standing in. “Debra isn't home right now,” he said, absently coiling the phone cord around two fingers. “She'll be back in a couple of hours, give or take.”
“Am I speaking with her husband?”
“Yes, that's me.”
“Mr. Adams, I'm Dr. Taylor from the Tucson Medical Center.”
“I know, you already said that.”
As he pushed the receiver harder against his ear, the cord grew tighter on his fingers. What followed was at once surprising and, somehow, expected: the doctor requested that both he and Debra come to her office the next day, the meeting already scheduled for four in the afternoon. “Can you and your wife make it at that time, Mr. Adams? It's possible to meet earlier if it's more convenient.”
“What's all this about?”
“I think it's probably best if we discuss everything in person, and with Mrs. Adams present, all right?”
He resented the matter-of-fact tone of her voice, how her words hinted at something tragic yet revealed nothing whatsoever. “It's serious, isn't it?” he asked.
“We'll discuss everything tomorrow, all right? So I've got your appointment down for four o'clock — ”
“Can't we talk about it now? Is there anything wrong with my wife?”
But the doctor would not elaborate any further, telling him simply that it was important to remain calm, and concluding with, “We ‘ll talk tomorrow. Four o'clock. Your wife knows where my office is.”
“Okay.”
“I'll expect you both then.”
“Okay.”
And as Hollis hung up the receiver, he thought he recognized a distant noise like the gentle evocation of wind chimes; it was, at that moment, as if he had stirred from a pleasant dream, only to realize the ground was collapsing beneath his feet. When Debra returned from shopping, carrying four grocery bags inside and setting them down in the foyer so she could close the front door, he was waiting at the dining-room table, his hands resting in his lap, his eyes following her busy movements even as he remained still. He addressed her from across the room, and without looking toward him she replied, “What is it?”
“Come here for a second, would you?”
“Hold on, let me get the groceries into the kitchen.”
“You can leave them there, I'll take care of it in a minute. Just come sit beside me first, okay? Your doctor called.”
Debra paused at the front door, her back to him, her hurried activity brought to a halt. “Dr. Taylor called?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A little while ago.”
“Was it about the sonogram?”
“I think so. She didn't really tell me anything. She wants us in her office tomorrow afternoon, at four. That's all I could get out of her.”
“I see.”
But she didn't turn to him. Instead, she remained facing the door, saying nothing else until Hollis stood and crossed the dining room into the foyer. He rested his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back to his chest.
“Did you hear the other side of the mountain is on fire?” she asked, tilting her head against his chin. “The Tucson foothills are covered in smoke. I drove home with the windows rolled up and the AC off because of it. It's awful. The radio said they're losing cabins in Summerhaven. My hair smells like smoke, huh?”
“It doesn't.”
“I probably should shower anyway. That smell is stuck in my nostrils. Will you unpack the groceries?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Debra eased free of his mild hold, and — running fingers through her hair, releasing a prolonged sigh — she went from him without having once looked his way. Hollis started collecting the groceries; he hoisted the bags with both hands and trudged into the kitchen, lifting and then lowering the bags to a countertop — where, as he began removing plastic-wrapped bulk items (Lean Cuisines, Healthy Choice entrees, StarKist tuna cans). He suspected Debra was likely pondering those very things he had already considered while waiting at the dining table: Why did Dr. Taylor want them both there? What exactly was going on? And why had Debra's annual physical required a transvaginal sonogram and a CT scan, in addition to the usual pap smear and standard checkup?
The new doctor was younger than Debra's former California physician in Arcadia, and, as well, the woman specialized in internal medicine. “Maybe that's why she's so thorough,” Debra had told him after receiving her exam. “She's certainly a breed apart from old Dr. Baker, that's for sure. Seriously, Hollis, I haven't felt that poked and probed since our honeymoon, I mean it.”
“You sure it's not something else, Deb?” Hollis had asked. They were reclining near the swimming pool at dusk, seated in matching green deck chairs. “Sounds like an awful lot of trouble. I've had hundreds of physicals but never got sent to a radiologist.”
“Well, your plumbing isn't as complicated as mine is, dear.”
“Just doesn't sound right to me, all those tests.”
“You know, it's my fault to begin with. I asked for a gallbladder exam and I guess she decided to give me the whole shebang. Could've done without that barium drink though. It's like I've been snacking on chalk.”
Other concerns also had been at play, minor worries which soon felt greater than previously imagined. Upon settling in Arizona, Debra's weight had begun to increase, despite the fact that she exercised regularly, ate smaller portions, and refused fatty foods; the weight gain was most noticeable along her abdomen — ”fluid weight,” she had called it, “sort of like feeling waterlogged” — and she was convinced it had something to do with her gallbladder (a common source of discomfort for her throughout the years, the gallstones routinely getting purged with a fast which relied on a lemon juice and olive oil concoction). Then there was copious sweating, saturating her skin when she relaxed within their air-conditioned home and making her hair wringing wet, yet dismissed as a side effect of the hellish Sonoran weather while also seeming uncharacteristic for such a dry climate (the perspiration normally evaporating cleanly from Hollis's neck and forehead as he worked in his garden). Lastly, she had complained of an overall blahness, a general malaise since departing California; this indefinite ill-being, however, wasn't too terribly surprising, especially when put in the context of a stressful move, some weight gain, brutal desert heat, and gallstones needing to be passed. Nevertheless, it was difficult to perceive her as anything other than healthy.
But immediately following Debra's physical, Hollis couldn't shake that lurking fear of something possibly being amiss with her, although he never voiced those thoughts aloud — channeling his bothersome ruminations into gardening and a morning round of golf, while she continued operating in her upbeat manner, going about her errands and chores without a hint of despair. Even with Dr. Taylor's phone call, the typical pattern of their day didn't lend itself to panic. They ate dinner as always, saying very little during the meal. They watched TV together, saying very little during the commercial breaks. They went to bed together, briefly hugging and kissing before killing the lights. Neither one dared mention the imminent appointment, lest the conversation feed whatever irrational thoughts were brewing between them; yet their respective silences spoke volumes, and Hollis couldn't keep himself from gripping her hand for a second when they sat down to eat, or snuggling her against him while they watched TV, or enveloping her in his arms once the bedroom had become dark.
It was a restless night, to be sure. Hollis fell in and out of sleep, nodding off only to be stirred awake by Debra's gyrations, the sheets tugged this way and that, the pillow readjusted. “Are you all right?” he finally asked, rubbing a palm on her shoulder blade.
“I'm fine,” was her terse reply.
“You want a melatonin?”
“No, it won't help. I already took one.”
He slid a hand down the curves of her nightgown, stopping just above her plisse-covered abdomen, his palm pressing flat as his fingers fanned out. Prior to falling asleep again, he imagined he had the power to rid her body of whatever might be harming it. And as sleep resumed, he believed that that power had been effectively conjured,
