Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (Winston Brothers Book 1) Page 3

  “She’s in room 404, hon,” she said, handing back my ID and glancing at the kitten balloons. Her voice was hesitant when she added, “Have you talked to the doctor yet?”

  I shook my head, my trembling hands now shaking. “No. Not yet.”

  The nurse gave me a close-lipped smile. “Your momma’s asleep right now. If you want to go sit with her ’til Dr. Gonzalez arrives, you can.” Her tone was full of compassion.

  “Can you tell me anything?” Without waiting for a reply, I added, “Why was she admitted?”

  The nurse studied me for a minute but said nothing.

  “I’m a pediatric nurse practitioner in Chicago,” I said. “You can shoot straight with me.”

  Her smile returned. “I know, baby. Your mother told me all about you. But the doctor wants to speak with you first.”

  I stared at her for a moment—the compassion, the sympathy, the secrecy—and I knew.

  This was textbook modus operandi for the terminally ill. Nurses never informed patients’ families. It was always the doctor, and it was always done in person.

  My eyes stung and I felt my chin wobble even as I bravely nodded. “Okay,” I managed to croak, and I glanced at the ceiling, blinking. My head was overwhelmed and my heart was breaking, and I was still holding two Get Well Soon kitten balloons from the Piggly Wiggly.

  “Aww, baby….” The nurse stood, walked around the counter, and wrapped her arms around me. “Baby, baby, baby….” Her soft body was a big pillow of warmth as she rubbed my back.

  I sniffled, fighting the tears. Not yet, I thought, not until I’m alone and can break something that makes a very gratifying smashing sound, like plates.

  “Come with me, Sunshine.” She shifted so that her arm was wrapped around my shoulders. “I’ll take you to your momma. You sit with her until the doctor comes, okay?”

  I nodded numbly, allowing the older nurse to steer me to my mother’s room. She opened the door and walked me to a seat by the bed. Sunlight streamed in through the open curtains, but it was still a hospital room. There was nothing remarkable about it other than the occupant.

  I looked at my momma. Her eyes were closed. Her skin color was okay—not great, but not ashen—and she looked very thin, almost fragile. My mother had never been thin a day in her life. She’d been blessed with more boobs and hips than wits, and she had a lot of wits.

  At five feet nine inches, I towered over her five-foot frame. Although I’d inherited her boobs and hips, my longer legs and torso distributed the wealth, whereas she’d always looked like a curvaceous, compact hourglass.

  Her hair was streaked with gray. The last time I saw her she was still coloring it chestnut brown. My brain informed me that was two years ago.

  My momma had always seemed young to me. She had Jethro at sixteen, Billy at seventeen, Cletus at eighteen, and me at twenty. The twins came two years later, and Roscoe—the youngest—arrived approximately four years after that. Seven children before she was twenty-seven, and six of them boys.

  Now, thin and gray, she looked older than her forty-six years. She looked ancient, like all the stress and worry and hardship she’d shouldered raising a family of seven and handling my deadbeat father had finally caught up with her.

  As instructed, I sat in the chair by her bed. The nurse reassured me once again that she would page the doctor, and then she left me alone with my momma.

  I couldn’t focus on anything. I don’t know how long I sat looking around the room staring at nothing, unable to form a complete thought; maybe an hour, maybe more.

  Images and sound bites from my childhood, of her care and love for me, of our daily telephone calls, lobbied for attention, and my mind felt slippery and confused.

  My mother shifted, and my gaze was drawn to her as she opened her eyes. They fell on mine immediately.

  “Ash….” she whispered. She gave me a weak smile. “Be a good darling and get me some ice cream. I’d give my eye teeth for some ice cream.”

  I watched her for a minute.

  Ice cream—I could get her ice cream. That was something I could do. Because under no circumstances was I ready to talk about her death. Instead, I would go get her ice cream.

  “Rocky road?” I asked quietly.

  “If you can find it, though I’m not picky.”

  I nodded once and stood, moving to the door.

  “Honey,” she called after me. I turned and met her eyes, which were alight with amusement. “You can leave the flowers and balloons here. No need to take them with you.”

  I glanced from her to the balloons and flowers still clutched in my hands.

  “Oh.” I put them on the chair where I’d been sitting.

  I’d almost made it to the door before she called me back again, “Ashley, one more thing. This is really important.” The urgency I heard in her voice made my heart rate spike and my eyes sting.

  I crossed to her immediately and covered her hand with mine. “Anything…you can tell me anything.”

  She gave me a weak smile, squeezed my hand with hers, and said, “This isn’t something you need to worry about yet. But when the time comes you should use hemorrhoid cream to remove bags under the eyes.”

  Dr. Gonzalez found me coming back from the cafeteria, my momma’s rocky road ice cream clutched to my chest. He pulled me into a consultation room and broke the news I’d already guessed.

  My mother was dying.

  She had cervical cancer. It was stage four. It had metastasized everywhere. He gave her six weeks. Hospice had been called, and they were on their way.

  She’d either ignored or confused the symptoms with menopause. He said she’d likely had symptoms for more than a year. I was not surprised that she’d disregarded her own pain. Her selflessness was her greatest strength and her most infuriating fault.

  When I was sixteen, she’d walked around on a broken foot for two weeks. She finally went to the doctor when I handcuffed her to Billy’s truck and drove her to the emergency room.

  After the chat with Dr. Gonzalez, I delivered my momma’s ice cream. Not long after that, the social worker for hospice arrived and spoke to us both. The entire experience was surreal.

  My mother ate her ice cream and chimed in every once in a while with, “Now, I don’t want anyone to go to any trouble on my account.”

  I could only stare at her. Words failed me. Thought and motor skills were also failing me.

  It was decided that she would be released tomorrow and given transport back to the house. We would be assigned a day and a night nurse who would help us care for her over the next six weeks or so.

  Six weeks.

  I stayed for the rest of the day. We chatted about my job and her coworker friends at the library. She asked me to break the news first to her boss, Ms. Macintyre. Momma felt confident that Ms. Macintyre would know what to do about the rest of the staff.

  I stumbled out of the hospital around 9:30 p.m. feeling exhausted and empty. My brain whispered to me as I walked to my car that the only thing I’d consumed that day was a triple-grande Americano at 7:00 a.m.

  I wasn’t hungry, though. I was the opposite of hungry, but neither full nor satiated.

  I slipped into the driver’s seat and stared unseeingly out the windshield, and was pulled from my trance by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I glanced at the caller ID. It was my friend Sandra, my best friend Sandra.

  Relief and a tangible feeling I couldn’t name seized my body, a pain so sharp that I gasped. It felt like the glass chamber that had surrounded me all day had finally shattered. I was suddenly breathing, and the air that filled my lungs hurt. The photo of Sandra’s smiling face on my phone blurred, or rather my vision blurred because I was crying. I swiped my thumb across the screen and brought the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Ashley! Thank God, you answered. Marie and I need you to settle a debate. Which is worse: not having enough yarn to finish a sweater or discovering that the yarn you used for the sweater w
as mislabeled as cashmere and is actually one hundred percent acrylic?”

  My brain told me that it was Tuesday, which meant that back in Chicago where I lived and worked and had a lovely life reading books and enjoying my friends, it was knitting group night. Sandra, a pediatric psychiatrist with a pervy heart of gold, was in my knitting group, as was Marie.

  “Sandra….” My voice broke, and I rested my head against the steering wheel, tears falling messy and hot down my cheeks and neck and nose.

  “Oh! Oh, my darling….” Sandra’s voice emerged from the other end earnest and alarmed. “What’s going on? Are you okay? What happened? Who made you cry? Do I need to kill someone? Tell me what to do.”

  I sniffled, squeezed my eyes shut against the new wave of tears. “It’s my mother.” I pressed my lips together in an effort to control my voice, then took a shaky breath and said, “She’s dying.”

  “Your mother is dying?”

  “They’ve called hospice. She has stage four cervical cancer. It’s metastasized everywhere. She has six weeks….” I sobbed, almost dropping the phone and shaking my head against the new onslaught of tears.

  The other end was quiet for a beat. “Okay…where are you? I can be there by tomorrow.”

  I shook my head. “No.” I sniffed and wiped my hand under my nose then took a deep breath. “No, no. Don’t do that. I just…I just needed to tell someone. I’m leaving the hospital now.”

  “Are you in Knoxville?”

  “Sandra….” I covered my eyes with my hand and sighed. “You are not flying down here.”

  “Yes. I am flying down there.”

  “So am I!” I heard Elizabeth’s voice from the other end. Elizabeth was also in my knitting group and was an emergency department physician. She worked with both Sandra and me at the hospital in Chicago.

  Their threat to fly down to Tennessee sobered me, and I gathered a series of calming breaths before responding. “She’s at the hospital in Knoxville. They’re releasing her to home hospice tomorrow.”

  I related the rest of the facts surrounding my mother’s sudden hospital admission, how she hadn’t told anyone she was sick, how she’d ignored all the signs and symptoms until it was too late. Reciting the details calmed me. By the time I was finished, the tears had receded.

  “Oh, honey.” Sandra’s impossibly kind and empathetic voice soothed me from the other end of the line.

  “Tell her I found tickets,” Elizabeth said in the background. “We can leave first thing tomorrow.”

  A disbelieving laugh tumbled from my lips. “You can’t just drop everything and rush down here.”

  “Yes, we can. We’ll see you tomorrow.” I heard Sandra say, “I want the aisle seat.” It was muffled, as if she’d covered the phone with her hand.

  I heard a rustle and then Elizabeth’s voice was in my ear. She’d obviously commandeered the phone from Sandra. “Honey, listen. Sandra and I will be there tomorrow. Just text Sandra your home address. Don’t worry about anything. We’ll stay in a hotel and help you get your mother settled. Where are you going now? Is anyone there with you? One of your brothers?”

  “No. I’m on my way back to the house now to tell them the news.”

  Elizabeth tsked softly. “Oh, my dear friend, I wish we were already there. We would huddle hug and get drunk.”

  “Me too,” I admitted, grateful that there were people in the world who loved me. I didn’t have the strength to argue against their generous offer, so I simply said, “Thank you.”

  “No need for thanks. We’ll see you soon.”

  I nodded, and my eyes watered again as I clicked off the call, but I blinked the wetness away. I needed to pull myself together. I needed to tell six boys that their momma was dying, and I had no idea how they were going to take the news.

  After eight years with barely any contact, my brothers were basically strangers.

  Chapter Three

  “Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

  — W. Somerset Maugham

  I imagined that this was what Snow White must’ve felt like when she woke up in the presence of the seven dwarves.

  Seven hovering beards.

  Seven sets of bewildered eyes.

  Seven inquisitive expressions—partly suspicious, partly amused.

  The fainting was my fault.

  I drove home from the hospital in a daze. I walked to the front porch. Jethro came out of the house trailed by several others. I glanced over his shoulder. The world went black.

  I should have known better. I was a nurse for hootenanny’s sake! Two hours of sleep, no food, intense levels of stress; no wonder I passed out. I was lucky to have made it home without crashing my car. I’d never been in a position of forgetting to eat before.

  Now I was laid out on the couch in my momma’s house surrounded by a sea of beards. I heard the roosters in the back crowing up a fuss.

  My brothers’ expressions were varying degrees of anxious and curious. At last, my eyes settled on the measured, silvery blue stare of a stranger. My brain told me that this stranger’s name was Drew Runous, that he was a pillaging Viking highlander laird, and that earlier in the day he’d mentally pictured me getting my rub on.

  Drew was sitting next to where I lay on the couch, leaning over me, one arm braced to the side and his hand at my temple.

  That’s when the fuzzy-headedness began to retreat.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him groggily, placing my hand to my forehead as I tried to sit upright.

  “Don’t do that.” He pushed my shoulders back to the couch. The hand at my temple moved to my wrist, his index and middle finger pressing against my pulse point. “You fainted. You need to take it slow.”

  “Listen to him, Ash. He’s a doctor.” I recognized the voice of my third brother. I turned to see sweet and anomalous Cletus just as he brushed a strand of hair from my face. He gazed at me with kind hazel eyes. “It’s good to see you, baby sister.”

  I gave him a small smile. I hadn’t seen him in eight years. An unexpected wave of nostalgia rushed over me. I ignored the tears stinging my eyes and responded, “You too, big brother.”

  “I’m not that kind of doctor,” Drew said quietly, and my attention moved back to him.

  “What?”

  His stern face and gray-blue gaze focused on me. “I’m not a medical doctor.”

  I blinked at him and his bewitching eyes. “Okay….”

  “But you said you was a doctor.” Cletus glanced between him and Jethro.

  “He is a doctor, just not that kind.” Jethro placed his hand on Cletus’s shoulder and spoke softly.

  “What kind?” Cletus asked.

  “He’s a PhD. It’s like being an expert in something. He doesn’t do the people medical stuff.”

  “I know what a PhD is,” Cletus mumbled.

  “Fine, you know what a PhD is,” Billy said to Cletus, but his stare was affixed to me. “What’s wrong with you, Ash? Are you sick? Did you see Momma?”

  I looked from Billy to Cletus to Jethro, and the events of the day—Get Well Soon balloons, the compassionate nurse at the hospital, rocky road ice cream, speaking with the social worker—crashed over me. I felt like I was being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. The world was eating me and screaming in my ears at the same time. I gasped, closed my eyes against the onslaught, and pressed my hand to my forehead.

  “Crap…”

  “What is it?” Jethro’s voice was closer. “What happened at the hospital?”

  I gathered a deep breath, held it within my lungs. When I was sure I wouldn’t cry, I released it and opened my eyes. They found Drew’s first. Inexplicably, maybe because he wasn’t family and my dislike for him still lingered, I discovered that the words didn’t strangle me as I spoke.

  “I saw Momma,” I said, “and I spoke to her doctor. She has cancer. It’s real bad.”

  A stunned quiet fell over the room like flutter
ing snowflakes blanketing a field. It was a soft silence, reverent, and the air felt cold and hollow. I didn’t see my brothers’ reactions because my attention was still fixed on the stranger hovering above me.

  Drew’s hand on my wrist gripped tighter, and his eyes flared with some emotion I didn’t have enough energy to decipher.

  I ignored all this and continued to address him as though he were the only person in the room. “The doctor is sending her home tomorrow with hospice. He says she’s got six weeks…or so.”

  “Six weeks….?” Jethro’s voice broke through my self-imposed trance, and my attention flickered to him. He turned away and walked to the recliner at the end of the couch. He sat down heavily, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “Six weeks.”

  I glanced at the other five Winston boys. They appeared to be equally shocked and dismayed, and my gaze snagged on my youngest brother, Roscoe. The last time I’d seen him in person he was twelve. He was now twenty.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said, glancing around the room as if it would give him answers. “How can she have cancer? She wasn’t even sick.”

  I had no words to offer, so I stared at the ceiling making a mental list of all the things I needed to do before she arrived the next day.

  “What can I do to help?” Drew’s voice, now gentle and solicitous, pulled me out of my head and back to the scene of quiet chaos in the living room.

  I shrugged and my vision blurred again with tears. They leaked from the corners of my eyes.

  “Pray,” I said, because it was the only thing anyone could do.

  I recognized the frustration etched in his features; it betrayed the helplessness he so obviously felt. However, the last thing I expected him to do was lean forward, hold my cheeks in his palms, and place a soft, lingering kiss on my forehead while his unwieldy beard tickled my nose.

  Therefore, when that was what Drew did, I was so astonished that I stopped crying.

  He retreated, his hands still cupping my face, and his thumbs wiping away my tears. Drew threaded the fingers of one hand through the hair at my temple and brushed it away from my shoulders. Then, bringing his palm back to my cheek, he said softly, “I’ll see you in the morning.”