laughter. “What happened to your eyebrows?”
“What do you mean, what happened?” No one had said a word, and I hadn’t done anything to my eyebrows. She took my shoulders and turned me to the mirror. I stared back at my reflection in horror. My eyebrows and eyelashes were gone!
Kris was standing at my elbow. “I tried to tell you, but you didn’t listen.”
The stove. That rotten stove. When it exploded into flame it must have singed my eyebrows. No wonder I had felt like a marshmallow held too close to the flames. And I had to teach a class in Arizona tomorrow looking like this. I burst into tears.
Sally put her arms around me. “Don’t cry, Kate. They’ll grow back. Just be glad you weren’t hurt.”
Of course I was glad I hadn’t been burned, but I didn’t want to hear my eyebrows would grow back. I wanted them now. The idea startled me. That had been my theme ever since Neil died. Me, I, mine. I wanted my life put back together and I wanted it now. For the first time I realized it wasn’t going to be that way. What I wanted had little to do with reality. Life happened. Like it or not.
And I didn’t like it one bit.
“You look funny, Mommy.” Kelli giggled. I turned and took another look at myself. As a matter of fact, I did look funny. A chuckle started somewhere inside me and I didn’t even try to hold back.
When I laughed it was as if the tension in the room shattered into tiny pieces. Part of it was relief because we had escaped the tornado, but it was such a blessing to laugh. To hear my children laugh, to see Ron laugh until the tears ran down his cheeks. I mopped my eyes feeling as if maybe, oh please God, the healing process was starting.
Sally spotted the pan of cookies. “What’s this?”
“Well, they started out to be cookies, but they didn’t get done,” I said.
“Why are they over here?” she asked, peering at the blobs as flat as pancakes.
I snorted again. “I took them out of the oven when Ron yelled for us to come and I forgot to put them down.”
Sally shook her head and laughed. “Tell you what, I’ll make a pot of coffee and we’ll eat the cookies. Deal?”
“Sounds like a first-class deal to me,” I agreed.
While they weren’t as well-done as I would have liked them, the chewy little blobs tasted a lot better than I had expected. We sat around the Fowler kitchen table eating and drinking coffee while Vicki styled Kris’s hair and Kelli played with Sailor and Tootsie Roll. By the time we were ready to go home I felt as if I had reached my first turning point.
I was slowly working my way out of the fog that had filled my waking moments. We were surviving. That was enough for now.
The girls and I walked home beneath a clearing sky. The first stars were just starting to peek through the clouds, and the air was freshly washed. The yard was full of windblown trash, and broken limbs were tossed everywhere like matchsticks. We’d had some strong winds, but thankfully nothing worse.
The phone rang as I entered the kitchen. I answered to find Pastor Joe Crockett on the line. “Kate, are you and the girls all right?”
“We’re fine, Pastor. We were next door with the Fowlers in their basement. What about you?”
“Missed us, but I’m sure you’ve heard about the damage to the north.”
We talked about the storm for a few minutes, and then he said, “Kate, I’m worried about you. I want you to know you can talk to me anytime you feel the need.”
“I know that, Joe, and it helps a lot. Really it does.”
When I hung up the phone I realized something had happened to me tonight. I had come through a few more minicrises without falling apart. In my own way I was learning to cope. I had read the books on grieving that kind friends and thoughtful neighbors had dropped off; I believed that I had now passed the shock and disbelief stage.
I was lucky to have good friends and a pastor who cared. I was facing a future without Neil whether I liked it or not, and the kind of life I gave my children depended on how well I could handle that future.
I thought I had it all figured out. Little did I know my worst days still lay ahead of me.
Chapter 5
I left La Chic early Wednesday afternoon. On my station calendar, penciled in bold red and circled, was my annual physical appointment. This year I’d have blown it off, only I was in my responsible mode now; I was obligated to take care of myself. Plus, my right ear had been giving me fits on takeoffs and landings. Sometimes the pressure was so bad I was doubled over.
For me, seeing a doctor was like pulling teeth. I had a white-coat phobia—my blood pressure, heart rate and anxiety level all shot through the roof when a doctor or nurse approached. Dad had feared doctors and he’d passed the phobia along to me. Same with storms—every time a dark cloud came on the horizon he’d pace the floor and warn Mother that they’d better get me to shelter. I’d spent half my youth crouching in a dank cellar, praying the storm wouldn’t touch us. I knew God promised safe passage to those who loved Him, and in those years I wasn’t aware of any gales other than nature’s fury. I’d taken God’s promise literally. Safe passage to me meant safe passage—it didn’t have any hidden meanings like “You might not make it through the storm, but you’re promised ‘safe passage’ into heaven.” I was starting to see that life’s fury was every bit as lethal as Mother Nature’s temperamental displays.
A little before five, a nurse showed me to a small cubicle lab, comically labeled the Vampire’s Den. The sign served its purpose and I smiled in spite of my apprehension. Three vials later, I was handed a brown bottle and pointed to the bathroom down the long hallway.
Later I settled on a hard examining table covered in white paper and waited, my eyes roaming the built-in desk with boxes of rubber gloves, lubricant, ear swabs and wooden tongue depressors. Some sort of tool lay in plain sight. Torturous, no doubt.
An hour later, or at least it seemed that long, the doctor breezed in, reading my chart. “Kate. How are you coping?”
“Hi, Dr. Bates.” I hadn’t been in his office since last year’s physical, but he’d been kind enough to make a house call and prescribe medication when Neil died.
He paused, peering at me over the rims of his glasses. “How are you doing, girl?”
Tears smarted in my eyes. When anyone got that tone of voice—the I’m-so-sorry-about-Neil tone—I still lost it. I knew people meant well, but they couldn’t help, so the tone was always there, plunging me back to my black pit.
“Not so good, Dr. Bates, but friends say it will take time.”
He patted my shoulder and lifted the foot extension, snapping it into place. “I lost my wife a couple years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my mind now on what the nurse was doing. This whole process gave me the jitters.
He paused, squeezing my hand with calm reassurance. Dr. Harry Bates had given me my first high school physical, so I should feel comfortable in his presence,
