“Well, I trust you had fun doing that,” Amanda’s father comments.
“I didn’t swing from the branch,” she tells him, “I just jumped off the bank.”
“That water must have been pretty cold,” Marian says. She looks at Amanda and glances her over. “And you probably didn’t bring a sweater or anything!” she admonishes her daughter. She bounces up from the table and bustles down the hallway. We hear a closet door opening, then Marian returns armed with mounds of pink fluffiness.
Amanda shoots me a pained look and I wink at her before her mother can see.
“Here, dear,” she says, dropping the thick fabric on an empty chair. “Take your pick.”
“Well it’s pretty warm in here,” Amanda tells her, adopting a careful, diplomatic tone. “And it’s a short walk back to the guest house. Maybe tomorrow John and I can walk around downtown and I’ll just pick up a few things.”
“Oh, you don’t want to drag him around to shop for clothes!”
“I don’t mind,” I say, finally taking pity on Amanda and jumping in. “And what did you two do today?”
“Oh, well, we puttered around the house for a bit; Mark went out and trimmed the lawn, and then we both actually took a nap. You know, we have to get up early tomorrow for the hospital.”
“I’m starting to feel better,” Amanda’s father tells her, seeming to sense her concern. “Chemo isn’t exactly a vitamin, but it’s treatment. It’s a step.”
More cold words. But the chill dissipates faster this time.
“How long are these treatments going to go on?” Amanda asks.
Amanda’s father starts to answer, and Marian leans towards me. “Come on, dear,” she says quietly. “Let’s get dessert ready. Amanda hasn’t talked about this with her father yet.”
It’s funny, the way people work sometimes. Here’s this chatty, bubbly, almost scatter-brained woman who I assumed hadn’t even let herself think about her husband’s condition, let alone consider the impact it’s having on her family--here she is having more insight about Amanda than Amanda has about herself.
I follow her into the kitchen, which is really just an alcove several steps away from the table. Beneath the noise of Marian opening the freezer and the clattering of the bowls she tells me to get from the cabinets, I can hear the low rumble of voices at the table: mostly Amanda’s father, explaining the medication, the side effects, and, with every quiet detail, chipping away at Amanda’s composure.
“Pie a’ la mode!” Marian announces, leading me back over to the table armed with pie and a cake server. “Just the night for it, too. Who wants coffee?” She glances around at us a little desperately.
“I’d love some coffee,” I say, taking the pie from her and setting down the bowls.
“Everyone should have some, on a night like this,” Marian decides. She goes back to the alcove. In the silence she leaves behind, I can hear the wind picking up around the house.
“It might rain,” Amanda’s father comments, glancing out the window. “There should be an umbrella in the hall closet, Amanda. Take it with you when you cross back over to the guest house.”
“All right.” She clears her throat and stands up to cut the pie. If I look hard, I can see her hand shaking a little.
“Apple pie,” her father continues in a purposefully calm tone. “Nothing says fall like apple pie on a rainy night.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Start from the beginning
