Lauren thinks for a moment. “I don’t think my mom ever had me … or herself … on a schedule. When I went into my first foster home, I couldn’t believe they said my bedtime was nine o’clock! I always stayed up until eleven or midnight.” Her face clouds over as she looks across the playground. “What if I’m like my mom?”
“You’re not,” Andrea says.
Lauren turns her head to look at her. “How do you know?”
“Because you just asked that question.”
* * *
Lauren pulls out the recipe for creamy spinach soup from among the cards in the table drawer and begins to read through it again.
Someone once told me by the time a child is five their eating habits are already established. I started you kids on vegetables and healthy food when you were just toddling around here and you’re still healthy eaters today! The green of this soup was never an issue because you loved the taste. Remember when Dad got so sick that one winter? I was practically spoon-feeding this along with tomato soup and chicken soup to him, and he got better quicker than the doctor expected! I always got our milk and cream from Bud’s. Remember going with me to the farm? I’m convinced the cows on his farm produced the best milk around, and it was worth the drive there every week. Use good half-and-half, fresh spinach, and farm-fresh chicken for this, and your kids will love it as much as you did.
Lauren pounds out a couple of boneless chicken breasts and puts them into a skillet to cook and glances again at the recipe. Dice half a cup of onion and half a cup of red pepper. Make sure you make the dices small. They should blend into the soup, not stick out. Lauren is careful as she dices, paying attention that the onion and red pepper are as small as she can make them, before placing them in a pot with a tablespoon of melted butter. She sautés them for a few minutes before adding one pound of thawed, chopped spinach, two cups of chicken stock, and two crushed garlic cloves. She looks at the recipe card again and moans: Salt and pepper to taste, and a touch of cayenne pepper. Just figure out what your family likes and season the soup according to that. “What does that even mean?” Lauren says aloud, sprinkling a bit of salt into the soup.
As it cooks for ten minutes, she melts a quarter cup of butter in a saucepan, adds a quarter cup of flour to it, and begins whisking it over low heat. Don’t let it scorch! Whisk for two minutes, the recipe says. After measuring out three cups of half-and-half, she pours it into the flour mixture and whisks until it is blended. Then she pours it into the pot with the spinach, letting it simmer for ten minutes. She wonders how much of a difference this half-and-half and chicken is that she purchased at Clauson’s, compared to what she could buy on a farm somewhere. She’s not familiar with any local farms, let alone one called Bud’s, and assumes the table she purchased and these recipes came from another town, or even another state. She hasn’t lifted the lid of the skillet since she began cooking the chicken, and when the ten minutes are up, she checks on it, and it is perfect. She cuts the breasts into small pieces and adds it to the soup, turns the stove burner off and covers the soup. To let the flavors blend, as the recipe card says.
One day, she hopes to venture out and make the crusty bread that went along with this recipe, but for tonight she’ll make grilled cheese sandwiches. She lifts the lid of the soup, spoons out a yummy-looking bite, and lets it cool before tasting it. Just as the recipe card instructed, she seasons it with a bit more salt, pepper, and cayenne pepper, and tastes it again. “So good,” she says to herself, looking into the pot. Andrea was right: she’s nothing like her mom.
TWELVE
September 1972
John makes his way to the workshop after Joan and the children are in bed. He hasn’t had the chance to be out here in over two weeks and picks up the table leg he started working on over a month ago. Standing it on top of the worktable, he tries to size it up, thinking about his next step, but he can’t think and pushes his forehead against the leg, tears pooling in his eyes. He shuts his eyes tight against them. He drove Joan to a follow-up appointment with Dr. Kim today and expected to take her out for lunch at her favorite restaurant.
“The cancer has spread to your lungs,” Dr. Kim said. “We need to be more aggressive with your treatment.”
Joan’s eyes filled with fear as John said, “Can you stop it? Can it go anywhere else?”
“We will try everything we can to stop it,” Dr. Kim said. “Yes, it could continue to spread. I’ve consulted with Dr. Levy, who is the best surgeon for this type of cancer, and my office will set up an appointment for you to meet with him as soon as possible.”
“I’ll need surgery?” Joan asked.
“If you need surgery,” Dr. Kim said, “Dr. Levy is the most qualified. We won’t know anything until he runs more tests.” She stepped away from her desk and sat next to Joan on the sofa in her office. “We’ll do everything we can, Joan, but you need to fight this. You need to stay positive and strong. Can you do that?” Tears covered Joan’s eyes, but she nodded. “I don’t know everything about this disease, Joan, but I promise you that I’ll fight alongside you.” Dr. Kim squeezed Joan’s hand and a tear fell over Joan’s cheek.
John did not ask about prognosis; he couldn’t bear to hear it, but deep down he knew. He could sense it in Dr. Kim’s voice and see it in her eyes. They set up the appointment to see Dr. Levy early the next week, and he took hold of Joan’s hand, leading her out of the office, through the parking lot, and to the car. He noticed again how fragile her hand had become just in the last month. As each day passed, he was convincing himself that she was getting better, but all that had changed today.
“John.” Joan’s voice was small. “What if—”
“No!” he said. “There is no ‘what if,’ Joan.”
She turned to look at him in the car. “Yes, there is. We both know there is.”
“We will do other things in addition to surgery and medication and treatments and whatever,” he said, grabbing her hand.
“What other things?”
He looked out the front window, staring at the Chevy pickup truck in the parking lot. “I don’t know. We’ll pray.”
“We are not praying people, John.”
“Then we will become praying people!” John snapped, controlling his voice. “We will find people who pray.”
She smiled. “John, you and I both know many people who have been prayed for and they died anyway.”
He nodded. “And lots have been prayed for and they’re still living today. Shouldn’t we at least try?”
John sets the table leg back down and puts his hands on the worktable, leaning on it. Tears drip onto the table, turning brown sawdust into a rich coffee color. “I don’t pray,” he says aloud. “I don’t know how. But I believe in you, God. I always have, I think. Ever since my grandparents told me about you when I was little. Even though my family never went to church, even though Joan and I don’t go, I believe you are who you say you are. I believe that you made the world. I believe that you’re the one who raised Jesus out of that grave. And I believe that you can heal Joan.” He begins to sob as he leans onto the worktable. “I know you can. Will you? Please. Please, God. Will you do something for her that only you can do?” His throat fills and he can’t finish.