Chapter 52 Georgia
Georgia
The five of us—me, Junie, the aunts, and Eddie (much to my annoyance)—sit in the doctor’s office waiting room, and Cece pulls
out a deck of cards. “Spades?”
We all declare our agreement, and the receptionist shushes us, then mutters something about this not being a sports bar. Unfortunately
for her, not a one of us can control the volume of our voice, which reaches an automatic ten once a deck of cards appears.
It’s been about a week since we wrapped All-Star in toilet paper, and since then we’ve been calling in favors left and right,
hopeful of making our way to the fifty grand we need. The Silvers have agreed to host a bingo night with a raffle—which sounded
at first mention like a much more aboveboard version of Cards. Dad spoke to his banker friends and they’re working on setting
a date for a pancake breakfast, with the bank offering a healthy sum in addition to funds raised. Michaela’s production of
Grease in a couple of weeks is on its way to polished, and they announced June’s as the good cause to receive ticket proceeds.
Not to mention, we have the county fair and Tina’s pies to sell next weekend.
I’ve scheduled a Good Hair Days meeting with all our helpers next week, to gather everyone and set the tone before each small group splinters off to do its thing.
Cece shuffles the cards with the efficiency of a Vegas pro, then begins to deal.
I snatch the cards she places in front of Eddie. “Four hands. He’s invisible for the duration of this visit.”
Eddie makes a face like he’s irritated, but he deserves it. I have no idea why he even came here today when I made it very
clear I am furious with him. Junie, I can reconcile trying to hold it close. But Eddie? He should’ve known better. He should’ve
pushed her. Sooner. Left some kind of breadcrumb for me. Anything before she had her first treatment, so I could’ve been there for her. I wonder if he even thought about me when he sat there
as her only support person. Did it make him feel like he was—once again—superior to me?
Cece shrugs at him. “Sorry, son. Better luck next time.”
“I know you’re pretending you can’t hear me, but I’m sorry. I was in an impossible position.” Eddie rakes a hand through his
hair, his eyes wide and desperate as they wait for me to acknowledge him. “What was I supposed to do? Betray Junie? Abandon
her? Not to mention, I was a mess about it the whole time too. I thought I was doing the best I could under the circumstances.”
“Seriously,” Junie says, raising a brow at me. “You need to quit this. It’s childish, and none of it is Eddie’s fault.” It’s not the
first or even second time she and I have had the conversation about how Eddie should be acquitted of all responsibility.
Even Tina pats him on the shoulder like she understands, pressing her lips into a sympathetic smile. Cece’s shoulders slump,
relaxed. And I know they both forgive him. It’s because they know how Junie is and would probably need extra hands to count
all the ways they’ve been twisted outside their will by her. They know how disarming and convincing she can be; in many ways,
it’s the story of my life.
But none of them know Eddie like I do. He could’ve done more, crafted an argument good enough to convince her.
He knows how to connect with people and speak to their reason.
He’s a doctor, for God’s sake; what more did he need to convince her?
And all that aside, he could’ve forced her somehow, and she would’ve forgiven him—probably even thanked him—in the end.
“Junie Scott,” a friendly nurse in pink scrubs calls out.
All of us stand and scurry in a line behind Junie like her overgrown ducklings.
The nurse’s cheer fades as she watches the lot of us continue back into the exam room area. “I’d suggest one or two folks
accompany the patient,” she says. “All of you won’t fit, and for patient privacy, we can’t have people hanging around in the
hallways.”
“I’m going in unless there’s a police officer or a court order in my way,” Cece says, already crossing the threshold to Junie’s
exam room.
The rest of us follow suit in a chorus of “Me too” and “Over my dead body” and pack into the small square room like sardines.
We leave the red-faced nurse to check Junie’s vitals at her station and make ourselves comfortable. Before long she drops
Junie back at the room and suggests again that some of us wait in the waiting room.
“Seriously, though,” Tina says, once the nurse is gone. “We need to hear direct from the doctor what the heck’s going on here.
Being an oncology nurse, how does she not get it?”
“I tried to tell y’all,” Junie says. “This would’ve been much easier to schedule as a call and just put everyone on speaker.”
“We can always quietly talk pies while we wait!” Tina says.
“Oh, that’s right, I have news,” Junie says. “The Silvers were glad to schedule a baking date at the church next week, right
before the fair, so everything will be fresh.”
Tina squeaks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Eddie is tucked away in a corner trying to make himself look small, and it’s a bit satisfying. “I’m a definite yes on baking too,” he says.
There’s a swift knock on the door, and the nurse cracks it open. “If we could keep things down in here, folks, that’d be great.”
Tina covers her mouth and blushes. “Guess I got a bit excited.”
“Speaking of which,” Junie says, “any more Sam updates?”
Tina’s rosy cheeks deepen in color. “He’s coming to bake pies. He said just let him know when.”
“Ooh, open commitment, even without a date,” I sing. “I like the sound of this guy.”
“And I spoke to Randy,” Tina says. “I let him know I didn’t think it was working out, and do you know what he said? ‘That’s
fine by me—we can just be roommates,’ and then the sorry son of a gun went back to his TV show.”
“Well, we can go right back to your house from here and help him pack,” Cece says.
Junie and I nod enthusiastically.
“He didn’t even fight for me. He didn’t even say he wanted to be together. He didn’t care one bit.”
“Sounds like grounds for an eviction,” I say.
Tina swats at the air. “I told him he’d need to move out, but I didn’t say when exactly.” She looks out the window, then pulls
in a deep breath. “I’ll be glad to see the back of him, but it’s sad, really. I never wanted it to work out this way, never
wanted there to be another man—as scandalous as it sounds. The plan was always to do it like we discussed, to build a life together, to love and support
each other. I tried, I really did, but I can’t let myself be walked all over anymore.”
Junie reaches out and takes Tina’s hands. “I may have only learned this recently, but it seems to me like a lot of times life
doesn’t work out our own way. I think all we can do is make the best of the life we get, going whichever way it pleases. Even
if it’s not the one we wanted.”
I feel a rumble of love in the pit of my tummy at Junie’s words.
I’ve been so focused on fixing and planning and caring and being unrelentingly mad at Eddie that I haven’t yet stopped to think about this part.
The part where Junie thinks about her illness and what it’s doing to her—what it might do to her—and has to carry the fact that she will suffer, that her body, her fate, is beyond her control.
It’s baggage she never picked up but can’t put down.
It’s yet another time in the past few days that I’m faced with the reality that I can’t do it for her. But this time it doesn’t
hurt as bad. There’s something about her here today, taking charge, persisting despite her fears, that makes me wonder if
she’s tougher than I give her credit for.
There’s another quick knock on the door, and in steps Dr. Richardson, humming to himself. He looks around at all of us before
his eyes land on Junie. “Didn’t leave a single one behind today, did you?”
Junie shrugs. “I spilled my guts and turns out this is what you get from my people.”
He drops onto the small rolling stool, sets his folder on the counter, and turns to face us. “So you’ve had one chemo treatment
so far, with another one scheduled for later this week. You had mentioned some pain as well that I’d like to discuss further,
but first, how was the first one?” The doctor begins to do a basic exam as he talks.
“That chemo is liquid yuck, but I’m feeling way better now,” Junie says. She motions at the rest of us. “Now that I’ve got
my people on board, I’ll have more help.”
The doctor nods. “It’s extremely helpful to have family support. Junie can expect to be sick after every chemo treatment,
and she might very well get progressively worse with each. Vomiting, nausea, diarrhea. Fatigue. Between treatments there is
time to recover, but sometimes it takes longer to feel better as the rounds continue. Changes in taste can occur as well.”
My vision begins to blur at the edges as I hear his description layered on top of my little sister. Our Junie. It’s more manageable when it’s hypothetical, and it’s a terribly sad thing when it happens to other people. But to Junie?
I think about her and the things that make her Junie. Her bubbly spirit, her insistent care for others, her fearless dreaming,
her syrupy laugh, her fire-red hair. Her obsession with rainbows. Her garden that she seems to charm into blooming each season,
rich and earthy just like the spirit inside her. Twizzlers, absurdly. And Puds, who adores her in a way that feels more human
than anything.
“What about her hair?” I ask. I swing my glance to Junie, who looks like she hasn’t asked this question yet.
The doctor pushes out a tight breath. “With this medication, it’s likely she’ll lose some, but the extent varies patient to
patient.”
The doctor continues into a discussion of the schedule, timing, and details about the specific medications she will be administered.
Eventually he runs out of explaining. “Last thing, Junie.” He turns to her. “How’s the hip pain you mentioned?”
Junie nods. “It’s pretty rough, and rest doesn’t seem to help. Ibuprofen either.”
The doctor’s brow furrows as he seems to think. “Let’s do a scan once you’re back up after the next treatment. Get a look
inside at what we can see. I think”—he turns back to the computer and begins clicking around—“yes, you had a baseline done
very early on, couple months ago now, but I’d like another look.”
“And what’s the prognosis?” Cece asks, the bravest of us.
The doctor looks to Junie, and she gives him a nod.
“The cancer is more advanced than we’d like.
We found it had spread to one lymph node when we did her first scan.
It’s an aggressive type that’s frequently seen in younger women—now that we have the genetic confirmation.
” He pauses. “Having hope is an important part of navigating the course of treatment. Deciding you’re giving it your all.
But I want you all to know that there are no guarantees.
We all love our statistics and find comfort in numbers, but I make it my practice not to give percentages—in all my years of practicing, they haven’t been helpful.
Every patient has a different health history, different genetics—not to mention new medications and protocols are always in development and this often isn’t reflected in old research statistics.
At the end of the day, each patient is an individual case, and we give each person our complete effort and attention.
What I will say is this: Junie’s cancer is aggressive and has spread.
Her treatment is of the utmost importance. ”
I thought I realized this when Junie told me herself, but there’s something about being here in this doctor’s office, with
this professional speaking frankly about my sister’s illness. It feels like doubling down. Like erasing the wiggle room.
This thing really could kill my baby sister.