Dolores helped Claire into the wheelchair, then positioned her slippered feet on the footrests. Back to the room they went.
After that, the waiting was unbearable. Meghann paced the small hospital room; Bobby squeezed Claire’s hand so tightly she lost all feeling in her fingers. Sam came in every few minutes.
Finally, Dolores returned. “The docs are ready for you, Claire.”
Little things got Claire through the wheelchair ride without screaming—the warm pressure of Bobby’s hand on her shoulder, the easy patter of Dolores’s monologue, the way Meghann stayed close.
“Well. Here we are.” Dolores stopped at the office door and knocked.
Someone called out, “Come in.”
Dolores patted Claire’s shoulder. “We’re praying for you, sweetie.”
“Thanks.”
Meghann took control of the wheelchair and guided Claire into the office. There were several doctors in the room. Dr. Weissman was the first to speak. “Good morning, Claire.”
“Good morning,” she answered, trying not to tense up. The men waited for Meghann to sit down. Finally they realized that she wasn’t going to.
Dr. Weissman clicked on the viewbox. There were Claire’s films. Her brain. She grabbed the wheels and rolled forward.
She studied the film, then looked up at the men. “I don’t see any tumor.”
Dr. Weissman smiled. “I don’t, either. I think we got it all, Claire.”
“Oh my God.” She’d hoped for this, prayed for it. She’d even worked to believe it, but now she saw that her belief had stood on a shaky foundation.
“Initial lab reports indicate that it was a low-grade astrocytoma,” he said.
“Not a glioblastoma multiforme? Thank God.”
“Yes, that was good news. Also, it was benign,” Dr. Weissman said.
One of the other doctors stepped forward. “You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Austin. Dr. Weissman did an incredible job. However, as you know, most brain tumors will regenerate. Twenty-eight percent of all—”
“Stop!” Claire didn’t realize that she’d yelled out the word until she saw the startled looks on the doctors’ faces. She glanced at Meg, who nodded encouragingly. “I don’t want to hear your statistics. It was benign, right?”
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but benign in the brain is a rather misleading term. All brain tumors can ultimately be fatal, benign or not.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Limited space in the head and all that,” Claire said. “But it’s not a cancer that’s going to spread through my body, right?”
“Correct.”
“So it’s gone now and it was benign. That’s all I want to hear. You can talk to me about treatments from here on, but not about chances and survival rates. My sister immersed herself in your numbers.” She smiled at Meg. “She thought I wasn’t listening, but I was. She had a file that she kept on the kitchen counter—a file she labeled Hope. In it, there were dozens of personal accounts of people who’d been diagnosed with brain tumors more than seven years ago and were still alive. You know what they all had in common?”
Only Dr. Weissman was smiling.
“They’d all been told they’d live less than six months. You guys are like Seattle weathermen in June. All you ever predict is rain. But I’m not taking an umbrella with me. My future is sunny.”
Dr. Weissman’s smile grew. He crossed the room and bent down to her ear. “Good for you.”
She looked up at him. “There are no words to thank you.”
“Joe Wyatt is the man you should thank. Good luck to you, Claire.”
As soon as she was back in her room, Claire broke down and cried. She couldn’t seem to stop. Bobby held her tightly, kissing her bald head, until finally she looked up at him. “I love you, Bobby.”
He kissed her fiercely.
She clung to him, then whispered in his ear, “Go get our little girl. I want to tell her Mommy’s going to be okay.”
He hurried out.
“You were amazing in there,” Meg said when they were alone.
“My new motto is: Don’t screw with Baldie.”
“I won’t,” Meg grinned.
Claire reached for her sister’s hand, held it. “Thanks.”
Meg kissed Claire’s screw-marked forehead and whispered, “We’re sisters.” It was answer enough. “I’ll go get Mama now. She’ll probably bring a film crew.” With a smile, Meghann left the room.
“The tumor is gone,” Claire practiced saying aloud to the empty room.
Then she laughed.
Meghann found everyone in the cafeteria. Bobby was already there, talking to Sam. Mama was at the food line, signing autographs. The Bluesers and Alison were sitting in the corner, talking quietly among themselves. The only one missing was Joe.
“And there I was,” Mama was saying to a rapt audience, “all ready to take the stage in a dress that wouldn’t zip up. I am not,” she said, laughing prettily, “a flat-chested woman, so y’all can imagine—”
“Mama?” Meghann said, touching her arm.