The dance floor was crowded with tuxedos and sparkling evening gowns, creating a breathing, living organism of excitement; it was New Year’s Eve at the large corporate building that housed Whittaker Industries, and the collective ensemble glittered like a bevy of Christmas gifts waiting to be handed out.
Leaning against the rail of a balcony overlooking the party was a stunningly beautiful woman, Elizabeth Whittaker, who wore a seductive black evening gown. A hint of a smile adorned her face as she felt the enthusiasm and energy generated from the people down below. A man in a tuxedo inched close behind her.
“Dance with me,” he commanded, putting a hand on her arm. She moved slightly away, her eyebrows rising disdainfully. “I’ll have you know, I’m a married woman.”
His smile deepened. “Believe me, I love married women,” he assured her, “especially—”
Her interruption was curt. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you have several silly married women just dangling, thinking you have eyes only for them.”
“No”—he held up a hand—“I was only going to say that I especially love . . .” He looked hard at her.
She waited, watching him before she finally prompted impatiently, “And what do you especially love?”
“Not what, who,” he corrected. Her eyes narrowed as she drummed her fingers against the top of the rail. Finally, she sighed. “And whom do you especially love?”
“The woman I’m married to,” he murmured, seeing a reluctant smile start to glimmer in her eyes. He leaned closer, but she twisted away so she could look straight at him for a long moment. Then, just as quickly, she pulled his head down to whisper directly into his ear.
“Scoundrel!” The voice was throaty and sensual and made his knees weak. Then her lips fastened on his for a kiss so loving and deep it made him slightly dizzy.
Below them, a small orchestra lifted instruments in a fluid motion on the conductor’s cue and began playing; within moments the room was filled with a dazzling array of movements flowing with the timeless rhythm of the waltz.
“Dance with me?” She smiled, dazzling him all over again.
“Whatever you want, you’ve got it,” he said helplessly. Hand in hand, they ran lightly down the stairs.
Once they swept into the crowd, it wasn’t long before everyone began voluntarily moving back to watch the grace and grandeur of this special couple, a man and a woman who had adoring eyes only for each other.
Their movements intimately in tune, Michael and Elizabeth Whittaker were so enchanted by the beauty of the music and each other, they had no idea they were the only ones left on the floor. They were the center of attention, but had no clue until the dance ended and spontaneous applause erupted. Startled, they looked around, bewildered.
He merely laughed with pleasure, while Elizabeth’s hand flew to her face. Still holding hands with his wife, Michael ducked into one of the hallways to escape, wanting some privacy. Elizabeth’s face was pink; she had totally forgotten she was in a public place. How could she still feel like a newlywed after being married to this man for so many years? Michael’s face beamed.
He was consumed with the pleasure of knowing he was exactly where he wanted to be with precisely the right person. Life was good, so very, very good. Still laughing, he led the way into his empty office.
The door was soon firmly shut and locked.
Elizabeth, now relaxing, smiled back at Michael, knowing there was no place in this world she would rather be than here, with her very foolish husband. Her color deepened at the way he was looking at her. He loved it that after so many years of marriage she was still vulnerable enough to blush.
“I love you, Mrs. Whittaker,” he said softly, holding her closer and closer. She held up a hand against his chest.
“And I think . . . ,” she whispered, looking at him and then dropping her eyes to his mouth.
“You think?” he asked, doing the same.
“Yes, I think I might be able to . . .” She breathed deeply as he pulled her closer.
“You might be able to . . . ,” he prompted, kissing her forehead.
“To say . . . ,” she whispered, her voice low, her breathing shallow.
“Say . . .” He leaned closer, breathing in her fragrance.
“The same thing,” she finally breathed, closing her eyes, ready to lose herself in him. He suddenly stopped moving, which was enough to cause her eyes to fly open and see dark eyes brimming with laughter.
“You love Mrs. Whittaker, too?”
She blinked and threw back her head in laughter, then they held on to each other as they both dissolved into giggles.
“You wretch; you are a wretch,” she gasped, “and I intend to go home—” Her last word was cut off in a definitive kiss that went on and on . . . then there was no more conversation. Their bodies swiftly folded into each other, enjoying a familiar and exciting duet of touching and kissing . . .
The small rattle of a hospital door jerked Michael awake, the dream that was a memory shattered like glass breaking. Quickly he looked toward the bed. No movement. Good. God knows she needs to rest.
He quietly met the doctor right inside the room. Michael motioned toward the hall and they didn’t speak until the door was firmly closed behind them.
“Well?” The question was stark, asked roughly by a man sandwiched between a myriad of dreadful possibilities. Michael already knew a stroke, the first suspected cause, had mercifully been ruled out. He could barely breathe waiting for the news.
Records in hand, the doctor walked over and sat down on a nearby padded bench. He hit with the good news first. “It’s not a brain tumor as we feared, Michael.”
“Thank God.” Limp with relief, he sagged against the wall, his eyes closing briefly. Nothing, he was sure, could be worse than that suspicion.
“Then what is it? Do you know?”
Dr. Gordon Jones didn’t like giving bad news to his patients; it was that much harder when it was a friend. He said nothing, merely held out a piece of paper. Michael looked at it and his mouth went dry and his heart was suddenly beating so hard his chest hurt. The noise in his head was deafening.
Gordon was speaking, but Michael just looked at him, dazed. “What?”
“Multiple sclerosis, as you may know, is chronic and incurable, but there are some new therapies that might buy us some time. My recommendation is to get her started on one as soon as possible. And Michael, there is every reason to be hopeful. Research is getting closer and closer. I don’t want you, or her, to forget that. There is every reason to remain very optimistic.”
Gordon wondered if his friend even heard him as he saw the stunned look, the wash of countless emotions sweep over Michael’s face. He was sorry. But there was nothing he could do. “Do you want me to tell her? Or would you rather—”
Michael shook his head immediately. “God, I don’t want to. But I’ll try . . . tomorrow. After I see how she is. Do you . . . think she’ll be better?”
Gordon shrugged. “Possibly. Hopefully. I’ll be here early to check on her.”
Michael nodded. “I’ll be here.” He looked hard at the doctor. “You are quite sure?” His voice was colorless.
“Completely sure. I’ve been consulting with the best neurologist in the city. He concurs. The MRI shows more than one lesion. Lesions or scarring is the result of the inflammation,” he explained, “and that’s causing the symptoms. The loss of coordination, the spasticity. That will, hopefully, be temporary. However, there may be some residual impairments. Or not. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
They stood and Gordon gave Michael a reassuring handshake. “Don’t forget, there is a great deal of promising research going on.” With these hopeful words hanging in the air, he left.
Michael walked into the silence of a deserted parking lot, shadows from the streetlights making it an eerie and unfamiliar place. He got into his car carefully, his movements as weighted and as heavy as his spirit.
When he arrived home the house was dark and looked as lonely as he felt. He entered through the back door, flipping on lights as he moved from room to room. He retrieved yet another newspaper from the front porch and tossed it on top of all the others that had been left unread over the past days. Last month it had seemed imperative to keep pace with current events nationally and internationally. Now the only event he was concerned about was sheltered in a small hospital room with uncertainties shrouding it.
Eventually the night began bowing out to morning and Elizabeth woke early, with no memories of the dreams that raced and snatched through the night, leaving only a dim trace of confused and scattered emotions.
Slowly, tentatively, her blue eyes opened to a shadowed room, a few faint brushes of gray etched on the drawn shades.
Tight, anxious breath escaped in a singular sigh of relief. Gone was the awful spinning, like an out-of-control top, and now that the world was no longer twirling it was soundless, the quiet so rich she felt she could snuggle down into it. This was not the case days ago, or was it weeks? Time had little meaning then. A second had taken on the weight of hours as she waited and prayed and hoped and bargained for life to shrink back to normal.
That infamous moment when she had got up in the middle of the night and stepped out of bed into a frenetic world of swirling motion with earsplitting calamity was too real a nightmare. She no longer had command over her own body, nothing worked, it was too horrible . . .
But now, in its place was the world she knew, had known all her life, one of checks and glorious balances, of gravity and reality that could not do what was unintended. The relief was enormous. How long had it taken for this to be resurrected? Had it happened a month ago? Two days ago? She was clueless.
Elizabeth stretched timidly, rewarded as a smile began to erase the worry from her face. Everything worked! Her legs were just where they were supposed to be. She could feel them and almost laughed out loud at the pleasure of it all.
She looked toward the clock; it was very early. She should be sleeping. Then her eyes caught the play of light from the early morning sun on the wall and she was mesmerized. How could something that was nothing have such energy? She wondered what music made it dance so lively.
When she noticed the clock again she was astonished that thirty minutes had passed. Suddenly the early morning reached for her, pulling grateful eyes slowly shut, and she drifted off to sleep a little longer. Her last conscious thought was heartfelt prayer: Thank You, God!
Hours later, with her eyes still closed, Elizabeth could feel Michael’s presence. A smile started lifting her heart, and when he leaned near enough to kiss her forehead, blue eyes opened slowly, cautiously.
“Michael,” she breathed, embracing the smile he gave her and giving one in return; she was so happy to see him.
His heart jumped. “Elizabeth darling, how are you today? Better?” His eyes were encouraging but the voice was tentative.
“I can hardly believe how much better I am today; it’s a miracle.”
He had missed the sound of her voice, he suddenly realized. It had been several tense days, and she had been too dizzy, too sick to do more than slur a few words together, or to whisper, her voice ragged and strange. Now it was a sound that moved him nearly to tears.
Her voice was a husky alto and danced with the cadence of cultured Virginia at its southern best, like a pretty woman wrapped in fur—and nothing else. He cleared his throat. “Nothing could make me happier, Beth.”
Impulsively she held out her arms. “Watch.” Both arms straight out from her sides, she held his gaze, then shut her eyes and slowly brought both hands with knowledge to touch the tip of her nose. She felt his exultation even before he hugged her.
“Elizabeth, my God, that is wonderful. It’s incredible.” Yesterday she couldn’t do this simple thing. That she could today was too wonderful to put into words.
Moments later the door swung open and Dr. Gordon Jones walked in, shuffling papers. He was a tall, solid man who was often unkempt. Either his hair was in need of a trim or his shirt was skewed because buttons done in a perpetual hurry were mismatched; there was too little precious time to waste on nonessentials. His appearance was deceiving because he was a first-rate doctor. And the kind of friend who’d meet you anywhere at a moment’s notice if you needed him.
Elizabeth clutched her husband’s hand a little tighter as Gordon came closer. The doctor sat down in the small rolling chair, dropped the charts on the side of the bed, and smiled. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Incredibly better. Whatever is in that liquid you have dripping through my veins? Why, it must be magic!” Her smile became a little smaller as she asked the next reluctant question. “Gordon, what happened to me?” She gripped Michael’s hand even tighter.
Gordon’s eyes glanced toward Michael, eyebrows raised. He noted the slight shake and cleared his throat and donned his professional cloak. “Elizabeth, the good news is that it’s not a brain tumor—”
Her shocked exclamation cut him off. “No one told me that was ever considered. Michael, did you know?” Astonished, she looked at Michael and saw his face redden.
“I didn’t want to worry you, Elizabeth, until we knew for sure. Remember, you weren’t in any shape to . . . discuss this.” He squeezed her hand, his face anxious.
Elizabeth’s attention riveted on the doctor. “So . . . now do we know—for sure? Do you know, Michael?” Again this was directed at her husband, but he kept his eyes averted while he frowned.
“Gordon told me last night, Elizabeth. You were asleep and I wasn’t about to wake you. I was going to tell you this morning, but, well, there wasn’t time. Gordon can explain it better than I. And then you can get mad at him; you know, the bearer of bad news and all.” He was so nervous he hardly knew what he was saying. His hoped-for levity fell flat as a burst water balloon; he suddenly felt clammy, every bit of him dreading what was to come. Then he heard Elizabeth’s voice, felt her hand leave his.
“I would never get angry at you, Michael, for telling me the truth.” The words were quiet, but he heard the reproach and was momentarily surprised. What had he done wrong?
“Gordon, if it’s not a brain tumor, what is it?”
With a neutral voice he gave her the clinical details.
“Multiple sclerosis, probably the milder form, which is relapsing/ remitting. You’ve responded well to the treatment . . .” He continued talking, giving her an overview and then a detailed clinical description of the disease. Most of it she couldn’t understand.
As she tried to listen intently to everything he said, one word bolted from the rest and she repeated it in disbelief.
“Incurable?” In others’ lives, she knew there were some things medicine couldn’t cure, but now that it was personal, she couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. However, there is every reason to be optimistic. Research is coming up with more and more information. It’s merely a matter of time before we have a cure. Or at the least better treatment. There are already some therapies currently available that may slow down the progression. So again, there is every reason to hope.”
The next question was asked with the confident expectation of someone who has been healthy all her life. It demanded a suitable answer. “What can I do to keep this from ever happening again?”
She watched him shake his head. “I don’t know how to answer that definitively, Elizabeth. You may never have another attack, or exacerbation, again. We don’t know what triggers an episode, though there are theories. As far as what to do, continue maintaining a good, healthy lifestyle with moderate exercise, and keep stress to a minimum.”
Incredulous, she could find no words to say, but it was Michael’s voice that spoke for her. “Come on, Gordon, surely there has to be something!” Michael interjected. “Someone, somewhere in the world must be doing something—” He stopped as the doctor slowly shook his head. “Money is not a problem; I can mortgage the business or sell it if the insurance won’t pay. There has to be something more . . . anything?” Michael insisted.
Gordon held up a hand, keeping his face devoid of emotion. At this moment he wasn’t a friend, he was the doctor. “There is nothing that has been scientifically proven. There are therapies people have used in other parts of the world that do not have the backing of any qualitative double-blind studies that any scientist in our country would accept. And as for throwing money at this disease, there are plenty of people out there who would be delighted to take your cash, Michael, but you would do just as well to flush it down the toilet. Same difference. Believe me. I wouldn’t tell you this if it weren’t true.”
They listened as Gordon went on to say hopeful things about research, but the only thing they heard was the sadness in his voice.
Finally, Elizabeth couldn’t bear to hear anymore. She wanted to get away from this place; she wanted to put it behind her, and the sooner that happened, the better.
“Gordon,” she interrupted, “when can I go home?”
“Another six days or so. You have to be weaned off these drugs slowly, they are very potent. Once we do that, you’ll be discharged. In the meantime, I’ve called the local MS chapter and asked them to send some literature to you. I also want you to see the neurologist I’ve consulted about your case. In about a month, he’ll be able to check for any residual neurological weaknesses and also monitor you over time. Any questions?”
There were none. Dr. Jones left with a perfunctory smile and a last bit of encouragement. With the shutting of the door there was an echo of another door slamming shut, the one defining a prior life set apart from this uncertain present. Today would forever be tagged with the identity of before and after diagnosis. Elizabeth almost heard it, but when she caught sight of Michael’s stunned face, her only thoughts were to make it better. To fix it and put a smile back on his face.
She glanced at the window and bit her lip. The normalcy that was framed by the small window beckoned. She realized the sun was still shining, the sky still blue and cloudless, and suddenly this constancy was enough to steady her. She instinctively knew they simply could not make sense out of this now; there was simply too much coming at both of them from all sides. Too much, too fast. She looked to her husband and realized that “reality” was her love for this man and his for her.
Their life together was much too real to be held hostage by the confusion in this room. Instinctively, she pushed it as far away from them both as she could, and by doing that felt her spirits lift.
It occurred to her she had not looked into a mirror in God knew how long. It was almost an electric shock that her outward appearance had been left to the hands of strangers.
She wanted her clothes and her makeup, and she wanted them now. She knew if she looked good, she would feel good. Hope swelled as she thought that it could very well be that simple. She gave Michael a smile that was like catching the sun. He blinked.
“Michael, go home and get my makeup—everything I left on the vanity in our bathroom. And please get some decent clothes. I’m sick to death of hospital gowns.”
Irrationally, his own spirits brightened at the sight of his brave wife and an answering smile met hers. She looked as beautiful as the day they had married. But more than that, the sparkle was back in her eyes.
“What are you grinning at, Mr. Whittaker?” She took his hand and squeezed it.
“Oh, just thinking about going home and having to take the trash out,” he teased, hearing the sarcasm dripping from her voice as she said, “Oh you . . . you . . . hopeless romantic.”
His relieved arms wrapped around her. “In truth, I was thinking how nice it is to have you back. I’ve been damn worried. I still am, frankly.” Her hand touched his mouth to still those words and then she began to stroke his face.
“You worry too much. Stop it immediately,” she commanded, and then her face became serious. “I’m going to be just fine. Perfect. I promise.” She tweaked his nose just before she pulled him closer.
They were interrupted by the door swinging open and there stood her mother, Virginia Mae Bartlette, wearing a fluid mauve dress with rows of double buttons down the front and a darker gauzy scarf tied around the neck. Her white hair was styled to perfection, and there were matching dark mauve hoops in her ears. A determined smile was pasted on her face.
The couple on the bed jerked apart like teenagers caught necking on the couch. “Mother?” Elizabeth didn’t sound too pleased.
“Virginia Mae, you said you weren’t going to stop by today.” Michael frowned and tightened his grip on Elizabeth’s hand. He did not want her upset.
“I know, I know; I changed my mind. A mother’s prerogative.” Virginia Mae sniffed. “I decided my place at a time like this should be with my daughter.” With stoic demeanor and squared shoulders, she walked over to the bed and looked down at Elizabeth.
The composure lasted for a few brief moments before it began, inevitably, to crumble. The lips began to quiver and eyes started to glisten and then tears began to fall. She threw her hands over her face and dropped like a stone to the side of the bed. “Shoot! I wasn’t going to cry.”
Elizabeth looked helplessly at Michael, who dutifully went over to put a comforting arm around his mother-in-law. Michael had known the instant she entered the room it was a sure bet that exactly this would happen.
How many times had he done this over the years, even before old Mr. Bartlette passed away? Even though it was what she always expected, Virginia Mae did not take bad news well at all. Despite being a woman whose life had been comfortable, nothing was ever as right as it should be, and for that she was always personally affronted. It was a dichotomy that grated on everyone who knew her at one time or another.
“It’s all right, Mother. I’m doing so much better. Please don’t worry so,” Elizabeth begged, hoping to quell those tears. Michael remained there, gently patting his mother-in-law’s back, tight-lipped as he watched while his wife consoled her mother.
When the tears stopped and she had blown her nose, Virginia Mae looked at her daughter. “I know you’re just putting on a brave front for me. You always do, just like your father. Mercy, Elizabeth, I miss him so.” The sadness settled on the older woman’s face like a veil, revealing at the same time a vulnerability Virginia Mae tried hard not to display.
“I know, Mother. I’m sorry. I wish I could make it better.” She hugged her mother close, sharing this grayness. Michael, mouth stretched into a thin line, watched his wife doing what he had so often seen her do—comforting, consoling, and then brightening her mother with a loving word or anecdote. He waited a little impatiently for all this to take place, highly irritated at seeing his wife, who was the sick one here, having to expend energy shoring up her healthy but unhappy mother.
Virginia Mae, more composed now, took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. Gazing straight into her daughter’s eyes, she suggested something she had obviously thought a great deal about.
“Ever since Michael called me last night, I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out how to help. What could I do for you?” Virginia Mae shut her eyes, sighed, and then gazed lovingly at her daughter’s face. “Then I knew what had to be done. I knew you wouldn’t want to be inundated with inquiries from all the people who know you. It would be tiresome and exhausting and, frankly, it’s nobody’s business. I don’t think anyone needs to know about this; don’t you think that’s for the best?”
Surprised, Elizabeth wondered what her mother was really trying to say. Elizabeth wasn’t in the habit of keeping things from friends but, on the other hand, it would be very nice not to have to talk about this. Good Lord, she had to get used to it herself. This could be a good idea. But even as she slowly nodded her agreement, Elizabeth suddenly realized that the underlying reason was a little more personal.
With a diagnosis like this, Virginia Mae’s daughter would no longer be perfect . . .
Michael understood completely and was furious. “Virginia Mae, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. My God, we’re talking—” Michael began to protest but was immediately cut off.
“How dare you! I am not ashamed of my daughter; how on earth could you possibly think such a thing? I am merely trying to circumvent nosey, unwanted questions from people who have no business knowing a darn thing about us. That’s all.” She glared at him before settling concerned eyes on her daughter. “Elizabeth understands,” she said. “You do, don’t you, darling?”
Elizabeth could honestly agree that the fewer questions from others, the better. It would be preferable, at least for now. “I do, Mother, but has anyone told Father Joe? I think he should know. Surely that would be all right?” Virginia Mae looked at Michael, who in turn answered.
“No, I’ve been so busy with juggling work, coming here, and keeping Kellan informed, I haven’t had the time.” Actually it had never occurred to him to call their priest.
“I feel like someone’s been praying for me, I am so much better.”
Virginia Mae immediately spoke. “Well, of course I’ve been praying for you, nonstop, Elizabeth. I’ve been begging God to give me the strength to help you.”
Michael concurred peripherally. “We’ve all been very worried, Elizabeth.”
Was that the same as having a prayer lifted up for her specifically? Elizabeth wondered, but let that thought slip away. Her mother had now taken hold of one of her hands again, stroking it and then talking, a little fretfully this time.
“Carol is back in town, I think for good. Her mother has done everything but actually tell me the divorce has finally gone through. I spoke with her three days ago, and I was so upset. I told her you were in the hospital, that we didn’t know what was wrong, but I think, knowing my sister Julia, that Carol is going to come visiting very soon. Of course, it’s up to you what you tell her. But I would advise anything you do tell her be in confidence.” Although her voice was implacable, Virginia Mae hastily added, “But, of course, it’s up to you.”
Ever positioned between these two women who had been an integral part of all his adult life, Michael was trying hard not to say anything. He could see how this old woman manipulated his wife, but Elizabeth had never been able to recognize this. She was too busy standing up for her mother, smoothing the way, making things all right.
Without surprise, he watched as his wife, a determined glint in her weary eye, cajoled a smile from Virginia Mae.
Trying not to tap his foot impatiently, Michael watched until it finally looked as if Virginia Mae was smiling enough to make her daughter happy.
He stood up and announced it was time for everyone to leave and let Elizabeth get some rest. “Come, Virginia Mae, I’ll take you home. No? You have your car? Fine, I’ll walk you to it.” He leaned over and brushed Elizabeth’s face with a light kiss. “I’ll be back later,” he promised, but she couldn’t help noticing the worried shadows on his face.