Ill Will

ILL WILL

Anne Hutcheson

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Ill Will

Copyright © 2012 Anne Hutcheson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5745-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5746-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5747-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012919735

iUniverse rev. date: 11/5/2012

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

To Lynn, who loves me just the way I am.

To Jill, who likes me just the way I am.

To Ian, who fought just the way I am.

Are you angry?

Yes, David said.

At me?

No.

You can’t be angry with someone who’s ill.

You haven’t lived very long, David said. That’s exactly who everyone is always angry with. Get ill sometime yourself and see.

—Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden

I was hurting and nobody could understand what I was feeling … The worst part was when they tried to make me feel better. There was no heart in it. That’s what got me mad.

—Lisa Jones, Broken, A Love Story

This is a work of fiction. Like all works of fiction, this novel features passages wherein the reader may find himself/herself identifying with a particular character. If this should happen, please look inside your heart.

I

SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD in the year 2006, a designer has surely taken hold of a doctor’s office and made it something comfortable and inviting—a little color perhaps or a stylish chair to sit in while waiting. Not so this gynecologist’s office—still beige and generally unwelcoming—after all these years. Of course, the gown itself is always a thing of wonder, with almost all of the original bland color washed out of it and enough fabric to wrap around oneself a couple of times.

Penney Divan sat on the edge of the exam table swathed in just such a garment. Her red-polished toes poked out at the bottom. Her red tousled curls framed her head at the top of the getup. Penney’s mind was drifting from the need to redecorate this space to the color samples in her office at work, waiting to be chosen for areas under construction at the high school where she served as principal. As her attention shifted from beige tones to shades of blue and green, Dr. Foley, her gynecologist, banged into the room as was his style, interrupting her reverie among the color choices.

Hi, Penney! How are you today? he bubbled. He was dressed in khakis and sported an orange polka-dot tie that drew the eye to his very freckled face.

I’m doing well. Thank you, Penney happily reported.

And where have you been? You know I live vicariously through your travels.

Well, we’ve made our usual trips to Mexico and the West Coast, where our granddaughters are growing up much too quickly. Right after graduation in June we also traveled to the Italian lake region, where we hiked our socks off and thankfully walked off all the tempting pasta we consumed as well.

Ah, someday, Penney, someday. You just keep traveling for you and for me. Now, how does that football team of yours look?

Lean and mean, Penney taunted with a smile and a wink.

We’ll see here pretty soon, won’t we, my dear? Now, let’s get a look at you.

Penney made this yearly visit nine years in a row with this particular doctor, who was always superficially pleasant. He would ask about her travels and the high school while moving around her body with precision. In the end, he would declare her boring and remind her to come see him if she needed to, but she was told to return in a year.

Having completed the exam that day, Dr. Foley paused with a thoughtful look on his face and said, Let’s just have another look at that left breast. Deftly, he palpated the breast with an untoward concentration.

No, it doesn’t appear to be a mass after all. Giving no evidence he was aware of the alarm on her face, the doctor prattled on about a few inconsequential things, ending with And don’t forget your mammogram. He turned and walked out of the exam room with a wave of his hand.

She was still reeling from the word mass. Repeatedly she opened and shut her mouth, but no sound would surface. The beige walls moved in and out around her, as if she were tumbling through a tunnel. The need for light and air held her momentarily spellbound. No mass, no mass, but what mass? And remember a mammogram. While she always did, why remind her now?

She slowly slid off the exam table, removed the faded gown, and replaced it with her own clothes without thinking, prey to habit. She checked out, went down the stairs and out the door, and still no words would come. Long-practiced smiles and gestures were what she left with that day.

However, the pre-opening-day in-service activities at the high school quickly brought her back to reality when she arrived at work. There was much to prepare for the return of the teaching staff. Returning home that evening, she shared her day with her husband, Jack, but excluded the doctor’s visit. After all, Dr. Foley had decided there was no mass. Therefore, there was nothing to worry about really. There was the first day of school to prepare for, the wedding of her youngest child, Ginger, to anticipate, and yes, a mammogram to schedule.

As she prepared for bed that night, a quick inventory in the mirror reflected a woman who had truly taken good care of herself. Yes, Penney, she had to say, you are looking good. A stroke at the age of seven caused by a rock thrown on the playground had left her with weakness and a slight limp on her right side, now barely discernible thanks to her active lifestyle. Trim, voluptuous body; taut skin; long, thick, curly hair; carefully manicured nails; and the ever-perceptive mind—all were in very, very good shape. So then there would be nothing to worry about. The weeks ahead had the first days of school coming, meditation sessions, massages, facials, manicures, pedicures, and morning exercises to balance out the workload. There was also a long weekend over Labor Day, when she and her husband would celebrate their thirty-ninth wedding anniversary in New York City. This yearly and much-anticipated weekend would include Broadway shows, sightseeing, long walks in Central Park, great food, and shopping.

She kissed her husband good night that night and lingered a little longer in his arms. Jack, the love of her life, was growing mellower as the years rolled by, though no less caught up in his work as an analyst. He was well respected in his field of fiber optics communication. A lifetime of business travel and lengthy business dinners during those trips had filled out his frame. It looked good on him, though, as he still sported a healthy head of blond curls, a carefully trimmed beard, and a robust jaunt to his step. He also had a good sense of humor and could easily make Penney smile, which she did now. He was most assuredly her best friend. Life was unmistakably good, and all was well.

Next morning, the alarm went off at 4:05, awakening Penney to the sounds of drums and soft percussion. She meditated briefly and then pulled on socks and tennis shoes. Moving as quietly as possible, she made her way downstairs, where workout equipment awaited her. She turned on the TV and then climbed onto the elliptical trainer. After twenty minutes and working up a slow sweat, she moved to stretching, free weights, and floor exercises. Then she quietly moved back upstairs and prepared the espresso maker. Penney made an espresso for herself and then sat down at her computer to answer an early-morning e-mail from her boss and to check others that may have come in overnight.

She packed up her laptop to take to work and then prepared some cherries to also take with her. She showered and preened, coming out looking good again. She kissed her still-sleeping husband good-bye and went out the door. As she turned her Mercedes down the driveway, she took three deep breaths. Waiting for her at work would be a massive construction project, two assistants ready to help only when the assignments interested them, and reams and reams of paper to produce new handbooks, policies, and directions for the opening days of school. The thirty-minute drive to the high school allowed her to think through the day ahead and to try to divine all that might transpire. This lofty thinking task was accompanied daily by an eclectic mix of very loud music.

The day turned out, as usual, to be busy and a little chaotic at times. One moment she would be sitting in a meeting to finalize policy, another she would be going over budget requisitions with her secretary, and next she would be decked out in a hard hat, looking over the construction areas and their progress. The days really left little time for private reflection, though she did make that mammogram appointment for the week after the wedding and at a time after the workday.

Penney had to call Ginger and her husband-to-be that evening to finalize a few details for the wedding and the reception. The printers had prepared the poem Penney had written for their wedding in a special font, and they’d framed it, as well. The