Hidden Jewel

4

Life Lessons

"If you and I are going to be study partners," Dr. Weller said as we left the hospital the next day, "you should call me Jack. Dr. Weller is too formal after we walk out of there," he said, nodding back toward the hospital.

"Jack?"

"That's my name. Oh, my real name is Jackson Marcus Weller, which is what I will hang on my shingle. I was named after my great-grandfather on my mother's side. I'd rather be just Jack, though, especially to people I admire and people I hope will admire me," he said. Then he put his hand on my waist to turn me to the right. "My apartment is just a few blocks this way," he said. "You don't mind walking, do you?"

"No." His hand lingered on my hip, his fingers pressing with authority.

"I have a car, but I seldom use it. Driving is such a hassle in the city. I'd much rather walk or use public transportation." He drew his hand away when we started to walk again.

"Did you grow up in New Orleans?" I asked.

"Grow up?" He smiled and then laughed. "Most of my relatives and friends think I haven't. They think because I'm going to be a doctor, I should look, act, and feel like an old man. Who trusts a young doctor these days? In almost every other profession, youth is an advantage, but in medicine . . ." He paused and turned to me. "My ex-roommate actually dyes his hair gray. Do you believe that?"

I shook my head.

He stared at me a moment and relaxed his lips, a look of pity in his eyes. "Actually, I feel sorry for you. It's twice as hard for a woman to become a doctor. You've got to be twice as good. But," he said, winking, "I think you might just have the grit to make it. Now," he said holding up his hand, palm toward me, "don't tell me anything else about yourself. Let me guess."

We continued, strolling at a slower pace. It wasn't quite as humid as it had been the day before. The sun was low enough to leave the eastern sky a darker blue so that the billowing clouds looked as white as milk. Toward the south a single-engine plane was dragging a banner that advertised a jazz and dinner special in the French Quarter. We could hear the streetcar rattling along past the palm trees behind us. The birds were twittering noisily. I imagined they were filled with news that they had stored up like acorns during the impressive heat and humidity. Now that they were cooler and able to gossip, they did so nonstop.

The street lanterns were just flickering, it not being dark enough to turn themselves on full. Less humidity seemed to free the scent of camellias and of the banana and magnolia trees that grew along and be-hind the pike fences of the houses we passed as we ambled along the sidewalk, which in New Orleans was known as a banquette. Most banquettes were built two to three feet high, mainly to keep water out of houses. Across the way I saw three Tulane summer school coeds giggling and walking while two boys in a convertible followed slowly and tried to get their attention.

"You're not an only child, and you're not spoiled. That's for sure," Jack Weller began.

"I have twin brothers, twelve years old."

"Uh-huh."

"But I am spoiled," I admitted.

"Sure. All spoiled young women agree to work as nurse's aides for peanuts and are willing to clean up after sick people," he remarked. He gazed at me again. "You're not spoiled."

"I'm spoiled, but I'm determined," I replied.

He laughed. "I like that. You're from a well-to-do family, right?"

"Yes. But did you really guess that or did you cross-examine Sophie?" I fired back quickly.

He laughed again. "You are a bright girl. All right. I'll confess I asked Sophie some questions. Just down here," he said seizing my hand and turning us into a side street toward an apartment building with a canopy that sagged in the middle. The gray stucco walls were badly chipped and cracked and the front door was in dire need of paint or wood stain. "I want to prepare you," he said as we approached the en-trance. "I have only a studio apartment. Someone from the Garden District won't think much of it, I suspect."

"I'm spoiled, but I'm not a snob," I said.

His smile widened again and he opened the door. We stepped through a short entryway into a small lobby, the walls of which were faded and smudged. Here and there the dark brown tile floor was chipped. The only furnishing was a rickety table with an oval mirror in a dull white frame above it. The aroma of shrimp gumbo filled the air.

"The stairs are faster than the elevator," he said, nodding toward them. I followed him up three flights, the old, worn steps moaning complaints at our every step. "At least I have a little view," he said putting his key into the lock.

I was prepared for a small place with inexpensive furnishings, but I wasn't prepared for the mess. The door opened immediately to the living room-bedroom. The settee to the right was covered with books and papers, and there were books and papers on the floor as well. There was also a coffee cup, still with some coffee in it; the dish beside it was crusted with leftover pasta. The windowsill was caked with dust, and the rug was frayed clear through in spots.

"I got up late this morning and didn't get a chance to clean up from last night," he explained. "Otherwise, it's comfortable."

Comfortable? I thought. It would be easy to become claustrophobic here. We had closets bigger than Jack's apartment. There was only one narrow window in the living room-bedroom, and the room itself was barely big enough to contain the settee, the bed, a table, and two chairs. Through an open doorway I saw a tiny kitchen with dishes piled in the sink and a small trash can stuffed so full that a take-out pizza box popped up and over the side.

Jack scurried about, clearing off the settee, chairs, and coffee table.

"Just give me a minute," he asked. He carried the dishes into the kitchen and then hurried back to straighten up the bed. "Bachelors," he said with an emphatic shrug. "This is the way we live, but you don't know any real bachelors yet, I imagine," he said. When I didn't reply, he stopped and looked at me. "Do you?"

"What? Oh, no." I couldn't get over how messy his apartment was. A doctor should be concerned about cleanliness, I thought.

"I wasn't raised to be a slob, if that's what you're thinking," he said, reading my mind. "Just wait until you start your internship. You'll see how little time you have for yourself. Unlike you, I come from modest means. My father worked on the oil rigs in Beaumont and was laid off so often that I used to think he was rich and had to work only a few months a year. Medical school is pretty expensive, you know," he added.

"How did you manage?" I asked, feeling guilty for condemning him so quickly.

"My grandmother left a trust for me. When she first left it, it was worth something, but inflation ate up a lot of it and the cost of medical school climbed, so I had to borrow money. I'm in debt up to here," he said holding his hand an inch or so above his head. "It's a great advantage to attend medical school and not have to worry about financing," he said. "But you've got to have more than money to become a doctor. Only thing is . . ." He stopped cleaning up and stared at me, shaking his head slowly.

"What?" I asked, concerned.

"You're really too attractive."

"What?"

"Seems like a waste," he added. "You should be a doctor's wife, bedecked with jewels and furs, running social and charity affairs," he said and then laughed. "Just kidding. Although the only female doctors I've known could scare the germs away." He patted down his bed, which was covered with a plain light blue quilt and two pillows. "Would you like something cold to drink? I've got orange juice, tonic water, and Dixie beer."

I gazed at the kitchen. It looked contaminated.

His face broke into a laughing smile. "I'll wash the glass first. I promise," he said.

"Orange juice will be fine."

"Great. Sit anywhere you like. Sit on the bed if you want," he said and went to get my juice. I sat on the settee and started to peruse the medical books.

"I know it's too soon, but have you considered what you want to specialize in?" he asked from the kitchen.

"I was thinking about pediatrics."

"Good one," he said returning. He had juice for me and a glass of beer for himself. "Especially for a woman. Mothers find it easier to deal with a woman."

"I wasn't thinking of it because of that," I said with some testiness in my voice. "Women are capable of becoming good surgeons, good cardiologists, good—"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'm not a male chauvinist. I'm just practical," he said, handing me my glass of juice. He sat beside me on the settee. "Hungry yet?"

I had been, but the sight of the room had churned my stomach and driven away my appetite.

"Not yet," I said. I was thinking now that I would study with him for a while and then make my excuses and go home, where I could enjoy some of Milly's leftovers.

"I happen to be a pretty good cook. All that chemistry," he said smiling. He gazed at me and then let his eyes drop softly, moving like invisible fingers over my face, down my neck, and across my breasts. "I bet a beautiful girl like you has had lots of boy-friends, right?"

"No."

"No? I thought girls were more promiscuous these days, collecting male trophies the way boys used to when I was in high school," he said.

"I have always had more important things on my mind, although I did go steady for a while this year."

"What happened? I don't mean to be personal. I'm just curious about young people today," he said.

"Let's just say I wasn't as committed to our relationship as he thought I was."

"Uh-oh. I think I know what that means. Was he your first steady boyfriend?" he asked with a licentious smile.

"Yes, but as I said, it didn't last that long."

"I see." He nodded, his right forefinger and thumb squeezing his chin. He was making me feel as if he were a doctor of romance and I had come to him for a love checkup.

"What do you have to study tonight?" I asked, feeling a little uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny.

"Hmm." He thought a moment and then reached under the settee and brought out a textbook. "I know just the topic. During office hours, we had a female patient today who suffered from dyspareunia. I don't suppose you know what that is," he said thumbing through the book.

I shook my head.

"Another term used is vaginismus, affectionately known as the honeymoon injury," he said, his smile widening. "Enough hints?"

I felt myself blanch.

"Now, now. Someone who wants to be a doctor must be comfortable with every aspect of the human anatomy. Our patient," he said sitting back, "was a nineteen-year-old girl who had been recently married. You understand what dyspareunia is now, don't you?"

"I think so," I said. My heart was beating rapidly, but I felt as if my lungs had stopped working.

"Painful or difficult coitus," he recited. "You shouldn't be uncomfortable discussing any aspect of the human body," he repeated. "Or any of our normal functions."

"I'm not," I insisted. I felt my spine harden into cold steel and sat up sharply.

"Good. Dyspareunia may be the subject of back alley and barroom jokes, but to us doctors it's just another medical problem to solve, another form of suffering for us to end," he declared with the dedication and authority of someone who had been part of the medical profession for decades. "You understand that, don't you?"

"Of course." In my secret heart I wished he had chosen a different subject, but I wasn't going to let him see that this topic disturbed me. That was just what he would expect, and he would tell me how my attitude illustrated why it was so difficult for a woman to become a doctor.

"Let's continue, then." He leaned forward. "The patient confided in me after Dr. Bardot had left the examination room. She felt more comfortable talking to someone younger. She said she had been raped when she was twelve years old."

"Raped! How horrible."

"Yes, and that left her with some deep psychological damage." He handed the textbook to me and stood up. He started to pace like a college medical instructor giving a lecture. "This was important for me to know, because dyspareunia can be caused by psychogenic spasms. Please turn to page 819, top right corner." I did so quickly and then looked up at him.

He paused and closed his eyes, grimacing hard as he searched his memory. "When dyspareunia is not due to local causes, or when local symptoms are overshadowed by nervous symptoms, it indicates a psychological defense mechanism developed by the patient." He opened his eyes and looked down at me expectantly.

I read the first lines. "That's right," I said.

"Good. Let's continue. The defense may be directed against sex and intercourse in general. The possibilities are listed: excessive egotism, ignorance of the anatomy and physiology of the reproductive organs, fear of pregnancy, aversion to the partner, possibly due to a previous love affair or something discovered after marriage. I think it says that even halitosis might form the basis of such an aversion, right?"

"What?"

"Bad breath," he said. "You know. You're in bed with someone, and he turns to you and—"

"Oh." I read and looked up at him. "Yes."

"So if you read between the lines there, before someone marries someone, she should be very familiar with him. They should conduct some test runs, don't you think?"

"I don't know that that's necessarily the inevitable conclusion," I said quickly.

He laughed. "Well, let's use you as a case in point," he said and sat on the settee. "Reading between the lines concerning what you told me about your boyfriend and you, I assume that you and he never made love. Correct?"

"I don't want to discuss my personal life," I said.

"You have to become purely objective, even about yourself, if you want to be a good physician. That's why I say that some people are just not psychologically prepared to become doctors. They might be smart —valedictorians, even—but if they can't bridge the psychological gaps—"

"I can handle the psychological gaps," I snapped.

"Fine. Then you shouldn't have any trouble discussing yourself. You're human, right? Every reaction you have, other people have, too, people you're going to examine and treat. When a man touches you, your body does the same things another woman's body does when a man touches her," he said and shrugged. "Don't you see that?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"So. Let's continue. It's much better to work these problems out with real subjects than just to recite lines from textbooks. You might be suffering from frigidity," he said nodding firmly.

"What?"

"It's a medical term for the incapacity of the female to derive normal pleasure from sexual intercourse. It's right there in the textbook, bottom of the page on the right side." He indicated the passage with his right forefinger.

My eyes fell to the page, and I read it just as he had recited it. Then I looked up and shook my head. "That's not my problem. I don't even have a problem. I just didn't feel—"

"Let's not jump to any diagnosis just yet," he said holding up his hand. "All right? We might have to refer you to a psychiatrist."

"What?" I started to laugh, but he shook his head.

"One of the most important things you'll learn as a medical student is when to recognize that your patient's problem is beyond your ability and requires the attention of a specialist. Doctors get themselves and their patients into trouble when they don't recognize that," he added. "Are you following me? I don't mean to go too fast."

"I follow you. I just don't see how I'm helping you study by talking about myself and why I broke up with my boyfriend."

"Oh, but you are, because it's a situation with which I must be familiar. As I said, we had this case just today, and I'm sure Dr. Bardot is going to test me on this first thing tomorrow. So," he continued sitting back, his arms folded across his chest, "you never slept with this boyfriend. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever slept with anyone?"

I blushed an even deeper red and hated myself for it. 'I'm asking purely as a physician, not as a gossip columnist," he added.

"No."

"Ahem," he said, a sickly arrogant smile forming across his lips. "I'm sure you had ample opportunity, so what prevented you?"

"I don't sleep around, and I'm not interested in sex for the sake of sex. For me it has to be part of something bigger, something . . ."

"What?" he pursued.

"Magical. Love. And don't laugh," I told him sternly.

"I'm not going to laugh, but you might just be rationalizing, making up excuses for your deep fears, your frigidity."

"I am not frigid," I insisted, practically bouncing on the settee for emphasis.

"You don't tighten up when a man touches you?" he asked. I simply stared at him. "You do, don't you?"

"No. No!" I emphasized.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," he said with a snide smile.

"You can be very infuriating," I said.

"I don't mean to be. Look, I'm a doctor and you want to become one. There's nothing about your physiology I don't know, and from what I already know about you, I feel safe in saying you are pretty well info med. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, however."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

'Maybe because you are so intelligent, you are too aware of what's going on, and therefore you lose the magic you claim to want so much. Maybe you are doomed never to find it. Maybe when you think of a human heart, you think only of ventricles and arteries."

I felt my throat tighten and tears burn under my eyelids.

"Am I striking a sensitive note? Because if I am, I'm doing a good job of analyzing your problem," he said.

"I don't have a problem," I replied, but not as firmly as before.

He reached out to take my hand. I started to pull it back.

"Relax," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He made me feel like a little girl going to see the doctor. I let him keep my hand in his. His fingers began to stroke the backs of mine.

"Let's walk through this together," he suggested, moving closer to me on the settee. "I bet you vividly remember the first time you kissed a boy, don't you?"

I did. Freddy Mainiero and I had gone to the movies, and he had kissed me good night. I was only twelve. It was only a quick touch on my lips, but it sent a shiver of excitement down my spine, and I went running up to my room to look at myself in the mirror. My face was crimson, and my heart was pounding so hard that I thought it might split my chest open. I had always thought my first kiss would be long and romantic like the ones I'd seen in the movies, but after this, I couldn't imagine surviving one of those luscious extended kisses.

"Tell me about it," Jack Weller asked. He was only inches from me, his own lips softening, his eyes bright with interest.

"It wasn't anything. Just a little kiss."

"So, you felt safe in that sort of environment, having that simple and innocuous an experience, but alone with a young man, someplace where the lights are low and music is playing softly . . . when his hand touches your shoulder." He let his hand touch my shoulder, and I cringed. "Relax. Easy. I know just what I'm doing."

His fingers continued until he was touching my neck, and then they moved down to trace my collar-bone. "You know about erogenous zones, I suppose," he whispered.

"I haven't made sexual activity a concentrated area of study," I replied.

He smiled and nodded. "You can't be afraid of your own body and how it reacts. Those feelings are only natural."

"For the last time, I'm not afraid."

"Actually, you're lucky that you and I met. I can help you overcome this problem so you can be assured you will have a normal, active sex life. It's very important when you get married," he continued. As he spoke, his fingers found the buttons of my blouse and undid them. "Relax. Close your eyes and just sit back a moment. You have wonderfully healthy skin."

My heart was pounding. His fingers slipped inside my blouse and traced the top of my bra into my cleavage as he leaned forward and kissed my neck.

"Your pulse quickens bringing the blood to the surface. It's like a knock on the door. You can't be afraid of answering it, Pearl. Go on."

"Wait," I said, but his hands moved under my arms and around behind me, where, with a surgeon's swift skill, he undid my bra and quickly swept his fingers under the elastic, lifting it way from my breasts.

"Yes," he said lowering his lips to my exposed nipple. "Pearl . . . Pearl," he murmured, sending tiny electric chills down my spine while his hand sought to stroke my thigh. "Everything is going along right; it's all as it should be. Try to relax."

My head was spinning. He had moved so quickly and so gracefully. I couldn't believe I was half undressed in moments. My heart was pounding. Actually, it felt funny, as if I were betraying someone. I started to resist, to push him back. He stopped kissing me and looked into my eyes. We were only inches apart.

"From what we just studied, you can see how important the first time is. I'm glad you're still a virgin. If the first time is clumsy and rough, it can scar you, give you dyspareunia, cause psychological damage that will affect your life forever.

"But with me it will be gentle, perfect. I just want to help you. I just want to make sure," he continued and again, as he spoke, his fingers moved over my clothing, unzipping my skirt and gently lifting my body to slide it down my legs. "Your body is preparing itself. You're ready."

I felt a wave of weakness ripple through me, my resistance diminishing as his lips continued to glide over my neck, my cheeks. The tips of his fingers were slipping under the elastic band of my panties.

Finally that part of me that had been overwhelmed with his aggressive, smooth approach, regained a foothold. I heard myself question what was happening. Reality like a flash of lighting shot across the clouds of confusion, and I lifted my legs to press my knees into his abdomen to push him away, crying out at the same time. "No! Stop it!"

He lost his balance and tumbled off the settee.

I quickly pulled up my skirt and closed the zipper and buttoned up my blouse. Then I swung my legs over him and stood up. Still on the floor staring up at me, he looked foolish and my resolve strengthened.

"You didn't ask me here to help you study," I snapped.

"Of course I did." He sat up. "I just thought while we were at it—"

"You would seduce me," I finished.

"Oh, come on. Don't get melodramatic. I merely saw that you have a problem."

"I don't have any problem." I backed farther away from him.

He pulled himself onto the settee and sat there smiling at me. "I think you do."

"How many other girls have you tempted up here using the same phony excuse?" I accused.

"You're the one with the problem."

"Are you sure? Really sure? You wanted it for a few moments there, and then your frigidity took control. If you'll only give me a chance," he continued, reaching toward me.

I stepped back again. "Don't touch me!" I cried and grappled for the doorknob.

He pulled his hand back and smiled. "Okay, okay. You don't have to leave. I won't try to help you, if you don't want my help. A patient has to want the doctor's help."

"I'm not a patient and you're . . . you're no doctor!" I screamed and pulled open the door.

"If you change your mind, I'll be here," he cried after me.

I slammed the door behind me and flew down the steps, tears streaming down my cheeks as I charged across the lobby and burst out of the building, nearly knocking an elderly woman over in the process. I apologized and hurried away, nearly running now to catch the next streetcar. Right behind me, Jack Weller's smile and laughter lingered. It wasn't until I was almost home that I felt my heartbeat slow to a normal pace. I wiped away the streaks on my cheeks, took a deep breath, and stepped off the streetcar.

When I entered the house, I paused and leaned back against the front door, hoping to regain all of my composure; but something inside me, something that felt as dainty as china, was shattered and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't mend it. A doctor, as young as he was, had tried to deceive me. A member of the profession I idolized had filled me with disappointment and disgust. How could anyone study and work to be a doctor and then do what Jack Weller had done? How could he care about other people, their feelings, their pain, their suffering?

Mommy stepped out of the sitting room and stopped, surprised to see me standing there so quietly. "Pearl? I didn't hear the door open and close.

Where's Aubrey?" she asked gazing around.

"I let myself in quickly, Mommy." I flashed a smile.

"I thought you would be coming home much later," she said stepping toward me.

"No, it didn't work out."

"So you didn't have any supper?" she asked. Her eyes, those Cajun searchlights, as Daddy sometimes called them, examined my face, gathering clues. I had to look away.

"I'm not that hungry yet. I’ll eat something later," I said and flashed another quick smile before heading for the stairway.

"Pearl?"

"Yes, Mommy?"

She looked back toward the doorway of the sitting room. I realized Daddy was there, but hadn't heard our conversation; otherwise he would have surely come out to see me.

"Something's wrong. What is it, honey?"

My lips trembled. Tears burned behind my eyelids, then trickled down my cheeks. I shook my head and ran up the stairway. I hurried to my bedroom and fell face down on my bed, gulping back my sobs.

Moments later Mommy was there. She closed the door softly behind her, and I turned around. "What happened?" she asked firmly.

"Oh, Mommy. It wasn't something special."

"He didn't invite you up to his apartment to study as he had said," she remarked, nodding.

"No. We started to study, but he had chosen the topic as part of his elaborate plan to . . ."

"To what? What did he do?"

"I didn't let him do it, Mommy."

"Mon Dieu," she said, pressing her hand to her heart. "If your father finds out, he'll tear that man limb from limb."

"We better not tell him, Mommy. It was nothing. I can take care of it. In fact I did. He won't bother me anymore."

"What did he do?" Mommy asked, coming to sit on my bed.

I sat up and traced the threads in my skirt for a moment. "He said he had a young woman patient who had a problem making love. He called it the honeymoon injury and said he found out her problem was psychological. Then he started asking me person-al questions, pretending he was just trying to learn about the problem."

"Go on," Mommy coaxed.

"He said I was frigid because I was too smart and I couldn't enjoy sex. He said he wanted to help me be sure I didn't have the honeymoon injury."

"Mon Dieu. This man should be brought up before the board of inquiry."

I shook my head. "I don't want to have to tell this story to anyone else, Mommy. Please."

"All right, honey. Don't worry. Of course," she said nodding, "you should have nothing more to do with him. If he so much as speaks to you—"

"He won't bother me," I said.

"I'm sorry you had such a terrible experience, Pearl."

"It won't be my last time, Mommy," I declared confidently.

Mommy stared at me a moment. "No, it probably won't. You're very wise to know that, Pearl."

"Did such a thing happen to you?"

"Yes. Worse," she added. "My grandfather tried to sell me to a man. He even chained me to a bed so I would be there when the man came."

"How horrible. How could your grandfather do such a thing?"

"He was an alcoholic. He would have sold his soul for money to buy whiskey. Grandmère Catherine believed he did."

"What happened to you?"

"I managed to escape, and that was when I came to New Orleans and met your father. So you see, every dark cloud does have a silver lining," she added, smiling. I smiled and nodded and then tightened my lips and looked down again. "What else happened, Pearl?"

"It's not that anything else happened. It's . . ."

"What honey?"

"It's what he said. I wonder if there is any truth to it. My school friends think so, and so do all my ex-boyfriends, Oh, Mommy, what if it's true? What if I can never relax with any boy? No one will ever fall in love with me," I moaned.

"I don't think it's true, and I know you don't have to sleep with the first man who propositions you, just to prove you're not frigid. I don't suppose there's an approach that hasn't been tried on some unsuspecting young woman, but for him to use his authority as a doctor . . . deplorable. There's nothing wrong with you, honey," she said, putting her arm around me. "I didn't sleep with every boy who wanted me to sleep with him."

"How many did you sleep with, Mommy?" I asked and then bit my tongue. Even though we were like sisters, I hated prying into such a personal part of her life.

She stared for a moment and then smiled. "I slept only with your father. No one else mattered," she replied. "Maybe that sounds stupid to today's young people, sounds boring, but—"

"It doesn't sound stupid or boring to me, Mommy."

"When you find the right person, something precious and good will happen, and that will make you feel safe with him. When you feel safe, you won't hesitate to be a complete lover. I'm not one of these love experts who write columns in the newspapers, but I know what was true for me, and I feel sure it will be true for you as well. You think too much of yourself and you value your emotions too much to give anything away cheaply. That's good, and it doesn't make you a prude or frigid. It makes you wise." She smiled and laughed to herself.

"What?"

"I remember when I was a little girl, I was watching two larks flitting about madly, and I asked Grandmère Catherine what was wrong with them. She said they were doing a mating dance. The female was pretending not to be interested, which, Grandmère Catherine explained, made the male even more interested and guaranteed the female she wouldn't be disappointed. 'She just wants him to know she ain't no easy date,' Grandmère said."

We both laughed.

"You were so lucky to grow up in the bayou. I wish I had," I said.

"Oh, it was no picnic. We worked hard to have what we needed just for day-to-day living, but the mornings and the nights . . ."

"You still miss it, don't you, Mommy?"

"I do. Some."

"Why don't we go back? Why don't we all visit Cypress Woods?" I said excitedly.

"No, I don't think so, honey. Not just yet," she said getting up, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"Hungry?"

"A little."

"Then let's go downstairs. We'll pretend you just came in and we'll go get you something to eat. Daddy will want to hear every detail about your day at the hospital."

"I know. It's sad he never became a doctor."

"Life holds a surprise around every bend. Some good, some disappointment. The trick is to keep poling your canoe," she said.

"I've never even been in a pirogue. Why can't we go to the bayou?" I pleaded.

"We will. Someday," she said, but it was the same someday I had heard hundreds of times before. This one had no more ring of truth to it. But it did have a darker, deeper, and hollower resonance. It left me feeling uncertain, like someone grappling with the darkness, pressing her face into the night, waiting hopefully for the first star.

The past, our past, resembled the maze of canals that were woven through the bayou, some leading out, some leading farther and farther into the unknown. It would take courage to risk the trip, but I was confident that someday I would embark. Someday I would go back and discover the answers to the questions that lingered.

I only hoped, how I hoped, that I would have someone precious and loving alongside me when I pushed away from the shore and began the journey.