Angela Hunt - A Time To Mend

“Drat.” She stepped out of the pantry, wiping her hands on her shorts. From the concentrated look on her face he doubted she’d heard a word he’d said. “I thought I had some Cokes. Hold on a minute, will you, while I look outside in the garage?”

“Jacquelyn, I—”

She didn’t stop, but sprinted out the back, the screen door slamming behind her like an exclamation point. Sighing, Jonah moved toward the refrigerator and held the glasses to the ice dispenser. He was thirsty. Maybe he could stay a few minutes and then beat a quick retreat.

The screen door creaked and slammed again, and she stood in the kitchen, her face flushed. “I forgot! I don’t have any Coke, nothing with caffeine at all. But I’ve got Sprite and ginger ale.”

“Anything will do.” He placed the ice-filled glasses on the table. “I’d even take water, anything convenient.” And fast.

“Okay.” She moved to the pantry and pulled out a two-liter bottle of clear soda, then began to pour. In the silence, Jonah took a seat at her small table and looked around. He had expected his capable nurse’s kitchen to be spotless and efficient, but the room was more charming and homey than he would have imagined. Blue-and-white gingham curtains fluttered from the open windows, and the cheerful pattern was repeated on the seat cushions, place mats and even on dishes in the wooden plate rack. The decor reminded Jonah of his mother’s comfortable kitchen, a memory he resisted with all his might.

“Drinking healthy, are you?” he asked, searching for a way to make safe conversation. “Avoiding caffeine and all that?”

“Yes.” She lowered the soda bottle and waited for the bubbles to settle. One of her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “A few weeks ago I felt a cyst in my breast and decided to cut out caffeine and take vitamin E. You know, the standard deal.”

“Are you certain,” he said, watching her pour again, “the lump is a cyst? Did you have it aspirated?”

She flashed him a confident smile. “Now, Doctor, don’t start recruiting me as a patient. I’m twenty-eight years old and I don’t have breast cancer. I mean, what are the odds?”

He accepted the drink she offered and debated whether to continue or let the matter drop. “The odds?” He casually sipped from his glass. “Perhaps you should tell me. Have you ever borne a child?”

Her hand flew to her throat in an expression of mock horror. “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

He leaned forward. “I’m not joking, Jacquelyn. And you ask our patients questions like these all the time. You asked about the odds, so let’s figure them out. So tell me—have you ever given birth to a child?”

She sank into a chair opposite him and smiled in tolerant exasperation. “No.”

“Fine. Did you begin your menstrual periods before age twelve?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Good. Have you ever had an abortion?”

Her eyes narrowed and grew serious. “This is personal.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“Answer the question. An abortion before age eighteen increases a woman’s risk for breast cancer—so have you had an abortion?”

“No.”

“Fine.” He sank back in his chair. “So far, so good. Just one more thing—have you a female relative with breast cancer?”

A cold, hard-pinched expression settled on her face. “Yes.”

“Your mother?”

She nodded.

He inhaled a deep breath. “Was your mother’s breast cancer pre-or post-menopausal?”

“Pre. She died at thirty-six.” Jacquelyn’s voice fell to a whisper. “I was sixteen.”

A flicker of apprehension coursed through him. This was not terribly serious; women whose mothers developed pre-menopausal breast cancer in one breast stood only one and a half times the risk of the general population.

“Your mother’s cancer—” he forced himself to maintain his professional tone “—unilateral or bilateral?”

“Both breasts were involved,” she said, uncertainty creeping into her expression. “She had a double mastectomy, but too late. The cancer had spread into her bones. It was hopeless.”

Jonah’s hand clenched beneath the table. First-degree relatives of bilateral, pre-menopausal breast cancer patients were at a nine-fold risk of developing the same disease. And daughters of women with breast cancer tended to develop their cancer at younger ages than did their mothers.

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