Olivia (Logan 5)

"Bruce? Who's Bruce?"

"Bruce Lester, Kimberly's cousin. He's very cute, but he's only just a high-school senior," she said.

I didn't want to ask any more questions. I was afraid of the answers. She arrived forty-five minutes later and we all went to see Mother. The sedative the doctor had prescribed to keep her calm made her lethargic and sleepy. She dozed on and off while we were there. I saw Belinda was uncomfortable with the sight of her hooked to an I.V. Finally, Daddy decided we should leave.

Once away from the hospital, Belinda rattled on and on about her day, describing her girlfriends, many of whom she hadn't seen for a while. Neither Daddy nor I paid much attention, but she didn't seem to notice or care.

"Everyone thinks I'm better off without Carson. They all say it would have been a disastrous marriage anyway. His mother would have been interfering with everything, giving her opinions, making my life miserable. Things work out for the best sometimes," she chimed.

Daddy stared through her, barely eating his meal.

"Right, Belinda," I said. "You're not enrolled in any school. You don't have any skills to speak of. You have no other prospects at the moment. Things have worked out for the best," I said dryly.

She laughed.

"Don't worry. I'll have other prospects when I want them," she said with so much confidence, it irked me. Daddy raised his eyebrows and then shook his head. "Let's worry about your mother right now and nothing else," he finally declared.

It put an end to Belinda's babbling, for which I was grateful. The moment we entered the house, however, she ran upstairs to get on the telephone and continue her banter with anyone who would listen. I felt sorry for Daddy. He looked so much older and so tired. All my life I imagined Daddy had steel in his bones. No man ever looked stronger or commanded more respect. It wasn't as painful as it was frightening to see him look weak and defeated.

He poured himself some brandy and sat in his office staring out the window at the gradually clearing sky until he was too tired to keep his eyes open.

Belinda didn't go with us to the hospital in the morning. She couldn't rise early enough and both Daddy and I thought it would be better not to have her moping about as we waited for Doctor Covington.

"I've got her stomach calmed somewhat," the doctor explained, "and she's eaten. She's resting comfortably."

"How long before you have results?" I asked.

"Another day at least," he said. "I'll be on the phone with Doctor Friedman this afternoon."

I sensed that he was expecting the worst. Why else would he want to confer with a specialist so quickly? I didn't say anything about it to Daddy. We visited with Mother who wanted to know immediately where Belinda was.

"We'll bring her around later, Mother," I said. "She couldn't get herself up early enough and neither Daddy nor I had the patience to wait for her," I explained. I saw the pain in her face.

"What will become of her?" she muttered.

"She'll be fine," I said.

"Of course she will," Daddy agreed. "A young woman who looks like that and comes from a home like ours? How can she not be fine?" he growled.

Mother nodded, but not with any confidence. Our eyes met for a moment and she saw my true feelings. I couldn't lie, not to Mother and especially not about Belinda.

As I had anticipated, the worst happened. It was almost anticlimactic. Sometimes, you can feel tragedy settle in around you. It comes on the wind, a gray beast, heavy with skin of glue, and it sticks to your inner soul, weighing you down, settling like a parasite to suck out your hope and your happiness.

Doctor Covington called us to his office late the next day. This time Belinda came along with Daddy and me. She sat quietly, her face suddenly the face of a five-year-old, full of terror as well as innocence.

"I'm afraid the biopsy was positive, Winston," Doctor Covington began.

"Is that good?" Belinda whispered, a little too loud.

"I'm sorry," Doctor Covington said looking her way, "but no, it's not good. Doctor Friedman thinks we should perform the mastectomy to be followed by chemotherapy."

"When?" I asked before Daddy could finish sucking in his breath.

"We can schedule her this Tuesday in Boston," he replied.

Daddy nodded, his shoulders slumped.

"Then let's do it," he said firmly, but worry tormented his dark eyes.