The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [43]
Now, waiting for Ginger at a table far too big for her in case more MOLS show up, Julianne sips hot tea in deference to the chilly rain outside and studies the truly awful Halloween decorations. A life-size, stuffed scarecrow sits atop a bale of hay by the front door. A selection of black cats and witches dangles by strings from the ceiling. There’s a grinning paper pumpkin on each table. Anyone under five would either squeal with delight or go screaming out in terror. Has Arnie’s always been this tacky? Didn’t one of the MOLS once admire the decor for being tastefully understated, uniquely suitable for a diverse clientele ranging from the Brightwood Trace crowd to the mechanics at the Quickie Lube?
Ginger arrives in a trail of raindrops, slings her dripping slicker over the back of a chair, and pinches the pleats of her gray slacks back into place before sitting down. “I meant to be early, and here I am, late and drenched.”
“You’re not late. I’m here early because I took your words to heart about deserving a long lunch hour.” Julianne hadn’t expected the bristly irritation that had filled her at the thought of having to get permission to go out for a real lunch. Why shouldn’t she go out more often? Why shut herself up with foot problems? Announcing that she needed two full hours away from the office in the middle of the day had pleased her, not just because she knew she had enough clout to make the demand, but because she was captivated—enthralled, even—by the idea of getting out, even in a pour-down rain.
A waitress appears almost instantly, and Ginger points to Julianne’s tea. “The same. No lemon. No cream.” The moment the waitress moves off, she says, “I wanted to ask you about Paisley”—wasting no time getting down to business. “She used to be healthier than any of us. Why do you think this happened?”
Although this is exactly what Julianne expected, now that she’s here, away from a doctor’s office, she feels as squeamish as Doug. She wants to talk about new movies, books, their kids, anything but illness. With a wan smile, she says, “Even working for Peter, I’ve seen enough patients to tell you that you never know why somebody gets sick and somebody else doesn’t.”
“But sometimes there are contributing factors. People get lung cancer from smoking,” Ginger points out.
“Yes. Of course.” Julianne lifts the thick, plastic-encased menus from the table and hands one to Ginger, who ignores it.
“I have this theory,” Ginger says. “It’s nothing that will help Paisley, but it makes sense to me. I wanted to run it by you because of your medical background.” The words sound as businesslike as Ginger’s gray slacks, but her tone is tentative. “Is it possible the cancer was caused by her drinking?”
“Her drinking?” Julianne arches an eyebrow.
“I know. I know.” Ginger picks at a fraying corner of her menu. “A lot of people drink more than Paisley does. Not all of them get sick. A lot of old drunks live practically forever because the liquor serves as a preservative. But people have different levels of sensitivity, don’t they? Paisley always seems to have a glass in her hand. Ever since I’ve known her.”
“Yes, but I’ve never seen her sloppy, fall-down drunk,” Julianne says.
“Me, either.”
But Ginger holds Julianne’s gaze so unblinkingly that Julianne feels compelled to offer something more. “You never know what role alcohol plays in a disease process. You usually don’t know what role a whole laundry list of risk factors plays.