7
Wedding indeed. Rosalyn lifts one shoe from its box. What else could she tell Dina? At least she placed the escorting in the past where everything can be forgiven. More and more, she feels it’s where it belongs. The long black skirt and blue silk tunic draped over a chair are waiting for her—whoever he is, he’ll like it. It’s such a chore dressing up when she’d rather order takeout and watch TV. Still, working for Annie has gone well for her, leaving her with a chunk of savings she’d never have accumulated from diner income. It’s the money that bought her little villa . . . well, actually, a condo with terracotta floors and huge windows facing a terraced lawn.
Her eyes linger on the throw rugs bright as turquoise gems, the opalescent vase filled with daffodils, then slide to the sunburst clock on the wall. Jesus. Her father’s waiting. He hates flowers, thinks they’re a waste of money, promises to toss them when they’re given to him.
• • •
The winter snows have damaged the road even more than last year. She drives cautiously past old houses, a few with tarps over their leaky roofs, others with cracked windows. This is where she grew up. The area depressed her then and still does now. Holidays were the worst, yet she’d look forward to Christmas every year as if it would be different. Her father would drink less. Her mother would find a gift that pleased Rosalyn. She and her cousins were always shooed in front of the TV, but her ear was on the adult-talk. Josie lost another baby; Marie Rose pregnant by god knows who; Artie can’t get it up; Ron’s temper is out of control; Tony’s got no work again. After each tidbit, someone would sigh, “That’s life, what can you do?” She hated their acceptance. Not that they’d listen to her, a mere girl, at least not until she was married with children, if then. They’d hear her out now, though. With wide eyes and slack jaws, yes they would.
She hoists the bag of food from the rear seat, feels a strain in her back. Yesterday . . . lugging boxes from the storeroom. She warned Murray, no more. If it’s over two pounds, he carries it.
“Dad,” she calls, shouldering open the door. Since the emphysema diagnosis he’s remained dormant. His body will disintegrate. She’s been over this with him. At least walk to the corner and back, she insisted. He won’t hear it. When she phones her brother to complain, he’s sympathetic, but rarely comes east. Neither of them is filled with affection for the man. How could they be? For too long after their mother died they had put up with him themselves. If she had the excuse of distance, she’d take it as well.
“Make sure to shut the door,” his brusque voice a little wheezy.
“How about hello?”
He’s broad-shouldered, with powerful, deeply veined hands, sheltered in his BarcaLounger the small, bomb-shaped oxygen container beside him. Not a trace of gray in his dark mane.
“We don’t stand on formalities, you and me.” As usual he shouts over the TV, which is on all the time. Does the man ever sleep?
“I brought frozen lunches and dinners. In and out, it’s easy.”
“You want me to pay you?”
Yes, why not? damn it. The man owns his house. He has a fireman’s pension, doesn’t spend a penny. “That’s okay.” How about thank you, she won’t say, avoiding a lecture about duty or why have children.
“Can you stay?” He wants her to prepare and serve dinner.
But she’s already in the narrow kitchen stuffing food in the freezer. The soiled towels heaped on the chair makes her wonder if the monthly cleaning service she hired is enough. When her mom was alive every room sparkled. After the cancer spread, her mother couldn’t leave the bed, so Rosalyn had to mop, dust, whatever.
Peeling off the see-through covering on a turkey dinner, she places it in the microwave, an appliance her mother never owned. It’s weird, so many years, yet, recently, thoughts of her mother spring to mind not just when she’s here but also in the shower, supermarket, the oddest times. She recalls a story her mom told about living in the Bronx a few streets away from a Gypsy store. One winter evening, when her mother was seven, a Gypsy man scooped her up. Her mother screamed. He put her down and fled. The story was told as a warning to Rosalyn who often wandered away from the house. Her father, listening, muttered good riddance. To this day, she doesn’t know if he meant his wife or Rosalyn.
She spoons hot food on a plate and places the meal on the TV tray in front of him.
“Do you think about Mom?”
“What’s the point?”
“Memories, I don’t know.”
“Can’t do a blessed thing to change the past. Today is what I have. You too. Make something of it. Where’s your husband? Where’s my grandchild?”
“Let’s not, Dad.”
“She’s in her twenties now. She’d be a friend to me.”
“You sure as hell didn’t feel that way at the time,” her voice rising above his.
“I was looking after your mother. It was never right. A child belongs with its parents. Period.”
She watches him shovel food in his mouth. Damn him. What would he do if she died before him?
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow for your doctor’s appointment.”
She hurries to the car, slides in, slams the door. How dare he mention the baby? The memory is hers, not his. He has no right to it, none at all. She remembers Carl Reese. Another lifetime. Someone told her . . . probably her father . . . Carl’s in Iraq. Isn’t he too old?
• • •
The hotel caters to conventions. Men wearing name tags wander in and out of the lounge but the bar isn’t crowded. Burgundy-flocked paper darkens the walls. Several green-shaded lamps hang over the whiskey bottles and the indirect lighting casts a pinkish glow. She sits at a small square table nursing a glass of sparkling water. Dina should see her now, perfumed, coiffed, new shoes. Annie’s message said his name is Jack Temple, a Londoner, carrying a newspaper. Arriving early gives her a chance to catch sight of her date before he sees her. If she gets a bad vibe she’s out of there. It’s happened once or twice. Annie, who runs the escort service, chooses carefully for her girls, and loves to hear next-day stories. Their phone calls mimic the confessional, with Annie as priest placing details in some universal order that undermines any thought of sin. Still, she can’t help but wonder about the wives and girlfriends back home. When she says so, Annie swears it’s genetic, that she’s never met a man, gay or straight, who hasn’t cheated on someone somewhere. Carl didn’t cheat on her. Once the baby came, though, it was finished between them. Waiting for a strange man with Carl in her head. Too weird. It’s her father’s fault dredging him up.
• • •
A tall middle-aged man with a long, bony face and graying hair, carrying a newspaper stops at her table. He’s dressed in an expensive-looking dark blazer over pale gray pants, gray shirt open at the neck. She pegs him as very English indeed.
“Rosalyn, I expect? Jack Temple.” His bright green eyes carry the younger man he once was.
“Hi. Have a seat.”
He seems pleased with what he sees. Why would someone like him need an escort?
“Here on business?” It’s her job to help him relax, but he doesn’t seem nervous.
“Yes, for a while.”
“Let me guess . . . something to do with banks?”
“Not quite. I’m doing research at a lab on Long Island. I work for a pharmaceutical company.”
“Impressive.” Some men prattle on, which can be boring, but less wearing. It’s hard to know with this one. Either way, she’d rather be home relaxing on her couch. Such thoughts aren’t permitted. It’s her job to be 100 percent present. She’s learned the art of it, how to keep her distance and leave an impression of closeness.
The blue-white tablecloth, heavy linen napkins, crystal stemware, and elegant silverware are nothing at all like the diner, and nothing like what she grew up knowing. On the rare occasion her father took them out to dinner, but usually to some less than appetizing place. Here she is in for a sumptuous hotel meal, and not her first.
The waiter appears before she can settle in. He and Jack discuss the merits of Beaujolais or Sauvignon Blanc and Jack orders a bottle. Nodding his white-haired head, the waiter hurries off. She scans the other couples in the room, their intimacy, wondering as she always does if her status as an escort is apparent.
“May I say something about myself . . .”
“Of course.” Her dates often attempt to define their goodness in the face of immorality.
“My wife has MS. There are limited hours we can spend together. We don’t talk about my needs but she’d understand. A nurse cares for her. My son comes often, but he has his own life.”
“That’s a lot of information to tell someone you’ve just met.”
“I want the woman who touches me to know something about me. It’s less impersonal.”
“And are you asking me to do the same?” Usually her dates couldn’t care less.
“If you wish.”
“I can’t rattle off a bio.” He’s a stranger. It feels intrusive.
“Are you an actress, writer, a painter?”
“Why would you think so?”
“Creative women need to support themselves. And . . . well . . . you’re very beautiful, radiant, really.”
“This isn’t the only work I do. I care for my sick dad, so I appreciate your situation. Shall we order?” She picks up the menu.
• • •
Except for an occasional headlight sweeping past, the road home is dark. Her mind replays the last hours. He was attentive, talkative. He told her about places he’s visited, blue skies the color of her blouse, sunsets as tawny as Spanish wine. And middle age, how odd it feels to be there. He was an “up-by-the-bootstraps lad,” worked his way through college. She found herself sharing snippets of her life—unusual—relating diner stories that had him laughing out loud. He was curious about her and easy to be with. The hours passed unnoticed, also unusual. Still, the faint embarrassment of exposure dogs her. He wants to see her again.
• • •
The breakfast rush is in full swing and the cacophony of sounds is jarring. Mila pours coffee with one hand, wipes surfaces with the other while trading words with customers. But that’s Mila, her ability to juggle three things at once keeps Murray at a comfortable distance. Nick flips eggs, catches popping slices of toast, pulls plates out from the warmer. The distinct, watery slosh of the dishwasher surprises her. Murray asked Nick not to run it during busy hours, insisting the noise disturbed customers. Murray makes up things like that all the time, but isn’t about to criticize Nick who’s been pulling double shifts. They’ve all been covering for Bruce. Even if Bruce were ready to return, Murray’s looking to hire someone “reliable.” Changing into her work shoes, Rosalyn fights the urge to return home, to catch up on sleep.
Willy beckons her, his ancient arm in the air. A small man in a booth for four, Willy won’t sit at a table because he doesn’t want to reveal his skinny legs. They are two sticks. When does vanity end? She jots down his order, though Willy orders the same breakfast special every day. If she walks away without promising to return, he calls out, “Rosalyn, I need you.” She fills his water glass and pats his arm. “I’ll be right back.”
Murray’s standing at the counter. “Why the long face?” she quips, not expecting an answer.
“The whole thing . . . I don’t get it . . . Sylvie leaves early, arrives home late. I have dinner alone when there’s no reason for her to work. I don’t like it. It’s eating at me. What’s the point of being married?”
“Talk to her. Tell her you’re lonely.” He won’t. He’ll never admit need. That feels familiar.
She places Willy’s poached egg, wheat toast, small cereal box, and milk in front of him.
“Stay,” he orders.
“For a minute.” No doubt Murray’s watching her. How he got Sylvie to marry him is the real question.
“You look lovely,” Willy says.
“You say that every day.”
“Sometimes I lie.” He winks. “Did I mention . . . my sons are coming to visit? They’re wonderful children, but it would kill me to move in with either one of them. At ninety, eating and sleeping are my last best functions. I need to do them on my own.” His voice is thin, high, the testosterone long gone.
“I understand,” she says sympathetically.
“I knew you would.”
Why do people want to hang on so long? Are memories enough? Not that she’ll ever see ninety. “How are you today?” she asks.
“My dear, the question is, will I make it here tomorrow?” He adds the third packet of sugar to his cereal, which he never finishes.
“And, will you?”
“Seems so, but my five senses are no longer intact. Tell me, does springtime still smell fresh? If so, it insists on love.” They often have this conversation, which leads to his advice about her finding a companion. Usually it amuses her but today it’s irritating and she doesn’t respond, though Jack comes to mind. After sex, her dates want to sleep, happy to have her leave. Jack was different. He insisted on a post-midnight stroll along the dark flower-scented garden paths behind the hotel. Even if Jack were a free man . . . he’s not.
“Did I say something to upset you?” Willy asks.
“Of course not.” She gazes at his wizened face, the yellowish skin. His eyes, though, as black and shiny as patent leather. He’s alone and as happy as his body allows. Something takes hold inside her, what, she can’t exactly say, but it feels like a clutch, a squeeze against the future, a warning to do something now.
“I’ll bring coffee in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder, hurrying to the parking lot. Wedged between two cars, she takes the cell phone from her pocket, dials Annie. “It’s Rosalyn,” her voice low.
“How was last—”
“Fine, it was fine. It’s not why I’m calling. How should I put this . . . I’m quitting,” the words heavy in her mouth. “I’m getting too old for the routine. Or . . . maybe my day shift takes it out of me. I hate having to dress up when I feel like shit.”
“Then . . . rest a few weeks.” Annie’s tone hesitant as if she’s talking to someone ill. Her head does feel as if it’s about to explode.
“No,” she nearly shouts, shocking herself. Lowering her voice again, says, “It all feels . . . suddenly . . . beside the point.”
“What point?” Annie sounds truly confused.
“I’m tired of meeting the needs of strangers.” It’s the best she can do.
“What about the money?”
“I have enough of everything but time.” Where are these words coming from? She’s not impulsive. “I’ve got customers waiting.”
• • •
Switching on the car radio to interrupt the static in her brain, she pulls into the driveway. Her father walks slowly toward the car, portable oxygen canister in hand.
“I phoned you last night to pick up a six-pack today,” he says, getting in.
“We’ll do it on the way back from the doctor.”
“Where were you?” his tone faintly accusatory.
“Out . . . on a date.”
“Who’s the boy?”
“Dad. I’m forty now.”
For a moment he takes her in as if he might actually see her. Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, her head tense enough to crack.
“The food you brought yesterday was tainted.”
“It was frozen.”
“Kept me in the bathroom.”
“Tell the doc, then.”
“You don’t care, do you?”
“Dad!”
“Be better for you if I was gone.”
“You watch too many soap operas.”
“Well, what else can I do?”
“I don’t know. Invite more of your old pals to visit.”
“They come when they can,” his tone testy.
He’s more protective of their feelings than hers. She says nothing more.
Accompanying him up the path to the doctor’s office, she holds open the door. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“What’s the matter, got ants in your . . .” Hurrying back to the car, she drives to the beach.
With the windows rolled down, a balmy breeze, a hint of spring in it, the kind Willy can’t smell anymore. Are there reasons for quitting other than the ones she told Annie, whose surprise and confusion mirrors her own. Forty’s not old. Did something spook her? It’s all so odd. She stares hard at the sand, water, the last shock of afternoon sun streaking purple and orange across the sky. Then she takes out her cell phone, calls the number Jack gave her.
• • •
Her hands are cold. She eyes a bottle of red wine on the side table, deciding whether to open it. A bottle of white wine chills in the fridge. She paces the living room like an anxious teen, then stops to look out the window. Jack’s never been here in the weeks they’ve dated. She doesn’t allow “dates” to come home with her. Hotel bar, restaurant, his room, then home, alone, that’s been the routine with Jack, too. Now he’s on his way here.
She watches his long legs precede his torso out of a town car. Watches him come up the drive, watches, too, as he takes in the landscape. Too late to change her mind, she opens the door. “Welcome to the villa.”
His lips brush hers and he hands her flowers.
“Roses of all things . . . beautiful.”
“Yes, they are.”
She tosses out the brooding tulips, arranges the roses.
“Lovely villa,” he says, looking around.
“I like it. A drink? Some music?”
“Let me.” He riffles through her collection, stacks a few CDs, pours two glasses of wine, then sits beside her on the couch. He makes himself at home with ease.
“I’m quite glad you asked me over. I wondered, is the lady hiding a man in her closet.” He grins. “By the way, my lab gets theater tickets. Let’s take in a play. Also I want to explore the beaches here. People say they’re more beautiful than the Riviera. Hard to believe.”
“Sure, a play sounds great. I’m not sure about the Riviera, but late afternoons, the shore is wonderful.”
“Perhaps this weekend then . . .”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.” Ella’s velvety tones float by. “It’s the strangest thing . . . I quit the job.”
“The diner?”
“No, the escort service.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“A while ago.” She won’t say the day after they met.
“Well, I hope I was responsible.”
“No, at least I don’t think so.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Why?”
“You’ll spend time only with me. It will be absolutely delightful.” He folds her hand in his. “I couldn’t be more fortunate.” He pecks her cheek. “More wine?” He’s up refilling their glasses.
• • •
In the shower, his large, firm hands slowly massage her soapy body. Two glasses of wine wait on the sink edge.
“You see,” he shouts over the sound of the water. “It has nothing to do with getting clean. We should’ve done this before.”
She laughs. A surprising lightness fills her.
“And also, I don’t do all that many things well. This, however, I claim credit for success. Yes?”
“Yes,” she shouts.
“The other bit I should share . . . well, my dear, it has to do with your outstanding body.”
“Jack, I rarely believe the sentiments of excited men.”
“Yes, indeed, you made it clear these last weeks. What can I say to make you trust my . . .” He stops his massage abruptly. “Let’s get into bed. I’ll warm it up for us.”
He rinses off the soap and leaves first. She drapes herself in a large bath towel, follows his wet footsteps across the floor. The waning evening sunlight trickles through the shuttered blinds. She registers the stillness; the music has ended. She slides in beside him.
His arms go around her, his belly pressing her still-damp back, his mouth close to her ear.
“Rosalyn, dear. Something there in your breast.”
“What?”
• • •
Locked in the diner bathroom, Mila drones on about the number of women who survive, customers who years later enjoy their burgers, women who . . . But she’s only half listening. How we know before we know is the competing lyric in her head. It’s why her mother’s been visiting her thoughts. Why, too, the eerie sense of time. Even more crazy is the strange relief of no longer waiting. The doom she’s carried since her mother’s death has been born, the truth of it stark, almost energizing in its clarity.
Murray pounds on the door. “Hey! What’s going on?”
“Be right out,” Mila calls. “Hurry, tell me what the doctor said.”
“It doesn’t look promising, though the biopsy was inconclusive, which, he says, they often are. Tomorrow I visit the surgeon, the day after I go for a bone scan. Then . . . I don’t know, a bunch of tests I guess.”
“Ava and I will go with you. She, tomorrow, me the next day, Dina the day—”
“No . . .”
“Rosalyn, you’d certainly go with me.” Mila cuffs her wrist. “So just let us do it.”
“I do need help with my father. Could your daughter visit him two hours every afternoon for a while? She can put up his supper. See if he needs something at the store, whatever. I’ll pay her eight an hour. I’ll tell him I’m away on vacation. I don’t want Murray to know either. Look at the way he’s treating Bruce.”
“Darla always needs money. It’s a good time of day for her, after school, before gallivanting.”
“Hey!” Murray bangs on the door.
“Coming.” Mila’s hand reaches for the knob.
“Go ahead, I need a minute.”
In the silvering mirror a pale face greets her. She applies lipstick. There’s distance between her and that person. Overwhelmed, is what it is . . . all the things to get done. Everything seems set out, no time for rumination, as if her body has sprung a leak. She glances at her watch and sees it’s dinnertime. Not her usual shift, but Mila’s in the kitchen helping Nick.
The restaurant’s more crowded than usual, buzzing with impatient, hungry customers, arms beckoning, voices loud. Murray is greeting regulars as he fills water glasses and he eyes her as she steps through the door. Behind the counter, Ava serves one customer after another. About to wait on a table of four noisy people, the door chimes and Jack enters.
“God,” she says low in her throat, on her way to stop him from taking another step inside. No one knows about that part of her life. “What are you doing?” she whispers harshly.
“You didn’t call me last night. I won’t have that.” They stare at each other.
“We had no plan that I can remember,” her tone far from welcoming.
“We don’t need a plan. We’ve spent enough time together. You owed me a call,” his tone controlled.
“That’s a little proprietary.”
“Look, it took me hours to find this damn place. I was worried. What happened at the doctor’s?”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a married man with a life in London. You’ll go back to that life.”
“Well, that gets to the core . . . because Rosalyn, I’m here, with you, now. If you don’t like me, if you find me a bore, if you would rather be with somebody else . . . say so.” He’s talking fast, nervously. “Otherwise, let’s get out of here.”
His eyes on her are wide, his mouth unsure, prepared for a verbal blow. He’s vulnerable, like her. “I’ll meet you as soon as I finish my shift.”
“No. I’ll find a table. I’m staying.”
• • •
After the exam, the surgeon sits on the edge of an elegant leather-topped desk. His degrees descend the wall. He’s tall, thin, with a head of curly blond hair, a smile to light the way. Is his demeanor part of the healing process? Does he offer it to each patient? No matter, he’s too young, his life still beginning. She needs a doctor in his seventies who’s seen it all.
He tells her about the statistics, studies, new treatments. How many of his patients have died of breast cancer? she wants to know. Not one of his statistics. He says, do this and the survival rate could be . . . Do that and . . . He says nothing will be known for sure until they stage the tumor. She’s having trouble absorbing words—the door in her head is locked. It’s too much information, she tells him. Mila, though, scribbles his words on index cards.
The afternoon sun does little to warm her body chilled by the A/C. Mila hands her the index cards, which she stuffs in her bag. The car isn’t far, but they walk slowly, Mila’s arm linking hers.
“What’re you going to do? Breast off, chemo first, or . . . ?” Mila asks hesitantly.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s an awful decision. Are you terrified?”
“I can’t talk about it yet,” she admits.
“Did you and Darla work out a deal?” Mila doesn’t miss a beat.
“We did. She looks more like you every day except for the dark hair. Was her father dark?”
“He was dark all right. Who was the fine-looking man at the diner waiting for you?”
“I dated him for a few weeks. He’s married.”
“Now isn’t the time to break up. You need as many with you as will stay. Sickness, divorce, birth, they take it out of you. Someone has to be there to empty the bucket. Should I drop you off or come in for a while?”
• • •
She kicks off her shoes, drops on the couch. The still-blank journal Jack bought her is on the table. Her feelings are muddled, alien, racing, her thoughts filled with the minutiae of things to do, stupid, unimportant bits and pieces taking up space in her head.
Every day, Jack asks how she’s doing. Every day she says fine, her tone refusing talk about the possibility of malignant cells spreading like melting butter. He suggested a support group. She told him about Doris, one of her regulars, who attended a group to help grieve her son killed in Iraq. Doris quit after one meeting. She didn’t want to hear how she’d feel a year from then. She wanted to make her own discoveries. To each her own journey, it’s what she believes as well, and said as much to Jack.
Whatever her mother’s journey, she didn’t share it with Rosalyn, didn’t talk about the disease, didn’t reveal what was happening to her body. She never mentioned pain, disfigurement, or death. Then again, at seventeen, Rosalyn didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to take in the flat chest while her own breasts were flourishing. Her hands cup their fullness. She remembers Carl’s head burrowing contentedly in the cleavage, his delight in their milk-laden heaviness. He was with her when the nun brought in the infant. She closed her eyes, lest the baby’s face remain to haunt her. Now she wishes she had seen her, someone to hold on to.
The phone rings.
“It’s me,” Mila announces.
“You’re home already?”
“Darla said your dad’s cute and funny.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Swear to whatever. Ava and I hatched a plot to take you to dinner a few nights from now.”
“I’ve had enough diner food.”
“Funny, funny. The real stuff. Romano’s, remember their salads? Even better, the wine they never tell you the name of . . . heaven. So warn your guy, he can’t come. It’s just us.”
“Sounds great.” She clicks off.
Cute and funny? Darla’s gone to the wrong house.
• • •
It’s a different exam room, small, cold, without windows. Lying on a narrow, padded table, a thin pillow beneath her head, wires attached to chest and legs, an EKG clicks faintly, recording her heartbeats. Yesterday, a whirring plate of light took three-dimensional pictures of her bones. Heart, bones, breasts, her body dissected for study; the tests, their definitions, the possible outcomes, layers of information have all taken their toll on her brain as well. Her voice has begun to echo in her head like a bad telephone connection; she senses herself watching herself, even when applying makeup. It’s as if she’s two people, one just a hair ahead or behind the other. Is this a heightened state or terror?
The technician removes the wires, wipes the gel off her body. The surgeon scrolls down the long sheet of paper, studying the EKG.
“Rosalyn, your heart is beautiful,” he tells her, stuffing the graph in her file. “I’m sending the bloods to the lab. The bone scan hasn’t come back yet. But let’s look at the mammogram together. Get dressed, come to my office.” He helps her off the table. The desire to hang on his arm, to stay in his sight at all times, is strong.
• • •
“I left work an hour ago to get here, but the traffic . . . listen, sorry I’m late, couldn’t be helped,” Jack bustles in, anticipating a scolding. But she hardly noticed the time. As usual he makes himself at home, uncorks wine, pours some in glasses, hands her one.
“I haven’t done a thing about dinner,” she mumbles more to herself.
“Low on the problem scale.” He tugs her to sit beside him on the couch.
“Are you a problem solver as a scientist?” she asks, though concentrating is difficult.
“It’s what they pay me for.”
“Are you worth the money?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tell me one of your great finds.” She’s trying.
“It’ll sound like tooting my horn, is that how you say it?”
“Toot away,” she orders.
“I discovered blending two types of old drugs produced a third that raised the number of white cells in the blood.”
She stares at him. “Are you doing cancer research? Because that’s too eerie.”
“I never saw any reason to mention it before. It’s where a great deal of the drug investigation is today.” He slides an arm around her shoulders.
“You don’t have to press me one place or another every time you mention cancer. I’m not that fragile.” Actually, though, she’s chilled.
“No you’re not. In fact, your self-sufficiency is sometimes off-putting.”
“Off-putting. That’s very British. Aren’t your countrywomen very self-sufficient?”
“In their public selves.”
“I see.” She wonders if his wife is clingy.
“I offended you when it wasn’t my intent.”
“Men want women to need them so they can feel strong and noble. But here’s the thing . . . when women do lean on them, men feel suffocated.”
“Wow. That’s telling me.”
“That wasn’t my intent.”
He laughs. “Touché. Nevertheless, you’ve seen the doctor again. What happened?”
“He showed me the mammogram. It’s there, a white splat, not small, easy enough to see on the film. Also the staging came back. The surgery is being scheduled.” She moves to the window. It’s too dark to make out anything that isn’t already familiar. He comes up behind her, nuzzles her neck.
“Your touches kind of scare me.”
“That’s simply terrible. What can I do?”
She wants to say, be cautious, because she’s taking in the dimension of things, registering their very essence. She once read soldiers on the front lines create an impenetrable bubble to keep the world at a distance.
The phone rings.
She picks up the cordless. “Hello?”
“You said you were away.”
“Dad?”
“Can’t stand the sight of me anymore?” his voice explosive.
“Dad!”
“Lie to your father? Great! I actually thought Darla was my granddaughter, but she’s only going on eighteen.”
“Dad—”
“You’ve resented—”
“For craps sake, I have breast cancer.” She hangs up. “Bastard,” she mutters. “And you, too. Just go home.”
“My sweet girl. I’m not about to honor your self-pity.”
“Self-pity!”
He hands her the wine. “Drink up.”
“I don’t want it. And I don’t want you here.”
“Take a deep breath, my dear.”
“I want you to leave.”
He wraps his arms around her; his hard body a wall. “So you can be alone with your fears.”
“So I can muster my strength.”
“It’s already there, in your eyes, determined jaw, set lips. Believe me, it would take an earthquake to undercut that.”
“Why do you think you know me?”
“I don’t. You won’t let me. You won’t share your dreams or your nightmares. Why didn’t you tell your dad in the first place? Why must you carry the load by yourself?”
“And you’d like to take me to bed to prove your ability to comfort me, right?”
“I would, but not for that reason.”
She gazes at him. Nothing in his expression mocks her. The accent makes him sound flip. “And the reason is . . . ?”
“I’m terribly smitten with you. I didn’t want to be. It’s why I hired someone instead of meeting a woman on my own. I thought hiring would alleviate better feelings.” His voice so earnest it’s almost comical.
“You talk funny.”
He chuckles. “I’m going to cook dinner. Can I search your pantries?”
“Excuse me?”
• • •
She sets the table, her mind somewhere else. What if she fled? Stuffed the bad news in a corner of her brain the way the doctor stuffed the EKG in her file. What if she took off for California to walk the beaches? Or farther, Rome, Venice. Or maybe Turkey? She has the money. Spend it now. She looks out the window where things are as they were. That’s the problem with fantasies. They change nothing.
He places a puffy salami omelet on the table, the garlic and onion smells palpable.
“Looks wonderful,” she says, a bit sorry for her cutting words before.
“Now aren’t you glad I stayed?” He holds out a chair for her.
“I won’t be bribed.” She sits across from him.
“Apparently. Yet it’s exactly what I want to do. Cheer you.”
“You’re sweet.”
“Not really.” His expression clouds and she wonders if he’s feeling guilty.
“Are you thinking about your wife?”
“Not thinking so much as worrying a bit. I spoke to the nurse this morning. My wife’s been sleeping more. A bad sign.”
“Do you like being surrounded by sick women?”
“What a thing to ask.” He looks uneasy.
She shrugs. “Well, you are.”
“I don’t see you that way.”
“What way?” She’s no longer sure what they’re talking about. Like those customers who insist on chatting. She provides trivial questions, and the answers don’t matter.
“Like Lillian, incapacitated.”
She wishes he hadn’t said her name.
“Simply believe this. I’m here for you.”
“But then you won’t be.”
“You’re vulnerable. I’ll continue to reassure you.”
“Jack, that’s condescending.”
“Good! Sounds more like you.”
“I’m in a very strange place,” she admits.
“And I’m still drawn to you.”
“Who knows what’s going to happen to me.”
“That’s true about any of us,” he says.
“You mean, today’s what we have? Sounds like my dad.”
He cuts the omelet, places some on her plate. She’s not the least bit hungry but forks up a tiny piece because he’s watching her. Ridiculously, Willy comes to mind. He still worries about what people will think.
“Things still matter,” she muses.
He looks up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m surprised, is all.”
“Crises propel us to odd places. A bit of an adventure . . .”
“That’s inspiring, thank you.”
“Adventures have no history, that’s all.”
“It’s more complicated than an adventure,” she says.
“Come now. You’ve heard about the best-laid plans . . .”
She nods, pushes away the barely touched food. “I’m really not hungry.”
• • •
She drives to her dad’s house. She hasn’t spoken to him in a week. She considers leaving the bags of food in the driveway and taking off, but then finds herself with a shopping bag in each hand, walking up the scarred path. Fogged windows block anything inside. The house needs painting. Only the maple tree thrives, though no one ever cut back its branches.
“Dad?” She shuts the door behind her.
To her surprise he’s in the kitchen.
“What’re you doing?”
“Want coffee?” he asks.
“No.” She wants out of here. Will resent any discussion about her body. And begins to stuff packets of frozen food in the freezer. He leans against the sink watching her. There’s hardly room for the two of them.
“I hired Darla for the summer,” he says gruffly.
“You what?”
“Going deaf?”
“You’ll have to pay her.”
“No kidding,” he says.
“Did she agree?”
“She accepted.” His eyes steady on her.
She wants to say you finally got off the chair. She wants to say it took the threat of death. She wants to say it’s really too late. “Good, Dad. That’ll be a help.”
• • •
They’ve taken her street clothes, earrings, purse—anything that could identify her—and stowed them in some room she’ll allegedly be wheeled to after recovery. Draped in a hospital robe, covered by a sheet, she’s one of several bodies lined up between drawn curtains awaiting surgery. It’s still possible, she isn’t anesthetized yet. She could chance fate, shout, I changed my mind! Let me out of here! She makes no move, no sound, resignation heavier than the future.
Fingering the cold edges of the narrow gurney, A/C very high, no germs allowed, if she stays calm her teeth won’t chatter. Breathing in deeply, she counts slowly on each exhale the way Dina taught her. It’s no use. Her thoughts race, collide, refuse to remain long enough to read, as if there’s something she must resolve. Dina has the keys to her condo and will take care of everything. Darla will deal with her dad. Ava and Mila drove her here. Ava didn’t say much, though Mila went on about her daughter, how amazing it is that’s she’s grown, how worrisome, too, how she spends money like . . . Mila’s chatter was more comforting than Ava’s silence. They insisted on staying with her through admission, walked her down the long blue-carpeted corridor toward the heavy double doors leading to the area where a nurse took over. It surprised and scared her then when Ava suddenly hugged her so tight the breath was squished out of her.
Jack, too, on his last night here wrapped her so tightly she feared for her bones. Said over and over she was his godsend. How strange. He wanted to remain with her through surgery and then some, though his job at the lab was done. She wouldn’t let him, didn’t want him to see her in duress, wanted his image of her to be whole and beautiful. And, yes, she understood none of that mattered to him, but still, it’s what she wanted. He wrote down a thousand phone numbers where he could be reached. He promised to stay in constant touch, made her promise to meet him in Europe when she recovered. Said if she didn’t, he’d return to fetch her. She believes him.
Her doctor parts the curtains. He’s in surgical garb, though his mouth remains uncovered. He smiles warmly; his warm hand squeezes hers. He alone understands what she’s about to go through. He promised her a shot to relax her and leans over to inject her arm. He whispers two words she’d never say to herself, “think positive,” though they both know truth will have its way.