board, Winston Henry Jefferson IV. Now that he has returned home, he is using his money and clout to get things done the way he wants.”

“And paint, new carpets, and the other things are visible.”

“Right on, honey.” Marcy rubbed her scalp, setting her short hair on end. “Makes me so mad I could sizzle. But what can you do? He offered money to start the refurbishing, and it's not like it wasn't long overdue.”

“Be that as it may, we women need a new machine here.” Kit snatched an idea off the racing treadmill. “We can earn the money ourselves. For a change the women of this town can get behind one venture and show those”—she tiptoed around the word she thought— “jerks what we can do?”

“You mean those male chauvinist porcine jerks?” Marcy raised an eyebrow.

“Those very ones. Surely there will be a way to get a… ” She paused with a wrinkle on her forehead. “What are the new machines called?”

“Mammogram machines.”

“Well, one of those right here in Jefferson City.” She stuck out her hand. “Thanks, friend.”

The two women shook hands.

“You got any ideas?” Marcy walked her down the mauve and light gray hall.

“Well, I know we re going to need lots of cooperation. You know anything about grant writing?”

“Nope, sorry. But I read about some other town that kicked off a fund drive by auctioning a specially made quilt.”

“Hmm. Really? How could that make enough money to make a difference?”

“It would be a start, could garner some publicity, get the ball rolling. You know who is good at that kind of thing is Elaine Giovanni. Plus she creates knock-out pillows. You can see them in the gift shop.” Marcy stopped at the door of the gift shop. “I gotta get my chocolate fix and head on back. Let me know what you come up with.” She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Kit, if I were you, I would drag Aunt Teza up to Seattle and have her tested again, just a precautionary measure.”

“Really?” The two women exchanged a long look. “Okay, I will.” Kit waved and headed out to her car. She hadn't felt this energized since—she stopped and caught her breath. Since before Amber died.

The thought released the burning throat, and before she could catch herself, the incipient tears started again. She fumbled with her keys, a veil of moisture blurring the keyhole. Once in the safety of the car, she let the tears flow, as if she had any control over them. When the storm passed as she'd learned it would, she started the car. Before pulling out of the parking lot, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then pulled out a fresh tissue to clean her glasses. “Lord, one more thing here. How do I get Teza to Seattle? Or even Olympia if the mobile unit comes there? More to look into.” She shook off the unease and concentrated on her driving. As she exited the parking lot, the gleaming new entrance to Jefferson Memorial Hospital caught her attention.

All that money spent on looks when women were suffering for the lack of an up-to-date mammogram unit. The slow burn she'd banked flared orange and yellow spires.

“Who, what, how?” She watched an elderly couple enter the hospital through the new automatic door. A car honked behind her.
Ah, take it easy.
She glared up into the rearview mirror before pulling out into the main drive, then the street.

What do you know about raising that kind of money? How much
would we need? Where do I start? Who will help?
The questions chased one another in circles in her mind.