Excerpts

Excerpt from Holidays by Doris Hill

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My experience was traumatic, life changing, and scary as hell.

It was the Fourth of July 1997, and instead of thinking about the fun we were going to have on a friend’s boat this afternoon, I was wondering what to expect at the examination scheduled for the following Tuesday.

Two days before the Fourth of July, I got into the shower around six in the morning, as I normally do. Something told me to put my hand to my right breast, and I did. What is this? I thought. No, it is nothing. No! It is something! It’s a lump! It was tiny—about the size of a very small pencil eraser tip. I jumped out of the shower and ran to my sleeping husband. “Honey, feel this! What does this feel like to you?”

“What …” he mumbled. “It’s nothing. I don’t feel anything.”

I got back into the shower. “It’s a lump,” I said to myself. “Oh my God, I have a lump in my breast!”

“Guess what,” I said to my sister. “Don’t tell Mom, but I found a lump in my breast. I have an appointment to see my doctor next week.” “Not to worry,” she said, “I have had lumps in my breast, and so

has Vanessa (our youngest sister), and they have always been benign, not malignant. It should be okay, really. Make sure you let me know what your doctor has to say.”

It was reassuring talking to my sister Clara. Now, if I could only be sure, I thought. But I told myself that there was no need to worry about it now. I had an appointment, and there was nothing more I could do until then. Life goes on … you must go on.

Almost right away, I started looking at things a little differently. Do I have cancer? And If I do, what does that mean? Will this be my last Fourth of July? Don’t think about that now. Enjoy this Fourth of July holiday. Yes, that’s what this is—another day to be with friends, doing something fun and not thinking about work.

Finally it was time for my doctor’s appointment. My regular doctor wasn’t available, so I saw another doctor who was able to see me on short notice. I will always remember her first words to me. She said, “Show me where you think there is a lump.” I pointed to the spot. She felt there. “There’s a lump there, all right. It feels pretty solid. I don’t think there is anything to worry about. When did you have your last mammogram?”

“Let me see,” I said. “I’m not sure … my last mammogram.” Did she really expect me to remember? “My last mammogram … Oh, yes, my last mammogram was just about a year and a half ago. Yes, I had my last mammogram in February 1996.” Damn, I thought, I’m six months late. But so what. I just had a full physical in January—or was it February—of this year, and I didn’t have a lump then. That’s reassuring, I couldn’t have a cancerous tumor develop that fast. Yes, good. What do I have to worry about? Cancer doesn’t run in my family.

Excerpts

You Gotta Do What You Gotta Do by Helen Harris Excerpt

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The clock says four fifteen. I know by the bus ticket in my pocket that I must leave soon in order to make the four forty-five to Los Angeles. The house is full; everyone is excited about the beginning of summer vacation and the new red ’63 Chevy parked outside. I’m excited too— anxious, really—not only about summer vacation and the new red car but also about what I’m getting ready to do. How am I going to get out of the house? What if I’m caught? Exactly where is the bus depot?

Around four thirty, I walk through the kitchen toward the back door. I pick up the garbage pail and mumble, “I’m taking out the garbage.” Bertha is standing at the stove by the back door but doesn’t say anything. As I walk across the backyard to the garbage cans, my heart is beating so hard I think it’s coming through my chest. When I get to the cans, I look out of the corner of my eye to see if anyone is watching me. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. I actually empty the pail and then set it down and just start running! I can’t be caught, and I can’t be seen by anyone who knows me! I must make that bus! Down one street, up the other. On this side of the railroad tracks, there are no sidewalks and the roads are not paved; the gravel hurts my feet and makes me stumble. I cross the tracks and stop. Which way?

In the distance, I can see the big greyhound on the depot sign—not far now. My throat is dry; my chest hurts, but I keep running. Just as I turn into the depot, the bus pulls out. No! It can’t leave without me! I can’t go back! I’ll never be able to explain where I’ve been. I stop—just for a second—and then run in front of the bus. It’ll just have to run me down!

The bus skids to a stop, and the driver opens the door. I get on, hand him my ticket, and try to show him the other papers I have—the papers from my mother’s attorney that say I’m en route to her in Seattle from Texas via Los Angeles and no one should stop me.

Excerpts

Excerpt from The Best-Laid Plans by Harriet A. Slye

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Sometimes the day can drag on when you’ve got plans for the evening, and I was having one of those days. It had been a particularly horrendous couple of days, and I was looking forward to Wednesday evening. I was to meet my sister, Althea, and longtime friends Pat and Sheila to attend a reading by a famous author at a local bookstore. Clients had been calling with annoying questions, coworkers had been behaving equally stupidly, and bosses had been making impossible demands. Wednesday had begun as badly as the two previous days; this job and these people were working my last nerve!

The day ended and, boy, was I ready for a relaxing and pleasant evening with friends. It had been a long time since the four of us had been able to get together, and tonight was going to be a treat.

We expected a crowd for the seven-thirty reading, so we decided to meet at Anderson’s Bookstore around five so we could get good parking places there. Then we would take one car to Sammy’s for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

I was the first to arrive and found a parking spot across the street. I parked in two spaces so whoever drove to Sammy’s could park in front of or behind me when we returned. My sister, Althea, was next, and we waited for Sheila and Pat, who were notoriously late for everything. When they finally arrived, we exchanged hugs and greetings and headed for Sammy’s Soul ’n’ Spirits.

Sammy’s is a small but popular restaurant that doubles as the local watering hole on weekends. Professional and nonprofessional African Americans meet there after work for drinks, food, and conversation. During the day, old-timers gather to have a drink, play dominoes, and solve the problems of the world. It has been a restaurant for years but has been through several owners. The area was undergoing much-needed renovations. It had become a dangerous place at night, with gangs in the area; but the face lift was looking good, and people were returning to the neighborhood. Sammy’s was on the ground floor of an office building in the central business district. We chose Sammy’s because it was close to the bookstore and none of us had been there in ages. It was the only soul food restaurant around that could accommodate more than fifteen people at a time.

We arrived at about five thirty. As we entered, we noticed that some remodeling was being done. There were several groups of people scattered throughout the restaurant, having drinks and talking. The bar was straight ahead, but we could hear raucous laughter, so we opted for the restaurant. There was a table for four in the corner, and we quickly claimed it. After scanning the room for familiar faces and feeling fairly confident that we hadn’t missed anyone we knew, we began to chat among ourselves, looked at the menu, and decided on drinks. The atmosphere was light; people were talking, laughing, drinking, and having a good time; and we were anxious to join in.

A full twenty minutes later, the waitress, whose name tag identified her as Brenda, finally sauntered over. Althea was discussing her impending laser eye surgery when Brenda chimed in, saying, “I know what you mean, girl. My eyes are so bad I have to wear contacts and glasses!”

Pat’s eyes were rolling, and I was holding my breath. I knew how we could be if people insinuated themselves into our conversations.

Sheila muttered, “As long as you can see well enough to write our orders down right.” It was going to be that kind of evening.

Find out what happens in The Best Laid by Plans by Harriet A. Slye by getting your copy of Life Matters by The BookClub Seattle today!

Excerpts

Excerpt from Dessert by Carol-Flanagan-Frank from Life Matters by The BookClub Seattle

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Cheryl knew she was taking a risk when she met him. You know what I mean. A little voice inside whispers a warning as you size up a situation with a casual glance. But Brandon was so enticing; she threw away all caution and moved in at full speed.

Cheryl Kincaid was fresh from graduate school at Rutgers University when she moved back to her hometown of Philadelphia. With a master’s degree, an eight-year-old son, and a messy divorce, she was rebuilding her life. She figured it would be healthier for her son, Jamil, to be raised around family and better for her to be close to loyal, old friends than to remain around the hostility and negativity of her ex-husband’s family.

When Cheryl’s oldest and dearest friend, Diana, suggested she attend the wedding of a former classmate, she had in mind to introduce Cheryl to Perry Swanson, an up-and-coming real estate broker. Perry was also a single parent, raising ten-year-old twin girls. But when Cheryl arrived at the reception, the first thing she spied was the fine chocolate frame of Brandon James Washington. He was lounging against the bar and appeared to be engaged in an animated conversation with two of the groomsmen. The cream silk shirt and matching linen slacks complemented his dark velvet skin perfectly. Cheryl’s eagle eye quickly noted the expensive clothing, the large gold chain bracelet on his right wrist, the diamond stud in his left earlobe, and the absence of any rings on his left hand.

Diana tried to steer Cheryl through the crowd toward a group of friends sitting near the dance f loor. But Cheryl stopped dead in her tracks. “I want to meet him!”

“Who are you talking about, girl?”

“That fine hunk o’ man near the bar. Who is he?”

“Oh, that’s Brandon Washington, the most eligible bachelor around here—and he knows it. There are more women chasing him than you want to compete with. You’ll have to take a number.”

But Cheryl dismissed the warning, and like a bee is drawn to honey, she buzzed over in the direction of Mr. GQ.

Read more in Life Matters by The BookClub Seattle!