Second Chances in Lavender Bay (The Lavender Bay Chronicles #3)

52. Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Forty-Nine

I t had been a terrible mistake on Angie’s part to go into work the day after the fourth infusion. She should have taken Esther’s advice—her cousin had picked her up after the infusion—and stayed home. What had she been thinking? Experience told her that her symptoms intensified with each treatment. Hadn’t the nurse warned her? Why couldn’t she listen? Currently, she was at her desk with the door closed, vomiting into a bucket. There was no window in the room, and soon the sour smell would permeate everything. The smell alone induced another round of retching. She was also freezing and wore her winter coat and her knit hat. If chemo made you feel this awful, how could it help? She couldn’t have this in her café. Somehow, she had to get home.

There was a knock on the office door.

Not now, she thought, but said, “Yes?”

Melissa popped her head in. “Quick question—” She scrunched up her nose. “Oh, jeez, Angie, you’re sick?”

“Yes. But I’ll be fine.”

“You should go home.”

“Yes,” Angie agreed. As much as it pained her to admit it, she didn’t belong at the café today.

“I’ll give you a ride home.”

“No, that’s okay. You stay here and look after things. I’m going to call my mother.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” And before Angie could say anything else, Melissa closed the door behind her and was gone.

Angie dialed her mother’s number.

“Angie? Are you all right?” Louise asked as soon as she answered the phone.

“I’m at work, but I need to go home. I’m sick,” she said. Her stomach revolted again, and she leaned over the bucket, but there was nothing more to come up except bile.

“I’ll be right there, honey,” Louise said, and hung up.

Angie sat back in her chair, relieved. She rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and closed her eyes and covered them with her hand, waiting for the violent wave of nausea to subside, wishing it away. She felt shaky and clammy.

There was another knock, and Melissa popped in without waiting for an answer, closing the door quickly behind her. She carried a bucket in one hand and a can of air freshener in the other.

Mortified, Angie said, “Melissa, you don’t have to do that. I’ll clean up.”

“Stop it, Ang. Let me help you.”

Angie sighed, not having the energy for a fight.

Melissa set the clean bucket next to Angie’s feet. At the bottom of it was about an inch of water mixed with some disinfectant. Without a word, she removed the offending bucket and sprayed the air freshener around liberally before slipping out of the room.

She returned a moment later and poked her head in. “Did you get a hold of your mom?”

“I did, she’s on her way. I’ll go out the back door.”

“Okay, I’ll head back.”

She closed her eyes and opened them again quickly. “Look, Melissa, if you think you need to hire another person, if only for the four a.m. starts, go for it. I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Okay, will do.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Angie’s mother. “Okay, Angie, honey, come on, let’s get you home.”

What was it about other people being so kind when you were at the lowest of your lows that made your chin quiver and tears well up? Hurriedly, Angie swiped at her eyes.

Louise came around to her side of the desk. “Come on, let’s go.”

Angie stood but her legs were shaky. Gosh, she felt wretched! Louise got an arm under her. “Lean on me,” she said.

“Okay, Mom.”

“Let me help,” Melissa said.

Louise didn’t refuse. “My car is right out the back door.”

Between the two of them, they managed to help Angie into Louise’s car. Once inside, Louise reached over and pulled the seatbelt over Angie and buckled her in.

“I’m sorry, Melissa,” Angie said.

“Would you stop?” Melissa said. “Go home and rest.”

Angie could only nod, and when the door was closed, she leaned her head against it and shut her eyes, wishing she could go to sleep and wake up feeling better.

She’d expected her mother to drive her home but instead, it looked as though they were heading toward Louise’s house on Heather Lane.

“Mom?”

“Honey, I’d like you to come home with me so I can look after you.”

Although she would have preferred to sink into the silence of her own space, Angie hadn’t the energy needed to protest, so she went along with her mother’s suggestion, slightly unwilling.

Her mother helped her up the steps to the front door. Once they crossed the threshold, Angie managed to make it to the sofa and collapsed in the corner of it. It amazed her how weak she felt. She hardly had the strength to move herself. It scared her, but she tried not to think about it too much.

Her mother had disappeared upstairs and returned with a heavy quilt. “Here, why don’t you put your feet up.”

“Is that Grammie’s quilt?” Angie said, fingering it. It brought a smile to her face because she hadn’t seen it in a long time, and she remembered when her grandmother had sewn it together. Angie had been young, in elementary school.

“It is. Look at it, it’s in great shape considering its age.” Louise beamed proudly. “Mom had so much talent when it came to sewing, and yet neither Gail nor I can sew on a button.”

“Didn’t Grammie teach you?”

“She tried, but the two of us were hopeless,” Louise said with a laugh.

Angie eyed her mother and lifted an eyebrow. “Probably too much goofing off.”

Her mother agreed with a nod. “For sure.”

Angie stretched out on the sofa, adjusting a throw pillow behind her head until she was comfortable, and spread the quilt out over her. Yawning, she pulled it up to her chin.

“Let me get you a bucket,” Louise said.

“And maybe a glass of water. I want to take one of those nausea pills.”

“Good idea.”

Louise returned with both items, setting the bucket on the floor next to the sofa and handing the glass of water to Angie, who sat up. She set the pill on her tongue and followed it with a small sip of water. She set the glass on the coffee table and made herself comfortable again.

“Do you want me to put the television on?” her mother asked.

Angie shook her head. “No, I’m good. Unless The Price is Right is on.” That’s what they’d always watched when they were home from school with Grammie and Pop-Pop.

“No, that’s off the air.”

“Wow, that was around a long time.”

“I remember Grammie watching it when it first came on television over fifty years ago,” Louise mused.

Angie yawned.

“Honey, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” As Louise stepped away, she turned and said, “I’ll try not to make too much noise.”

“Do what you’d normally do, Mom. Even if I don’t sleep, I can rest. Hopefully, the vomiting will stop.”

“Hopefully,” her mother repeated softly. The worry lines on her forehead had deepened.

As Angie lay curled up beneath that wonderful old quilt, she listened as her mother puttered around the kitchen, her radio on low, tuned to some oldies station playing all the hits from the 1960s and 1970s. The sounds of the radio, the dishwasher, and whatever her mother was doing began to lull her, and her eyelids became heavy and soon she drifted off.

When she woke, snow was falling heavily outside. She disentangled herself from the quilt and sat up, brushing her hair back, looking around and remembering where she was and how she got there. The radio was still on low in the kitchen. On the coffee table, next to her glass of water, was a tumbler of what Angie suspected was 7UP. Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton, so she reached for the glass and took a sip. 7UP. Flat. She smiled. That, too, had been a staple of childhood sick days. Feeling groggy, she forced herself to stay upright, resisting the temptation to curl up beneath the blanket. She reached for the remote and powered on the television.

Her mother popped her head in from the kitchen. “You’re awake,” she said.

“I am. I was tired.”

“That’s to be expected. How about some lunch?”

Angie scrunched up her nose. “I’m afraid to eat anything.” She rubbed her hand across her belly. “I don’t think I can handle anything.”

“What about toast?”

Angie thought for a moment. “I’ll give that a try.”

“Good.”

It took her three tries to stand up from her mother’s low sofa. Shaky and lightheaded, she surfed along the edge of the furniture to get to the bathroom and then on toward the kitchen.

She met her mother halfway.

Louise held a plate of toast in her hand. “What are you doing getting up?”

“I wanted to stretch my legs, and I had to use the bathroom,” Angie said.

“All right, but sit down at the table,” her mother advised, following Angie back into the kitchen, the plate of toast in one hand and her other hand set gently on her daughter’s back.

Angie slumped into the chair. Her limbs felt shaky and weak. For treatments five and six, which she expected to be worse, she wouldn’t leave her home. And going to café was definitely out.

Louise set the plate of toast down in front of Angie. “How about a cup of tea?”

“I’ll try it,” Angie said. She took a small bite of toast, chewing slowly, hoping it would stay down.

As her mother went about making tea, she cast side glances at Angie, keeping an eye on her. She handed her a steaming mug. “No milk. But I did add some sugar.”

“Thanks.”

Louise sat in the chair at the top of the table, kitty corner to Angie. She leaned forward. “I know you feel lousy. But you’ve got only two treatments left. You’re almost there, honey.”

“I know, Mom,” Angie said weakly. But then after that, she had radiation and at that moment, it didn’t bear thinking about.