Belle's Story

Chapter Seven

Belle still hadn’t told her children about the cancer. I braced myself for the call to Louisville, but as I lifted the receiver and punched in numbers, the phone made a detour to the West Coast. Will picked up immediately.

“Hey, there little bro. How’s life on the ole’ college campus?”

“Boring as hell. I finished another chapter in my dissertation today, but I tell ya, Deb, it’s like dragging a pen through peanut butter.”

“Do you have time to talk?”                                                                             

“Sure, is everything ok?”

“Yes. No. Not really.”

“Deb?”

“I’m in New York, with Belle. I was there when you called. She did a good job of faking it, but she’s sick Will, very sick. It’s bad.”

“How bad?”

I told Will about Belle’s cancer and the story and keeping things a secret. We agreed I needed to call Mom tonight. She had a right to know and there were probably legal things only she and Lawrence would know about. Will and I both understood Belle’s need to tell her story; it was her legacy. She’d kept it bottled up inside for so long and now that she was dying this was her last chance to share it. Our grandmother cared so much about family, neither of us could imagine her taking an important part of our family history to her grave. What we couldn’t figure out was the need for the secrecy or why I’d been selected as the one person to capture the tale. Maybe Belle was sharing it with me because I was there. Or maybe because I reminded her of Mae a little. In any event, Will suggested I stay to hear the end of the story, if I could keep Mom from rushing up here. The work would be waiting for me in Illinois when I returned. If there was something pressing, I could always do it from New York. I ended our call by giving Will a little grief about being a professional student. Talking to Will was a nice dose of support. It felt good to have someone around who knew the situation. But, before I could call Mom, I needed reinforcements. I dug through my toiletry kit until I found my stash of emergency courage in the form of a mini Toberlone chocolate bar.

Out of stall tactics, I dialed my mother’s number and held my breath.

“Hello?” I could hear CNN blaring in the background. Something about South Africa and apartheid.

“Hi, Mom it’s me.”

“Deborah, is that you? I can barely hear you.”

“It might help if you turned down the television.” Why she never turned off that thing before picking up the phone was one of those mysteries that would be solved only after I died and had my initial interview with God.

“Wait a minute.” I heard fumbling and loud thumps, then the piercing noise of random keys being pressed. After that, my mother managed to put the hand set down without too much more commotion, I heard the scraping of a wheelchair trying to move with a break still on. Then, my mother began screaming for her live-in aide.”

“Molly! Molly!” I pulled the receiver away from my ear to prevent being blasted again, Mom’s voice still coming in loud and clear. “Molly, turn that television off. I can’t hear a word Deborah is saying.” I pressed the index finger of my free hand against my temple as Mom came back to the line.

“Hi, Darling. How are you?”

“Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.” I paused for several moments, partly to mentally prepare myself and partly to make sure my mother wasn’t focusing on seventeen other things.