I signed without thinking, without reading one word. The observer was grinning widely now, a sadistic glimmer of pleasure seemed to sparkle in his eyes; I did not have to look at him directly; his luminous frame of mind pierced my unseeing stare. Tears shone on my face. I wondered bitterly if my performance had satisfied him.
To conclude the business of the hour, a date was determined for my return to the clinic; the commencement of treatment was two short weeks from the present, and time would not slow its tempo for me. I would have to enjoy those days while I was able. Dr. E. stood, signifying that the meeting, and his time, had reached its duration; I bid him a respectful good-bye and he ushered his abominable side-kick out of the door. Dad and I gathered our belongings and departed in their wake, walking toward the lobby. Climbing in the elevator, descending to our floor, climbing out of the elevator, walking to the car… it all seemed mechanical. While our bodies glided toward our car, self-propelled, we decided to leave the town that afternoon. Somehow, the future demanded that the need to go home be satisfied. We went.
The September sun crept low, tempting winter as it reclined toward the western horizon. After we had left the city behind us, and found the route which would lead its weary travelers home, Dad broke the silence of our brooding minds. "Would you have been satisfied with just the operation? Would that have been enough?" I shook my head slowly back and forth, sitting quietly and gazing as the pavement was consumed by the miles. "No…" I said, faintly echoing my mute reply. We drove on, into the fading light. Uncertainty rode with us; it was the impetus which quailed for insurance, taunting our future-bent minds with doom and dread. Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp words. "What if…" was too persuasive to warrant refusal.
We arrived in Moline long after sunset; it was a beautiful sight, crossing the Mississippi, for the river reflected the street lights in a profusion of multi-faceted bands which sparkled like a king's hoard of precious jewels. It seemed a warm welcome, though few people were stirring, and those that stirred knew us not. That we knew the land was enough.
The streets on which we drove seemed like old friends, unchanged, and somehow dearer to the heart after the extended absence; Fourth Avenue, whose narrow confines should never have known four lanes of traffic; 53rd St., which boasted one of the few brick surfaces still in use; and 7th Ave…. the corner mail box, the parallel rows of houses, and finally, our gravel driveway…. home. As we neared the end of the avenue, the headlights caught a curious banner of white which appeared to stretch over the entire drive. We approached and stopped beneath a sign which read, "Welcome Home Laurie," professionally lettered in blue and red; it was the work of John Moore, Steve's father. Welcome home?… indeed, yes!
The following days seemed a continual welcome; my aunt made some of my favorite rice pudding, neighbors dropped in, friends visited… and to my surprise I received more cards in the mail. I busied myself writing numerous notes expressing my gratitude for all the demonstrations of concern which I had received as well as a note of appreciation which appeared in the church bulletin in reference to all the cards sent to the hospital; it was a job I viewed seriously, because no one had been obligated to do anything for me. Just as I was doused with affection, I might have been completely ignored; thus, I believe it is of the utmost importance to acknowledge another's selfless expenditures, whether their value be measured in hours or coins. To turn one's back upon the kindness and concern of others is a silent, but effective voice which speaks of one's own innate selfishness and dearth of love, for although giving should be a pleasure unto itself, it is a human propensity to seek further pleasure from the fact of the recipient, and if the latter remains expressionless and verbally dense, he denies the giver of his utmost joy. Giving is more than simply the ability to spend money; the ungracious and ill-mannered are often unaware, or perhaps more accurately stated, heedless of this fact.
School was already in session when Dad and I returned home from Rochester and although Mom and he went to work regularly, I refrained from going to classes for several more days. I was still quite weak from my operation and related weight loss, and my stamina and endurance were a mockery to their former capabilities, but my underlying strength helped me overcome all of the obstacles which I had hurdled, as it would similarly allow me to master those which lay ahead. I was strong; cancer was my solitary barrier to a clean slate of health.
Returning to school, which was always a nerve-wracking experience for me, was further complicated that year by my late arrival; moreover, my health dictated that I use the elevator instead of the stairs, an instruction which I abhorred because I felt myself to be a spectacle. Had my personality enjoyed ladles full of attention, my reaction would have been that of pure delight, for in addition to utilizing the elevator, I was allowed to select a friend to carry my books, and together we would leave the classes early to avoid the jam of hallway traffic. I was also instructed to come to the nurse's office to eat a morning and afternoon snack, as well as to rest during the physical education period. I characteristically despised being singled out from the crowd in such a way that everyone's attention was momentarily turned on myself. This time, however, it could not be avoided, and with a plea for inner fortitude to my mind, I followed all of my directions obediently. When I was able to forget my embarrassment, I was quite grateful for the special treatment which I was given.
As it was, I attended school only three days, but in that time I reacquainted myself with my schoolmates and was readily accepted in my former circle of friends. I was unused to such attention which my late arrival and circumstances seemed to evoke, yet it was pleasant, just the same.
A memory which surfaces in connection with my few days of school was my guarded reservations toward my appointed English teacher whose innate haughtiness took on the unfriendly guise of derisive sarcasm when one of the less fortunate students directed his attention. He enjoyed the reprimand to an excess which was unprofessional and beyond reason, as he would rend his subject before the other student's eyes to gain their general humor, and camaraderie. I would sit quietly throughout the class, listening carefully to the lesson lest through inattentiveness, I be attacked by the ruthless teacher and then breathe a great sigh of relief when the clock read five minutes before the bell.