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Next Time I'm Gonna Dance
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 274 pagine4 ore
- Editore:
- Linda Rettstatt
- Pubblicato:
- Oct 1, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781370008346
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
Facing possible death forces Emmie Steele to examine her life. She has plenty she could regret--like her choice in a husband. The husband that walked away in the midst of her first diagnosis and treatment. She's surprised to discover her greatest regret is that she never learned to dance. Now as she faces breast cancer for the second time, Emmie learns to dance with both her feet and her heart. She's fortunate to have family and friends who care enough to stand by her and to carry when she needs help. She's also fortunate enough to have Sonny, who's loved her since their days in high school.
Informazioni sul libro
Next Time I'm Gonna Dance
Lunghezza: 274 pagine4 ore
Descrizione
Facing possible death forces Emmie Steele to examine her life. She has plenty she could regret--like her choice in a husband. The husband that walked away in the midst of her first diagnosis and treatment. She's surprised to discover her greatest regret is that she never learned to dance. Now as she faces breast cancer for the second time, Emmie learns to dance with both her feet and her heart. She's fortunate to have family and friends who care enough to stand by her and to carry when she needs help. She's also fortunate enough to have Sonny, who's loved her since their days in high school.
- Editore:
- Linda Rettstatt
- Pubblicato:
- Oct 1, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781370008346
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Linda Rettstatt is a best-selling and award-winning author of Women’s Fiction and Mainstream Contemporary Romance. In March of 2012 her novel, LOVE, SAM, won the prestigious EPIC eBook Award for Mainstream Fiction. And in April, 2016, LADIES IN WAITING won the EPIC eBook Award for Contemporary Fiction. Rettstatt grew up in the small town of Brownsville in Southwestern Pennsylvania, but now lives and works in NW Mississippi.
Correlati a Next Time I'm Gonna Dance
Anteprima del libro
Next Time I'm Gonna Dance - Linda Rettstatt
Next Time I’m Gonna Dance
~ ~ ~
Linda Rettstatt
Next Time I’m Gonna Dance
3rd Act Books
Second Edition, © 2016, Linda Rettstatt
Smashwords Edition
ISBN: 9781370008346
Cover design by Trisha FitzGerald
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all whose lives have been shadowed by breast cancer.
To quote Emmie: I hope you dance—for whatever that means in your life.
Chapter One
Emmie Steele paced across the doctor’s waiting room. She resisted the urge to place a hand over her left breast and prod, to prove there was no need to worry.
Mrs. Steele?
At the sound of her name, Emmie jumped. Yes.
Dr. Gibson’s ready for you.
The nurse led her along a corridor and into a small exam room. No need to put on the gown. He’s just going over your test results.
She nodded and the nurse exited. Emmie heard the scrape of the chart being placed in the bin on the outside of the door. The room allowed little space for pacing. She looked at the exam table and at the one chair, trying to decide which was more appropriate. Placing her purse on the floor, she sat on the chair and drummed her fingers on the narrow arms.
She was about ready to crawl out of her own skin when a tap sounded and the door opened. Dr. Gibson entered the exam room, chart in hand, the usual friendly smile on his face. Emmie, how are you today?
I guess you’re about to answer that question.
He sat on the wheeled stool, glanced down at the laptop he carried, then looked at her and removed his glasses. The mammogram and ultrasound indicate a small mass.
He stood and clipped the x-ray into the light box on the wall, pointing to a shadowy area. It’s right here. I’d like to refer you back to Dr. Rosen. He’ll perform a needle biopsy and follow you from there, if necessary.
Emmy drew in an unsteady breath. She linked her fingers together to keep her hands from shaking. Okay. Yes. Dr. Rosen performed my last surgery.
I know. He’s one of the best.
Dr. Gibson sat down again, rolled the stool closer and set his hand over hers. I’m sorry, Emmie.
She stared at his hand for a moment—long, graceful fingers, well-manicured. She nodded. I thought they got it all the last time.
We don’t know that this is a malignancy. But each occurrence of breast cancer is different. They got it all in your right breast when they did the mastectomy. It hadn’t spread. Let’s not jump ahead and assume this is malignant.
But it could be. So I may need to have another mastectomy?
An invisible vise clamped around her throat.
That’s not necessarily the case. Dr. Rosen will confirm if it’s malignant and will make recommendations from there. It could mean only a lumpectomy.
Only? You and I both know this is more than a benign cyst.
Her mouth dried. And it could have spread already.
She looked him in the eyes, but he gave nothing away.
I’ll write a referral to Dr. Rosen. Stop at the desk. Nicole will call and set up an appointment for you.
He handed her the written order and stood. Try to take this one step at a time. I know that’s difficult because of your history, but worry will do you no good.
Emmie rose shakily to her feet. Thank you. Do I need to make another appointment with you?
No. I’ll turn you over to Dr. Rosen at this point.
She nodded and walked stiffly to the receptionist’s window. The young woman offered no expression as she read the written order, called to schedule the appointment with the surgeon, and accepted Emmie’s credit card for co-payment. Have a nice day.
She looked up and smiled as though she’d just sold Emmie a latte.
Thanks. You, too.
The absurdity registered, and Emmie forced a weak smile.
She had been through this before. She knew the drill. A voice in her head taunted her as she walked through the parking garage: dead woman walking. Why had she not asked Lynn, her sister-in-law, to come with her? She shuddered and tried to focus on the possibility that the mass would turn out to be nothing. Her hand trembled when she inserted the key into the car’s ignition. She sat back in the seat, her gaze fixed on the gray, cement-block wall. She gripped the steering wheel and stiffened her arms to control the tremors.
Just breathe. Breathe. You don’t have a final diagnosis—yet. She turned the key and the engine purred. Maybe she would head west and keep driving. Perhaps if she kept moving, this wouldn’t be real. Lurching the car to a stop at the garage attendant’s booth, she paid and eased into traffic.
Other drivers whizzed past her as if she were standing still. The drive that normally lasted ten minutes, took her twenty-five. She parked in her driveway and sat for a moment, staring at the fence. I need to paint the fence this summer. A laugh escaped at the incongruity of that thought, as if painting the fence would set her world right.
When she opened the back door of her house, a fly buzzed past her and made a beeline for the window above the sink. She didn’t have the heart to chase it down and kill it. Life had become too precious in the past hour. Tossing the car keys onto the kitchen table, she dropped her purse in a chair. The red light on the answering machine blinked, but she ignored it. She wandered through the house, trying to decide what to do first. Tears threatened when she thought of telling her daughter, Lisa, this news.
Tension crawled up her spine, across her shoulders, and into the base of her skull where everything knotted together. She returned to the kitchen and peered out the window, looking beyond her car to the next driveway, hoping to see her sister-in-law’s SUV parked there. She must have stayed after school, probably monitoring detention.
Her eyes filled and the need for comfort chilled her. Emmie wrapped her arms across her chest, her fingers grasping just above each elbow. The empty embrace made her feel even more alone.
Panic gripped her. She swallowed hard and ran to the bathroom, heaving, but nothing came. Rising, she studied herself in the mirror. Her hair had grown back curlier and a darker shade of brown after the last chemo treatments. She sank her fingers into the thick curls as tears spilled down her cheeks.
Why?
She closed her eyes, taking in deep breaths to hold back the terror that threatened to suffocate her.
A car door slammed. She ran through the kitchen and out her back door. Lynn, can you…? I n-need to….
Her sister-in-law looked at her, dropped the stack of books and her purse back onto the car seat, and closed the door. She hurried across the narrow strip of lawn that separated the two driveways. Em? What’s going on?
It’s back. The c-cancer’s back.
Emmie shook violently. Saying it out loud to another person made it too real.
Oh, God, no.
Lynn folded Emmie into her arms.
Emmie let her head drop onto Lynn’s shoulder. It’s in my other breast.
Why didn’t you tell me this was more than a routine checkup? I’d have taken the day off and gone to the doctor with you.
I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I thought it would be nothing. I wanted it to be nothing, and panicking would’ve meant….
She bit her lip.
Let’s go inside and sit down.
Inside the house, Lynn eased Emmie onto a chair at the kitchen table. She fetched the box of tissues from the powder room and set it between them. Are they certain?
I have to see Dr. Rosen next week.
Emmie wiped her eyes and stared at the window.
Okay. Wait. Dr. Gibson is not sure?
He said it looks suspicious and that a biopsy will be…definitive.
She pressed fingertips to her forehead. I can’t do this again. I just got back on my feet. My hair has grown back. I’m finally working full-time. I don’t have the strength for this again.
Yes, you do, Emmie. If you have to, you do. You’re one of the strongest people I know. You have Lisa, me and Andy, all your friends. We’ll all be here for you, like we were the last time. But you won’t know for certain without the biopsy.
Lynn reached across the table and placed her hand over Emmie’s. Do you want me to call Wes?
Emmie shook her head. No, absolutely not. He’s made it clear where he stands.
Lynn held up both hands, palms out. Okay, okay. I’m going to make coffee. Tell me what we need to do.
She filled the coffee maker and set it to brew.
I have an appointment with Dr. Rosen on Wednesday. God, that seems like a lifetime away.
Emmie reached for her purse and, after searching for the doctor’s orders without finding them, dumped the contents onto the table. Her hand shook as she passed the paper to Lynn. They need to make sure, and to determine if it’s spread.
I’m going with you for this. What about Lisa? Are you planning to call her?
She’s coming home for the weekend. I’ll talk to her then. I don’t want to worry her or interrupt her classes. Maybe I should wait until I’m sure.
Lynn lifted an eyebrow. You know she’ll be upset if she finds out you knew and didn’t say anything.
I know. But she’ll want to stay here to be with me. I may need your help to convince her to stay at school and finish out the term.
Lynn placed two steaming mugs of coffee on the table. I’ll do what I can, but she is your daughter and has a mind of her own.
She turned and removed coffee creamer from the fridge.
Emmie held the cup between her hands, as if to warm them. I keep thinking, if I do nothing, if I stand perfectly still and hold my breath, this won’t be real. How can this be happening again?
Lynn placed a warm hand on her arm. I don’t know, honey. It’s not fair. It…sucks.
Emmie broke into a smile and then a laugh escaped her, relieving the tension. Of all of her friends, Lynn, an English teacher, was the least likely to use slang, and the one who usually grimaced when anyone used anything but proper English.
Want me to call in the troops?
Lynn refilled her coffee cup.
I don’t know. Everyone will come running, and I don’t think I have the energy to deal with it. Maybe tomorrow.
Okay. But I don’t want to leave you alone. Come over and have dinner with me and Andy. You have to tell him. We can call the others and let them know what’s happening.
Emmie nodded. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I’ll come and talk with Andy.
Her big brother had always been there for her, more so since her husband, Wes, had left. Even Andy wouldn’t be able to fix this, and she dreaded telling him and seeing the fear in his eyes.
She sipped the coffee, then stared down into the cup. I’m so scared.
Me, too.
One of the things Emmie appreciated about Lynn was that she didn’t whitewash things, didn’t put on rose colored glasses and pretend. Emmie needed that right now more than anything—someone who would validate her feelings without minimizing them.
Lynn wiped away a tear and carried their cups to the sink. She walked back to where Emmie sat and wrapped her arms around her. You’re not alone, you know.
She hugged her tightly. Come over when you’re ready.
Thanks.
Emmie’s voice cracked.
The door closed behind her sister-in-law. Emmie rested her elbows on the table and sat with her face in her hands. Okay, Emmie. You can do this. You’re already a survivor. But she wasn’t convinced.
Chapter Two
The following afternoon, Emmie rushed home from work and prepared herself for the gathering with her best friends. What would have been a relaxed meeting of friends, would demand energy that Emmie had to dig deep to capture. She hated dragging them through this one more time. And she knew they would be there for her without complaint.
Em?
Lynn called out. I called the girls. They’re going to meet us at McGill’s. Ready to go?
Emmie rounded the corner from the living room and into the kitchen. Ready. Though I doubt we’ll be there long. I didn’t sleep for five minutes last night. I dozed off twice today at my desk.
I’m sorry. Do you want to cancel? They’ll understand.
No. If we do, they’ll come over here anyway. And I need this. I can’t just sit here and think. Let’s go.
She followed Lynn to the SUV and pulled herself into the passenger’s seat, smiling at the thought of her dearest friends gathering to help her drink herself into oblivion. They would drink with her, laugh with her, cry with her, get angry with her, and protect her fiercely. Yes, they would get her through this.
McGill’s was nearly vacant, with only a few patrons at the bar. The heavy oak door swung shut behind them with a whoosh, and Emmie stopped to let her eyes adjust. Two men sat at the bar, drinking and watching the baseball game. The pungent odor of stale beer intermingled with the aroma of grease from the kitchen.
Emmie’s stomach lurched as she inhaled, but she took comfort in the place. McGill’s had been a fixture in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Bloomfield for the past forty years and had never changed. It had been a favorite gathering place since she and her friends were old enough to order alcohol.
Emmie pointed to a booth in the back and Lynn followed, ordering two bourbons straight up as they passed the bar. The occasion called for something stronger than wine.
A waitress wearing short shorts, a skin-tight tank top, and a bright pink streak through her jet black hair, delivered their drinks.
Emmie chugged her bourbon, feeling it burn all the way to her stomach. She held up the glass and waved it, signaling the waitress for a refill.
Lynn took a sip of her drink and leveled her eyes on Emmie. Have you thought about what you’ll do, if you have to make a choice?
Emmie nodded as the waitress placed another drink before her. I’ve given it some thought. I’m not even considering a lumpectomy. If this is malignant, I’m requesting a mastectomy. At least I’ll be even instead of one sitting perkier and higher than the other,
she said, looking down at her chest. She raised the glass and downed the second drink.
Lynn smiled sympathetically. Well, you haven’t lost your sense of humor.
If I do, please promise you will put me out of my misery,
Emmie said, her tongue thick, making it difficult to form words.
Hey, you need to either slow down or eat something. Let me order a sandwich basket. We can split it.
Chris arrived, and Emmie waved her to the booth. Sister Chris still wore her ‘work’ clothes—navy blue skirt, white blouse, navy mules—her modern-day habit. She slid in next to Emmie, turning to hug her tightly. Em, it’s going to be okay. It has to be. I have the whole parish praying for you already.
From the time they were kids, Emmie had found Chris to be a comforting, reassuring presence. Chris had a serenity about her, as though she knew some secret the rest of them could only hope to discover. Emmie was not the least bit surprised when, after graduation, Chris announced her plans to join a religious community.
The waitress reappeared and took their orders for sandwiches and a glass of white zin for Chris.
Lynn feigned shock. Sister, should you be drinking this early, and on a weekday?
I took vows of poverty, chastity and obedience—not abstinence. Besides, even Jesus drank wine. So, where’s Brett?
She should be here soon. She had a late appointment,
Lynn replied, downing the last of her bourbon. Okay, I’d better switch to Coke. I’m driving.
I’m not, and I intend to get pleasantly numb,
Emmie announced.
Chris looked at Emmie’s eyes. How many have you had?
Not enough, yet,
Emmie retorted, gesturing once again to the waitress. She grinned at Chris. So, how’s the God business?
Well, I’m never out of work and, you know what they say—the pay’s not much, but the retirement plan is heavenly. Of course, I’ll be ninety by the time I can retire.
Emmie laughed, and something loosened in her. The conversation between Lynn and Chris became a low hum as Emmie thought about her friends. Lynn, her sister-in-law, but more like a sister, always there for her; Chris, steady and faithful; and Brett, strong and practical, able to take charge. Then there was Polly—wild, unpredictable, larger than life. In many ways, Polly lived out the life fantasies Emmie harbored, but rarely dared to share with anyone.
Emmie felt a hand on hers.
Earth to Emmie. Where’d you go?
Lynn asked.
Just thinking.
She squeezed Lynn’s hand, sitting back as baskets bearing club sandwiches and fries slid across the table.
Brett appeared, and dropped with breathless haste into the booth next to Lynn. She called to the waitress for a scotch. Brett’s short-cropped salt and pepper hair was spiked up, punk style. Her tailored black pin-striped pantsuit hugged her body, and her heels added an inch to her already imposing five-ten frame. If she weren’t carrying a briefcase, Emmie mused that she could easily have been mistaken for a women’s basketball coach.
Well, ain’t this a bitch?
Brett said as she reached across the table and Emmie took hold of her hand. While her comment was said with deliberate levity, it instead provoked the opposite reaction from everyone at the table.
Through a watery blur, Emmie watched her friends struggle to hold back tears. She didn’t want them to join her in misery—she wanted them to pull her out of it, at least for tonight.
Clearing her throat, Emmie commanded their attention. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I called this meeting.
Her voice cracked and she swallowed. Your membership in the Emelia Jefferson Steele Cancer Support Group is up for renewal. Anybody wanna rejoin?
Brett swallowed the scotch in one gulp. No, but I will,
she said, setting the shot glass down harder than necessary. She locked eyes with Emmie. Okay, so what’s the plan? Who’s going with you to your next appointment?
I am. I can take that afternoon off,
said the ever-efficient Lynn, pulling out her purse calendar. She was the only one who still carried a small calendar, refusing to trust the one on her phone.
If you have to have surgery..
Brett said, ...we can meet and set up a schedule, like we did before. Are you planning to call Wes, or is he still being an ass?
Emmie frowned. What do you think?
Okay—ass.
Brett’s voice softened. Have you spoken with Lisa?
Emmie shook her head. Not yet. She’s so close to graduation. I don’t want her to take time off.
She glanced around the table for support. You all have to help me convince her of that.
No problem. We’ll assure her we have everything covered, and we’ll keep in touch with her every day. Now...
Brett spoke with authority, ...we need a plan to keep you occupied until the biopsy.
Emmie smiled at the way Brett easily shifted into lawyer mode when things needed to be organized. Brett was great at organizing and prioritizing. Chris served as Emmie’s spiritual barometer, her link of hope to something bigger than herself. Lynn offered continual emotional support. Polly, the absent member of her BFF club, had the luxury of being in New York, and would come back for a day or two here and there. Always a breath of fresh air, Polly brought with her stories about life in New York and the soap opera she wrote for—stuff that appeared in the gossip rags. She also brought blessed distraction and lots of laughs. The sisterhood Emmie shared with these women was unshakeable.
Brett downed the rest of the scotch and ordered another, with a salad.
Watching your weight?
Chris asked.
A girl can’t be too careful.
Brett smiled and winked.
Oh? Is there someone we need to know about?
Lynn teased.
Just because a woman takes care of herself, who says it has to be for someone?
Brett quipped.
I think it’s admiral…adbirm…admirbar…
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