Dany
I’m discharged after three nights in the hospital. My mother holds the wheelchair handles as she confirms the instructions from the nurse.
“Drakes don’t get cancer,” she says for the seventeenth time this morning, and possibly the nine hundredth since the diagnosis. “We just don’t.”
She sends me a look. She made it perfectly clear that cancer is beneath the Drakes.
“I don’t know where Daniella went wrong. Possibly the hamburger phase she had in second grade. I warned her. I told her, Drakes do not eat hamburgers. Or candy bars. There were some candy bars that year too.”
The nurse hums a non-answer. She’s a no-nonsense black woman in blue scrubs. She points back to the printed pages on wound care. There are instructions on how to remove the bandages and care for the drains—those delightful little tubes that send out all the oozy fluid from the surgical site. The ooze was red at first, then pink, now it’s the color of apple juice. There are instructions for showering, for medication, for activity level. There are pages upon pages of instructions. I nod and try to listen. But I’m distracted. There’s a room with an open door that’s diagonal from the nurses’ station. It has coral-colored trim around the door and light salmon linoleum floors. There are plants, a white and fuchsia orchid and a blooming bird of paradise. A flood of sunlight spills across the floor from the large window. All this color is almost a vulgar contrast to the dull green and blue and gray everywhere else.
I crane my neck and make out a group of women, sitting in plushy lounge chairs. An older woman in a purple track suit is talking and gesticulating widely. The rest of the women are roaring with laughter. I’m stunned. What could be so funny? So wildly amusing? I’ve never heard so much noise, so much laughter in a hospital. Or anywhere really.
“What is that?” I ask. I point to the room.
My mother bats at my hand.
“Don’t point, darling,” she says.
The nurse looks over. She scratches her chin. “That’s the girls.”
Another round of laughter erupts. My mother sniffs.
I don’t know why, but I’m drawn to their laughter. It’s so uninhibited and unapologetic. It reminds me of the first time I saw kids doing somersaults at the park. I stood in awe, then rashly joined them. I rolled down the hill, my stomach flipping in joy as I sped down. I was free. Until my nanny found me and scolded me for the grass stains on my dress. I haven’t felt that joyful rolling since. Except that colorful room reminded me so much of it.
I shift in the wheelchair and crane my neck to see inside better.
My mother sends me a pointed stare. I ignore it.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
The nurse doesn’t answer.
My mother clears her throat. “As I said, thank you for your care. We won’t be back. The cancer is cut out. Gone. Drakes don’t get cancer. As I said.”
I wonder if my mother remembers that I wasn’t born a Drake. Probably not. I assumed the role so well.
We receive the final paperwork, my prescriptions, follow-up instructions, when the drains can come out, when the staples can be removed…enough information to direct a military campaign, but finally, finally my mother begins to wheel me out.
“Someone else can push me,” I say. My mom is five foot two and all of one hundred pounds.
“Don’t be silly, darling. What would they say?”
“Of course,” I say. Which is absolutely always the right response.
The wheels squeak as the wheelchair glides down the hall. I hunch my shoulders down, then adjust my posture as the stitches pinch my skin.
When we get close enough to the room I send a quick furtive glance at the plaque on the wall.
It reads, Chemotherapy Lounge.
Shock punches me and I recoil. I don’t want to go anywhere near that room. Laughter or not.
The women cackle again.
I wrap my arms around myself.
“Are you cold, darling? Would you like a shawl?”
“No, Mother. I’m fine.”
“Of course you are, darling. Of course you are.”
She lays a beige cashmere shawl across my lap.
The smell of antiseptic chases us through the halls and clings to my skin. At the entry, Karl, our driver, opens the door to the Jaguar.
“Good to see you, Miss Drake. Mrs. Drake.”
He gives me a polite smile.
“Thank you, Karl,” I say. I slide into the leather seat, careful not to pull on my stitches.
My mother glides in next to me.
“Now that this ghastly illness is over with, let’s discuss the future,” she says.
She takes my hands as the Jag pulls out of the parking lot and into traffic.
“Shawn has jumped ship,” she says.
“He’s merely scared. A small misunderstanding.” I attempt to pacify.
My mother pats my hand. “Exactly. I’ll consult with the plastic surgeon. Perhaps you should go to New York, rather than Stanton Medical. Yes, I think that’s best. A makeover. I just love makeovers. Why didn’t you marry Shawn years ago? I told you to. I warned you.”
“Of course,” I say.
I think about Shawn. About our home. It’s a beige sided new construction executive home that his parents gave him as a college graduation gift. It came with the promotion to President of The Boreman Group, his family’s business. I always wanted to paint the walls different colors, burgundy, ice blue, saffron, maybe sage green, but Shawn said a beige interior was more refined. For five years, I’ve been cocooned in beige.
At least my childhood home isn’t beige. It’s white. All white.
“And why are you still working? At least you took a break for this blip. What would they say? You know Drake women don’t work. They marry powerful men who work. It’s your job to run a household, be a hostess, sit on charity boards. Darling, why didn’t you marry years ago? You’ve wasted your life. Don’t wrinkle your brows. You know I’m right.”
I sigh. “You know why. Shawn wanted to wait until he turned thirty. He said it’s passé to marry before then.”
“Well, far be it from me to naysay, but your father’s not impressed.”
My chin falls to my chest. My father. I’ve always craved his good opinion.
When I was three months, my biological father left. As my mom tells it, he was her one true love, and she rues the day she ever laid eyes on him. He got the Russian model, my mother got me and a one-hundred-thousand-dollar divorce settlement. Dad number two left after one year and my mom received a cool million from the prenup. There was another after that. And another. When I was six, I’d already had four dads and my mom had climbed up the prenup ladder to independent wealth. Enter my current father. My mother told me that he wouldn’t leave us if I acted like a lady. She wanted this marriage to stick. At the engagement party my mother introduced me. I curtsied and lisped “how do you do?” My father-to-be was charmed and declared me his English rose. From that point forward I learned that in the world of the Drakes, I was to play the part of the lady, and if I played my part well, I’d be loved.
And I’ve been well loved and cared for. From age six to twenty-four.
Unfortunately, English roses don’t get breast cancer.
It’s messy. And gross. And makes people uncomfortable.
My mother pulls out her phone and opens her calendar. “I’m making a reminder to call the plastic surgery group in Manhattan. The Hollywood set uses them, not that I follow their vulgarity, but still, if it looks good on the silver screen…”
I watch out the window as we pull into the drive.
There, a half mile down the gently rolling, weeping willow-lined driveway, is my childhood home—Rolling Acres. It sits like a diamond, nestled in emerald green lawns. It was built in 1881, after Thaddeus Drake, my father’s great-great-great-grandfather, made his first million. It’s a palatial white rectangular mansion with long, tall windows and a dozen chimneys. Wide marble front steps sweep up to the front door.
When I was little I imagined it was the palace in a fairy tale. It filled me with wonder.
“Welcome home, darling. You may stay a few days.” She sighs as she looks me over. “A week or two at most. Oh, darling.”
I lift my sagging shoulders.
Karl opens my door and my mother helps me out of the car. We walk up the front steps, then my mother opens the heavy wooden door and I step into the white marble entry. Our shoes echo on the stone floor. I look up at the domed ceiling and columns and grand staircase. The thirty-two steps never seemed such a great distance to climb before today. I ignore my clammy palms as we climb the stairs and then walk down the wide hallway.
My bedroom is one of seven on the second floor. When we reach it, I open the door. The room is the same as I left it five years ago. White walls. White bedding. White carpet. Three hundred square feet of clean, white, colorless, pristine…room. Looking at it makes me unreasonably sad. And tired.
“I’m going to lie down,” I say.
My mother hesitates at the door. Finally she puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. Words of meaning have never come easy to her.
“I’ll have chef send up a dinner tray,” she says.
Which I know means I love you.
“Thank you,” I say.
My mother closes the door. I listen to the soft rustling of her satin skirt until the sound fades. Then I step away from the door and look around the empty room. Nothing to do now but move forward. I pull out my phone and look at the screen. It’s a picture of me and Shawn at his parents’ house. We look happy. We were happy.
Before I can think better of it, I tap his name.
He answers on the third ring.
“Daniella,” he says. His voice is short.
“Hi, Shawn.” I silently push for him to say something. When he doesn’t, I continue. “I’m out of the hospital. My mother said you sent over my things.” My heart thuds inappropriately loudly in my ears.
I hear a voice on the other end of the line and Shawn mutters something in return.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.
There’s another short silence. My legs start to shake. I walk to the bed and sit down on the edge.
“Look, I don’t want to make this awkward and rehash what I said yesterday. Can we let this drop?” he asks in a tight voice.
I lean forward and take a deep breath. No, we can’t, I want to scream, what are you thinking?
Instead, I say, “I thought…I thought you may have changed your mind. I’d like to come home. To you.”
He says nothing, so I whisper, “I know this was a shock. It scared me too. But I’m better now.”
Silence. And I hear in his silence how pathetic my request sounds. How sad and small.
“Daniella. Please don’t make a scene.”
My breath is sharp and short. I’ve never in my life made a scene. The white room swims around me. I grasp the comforter with my free hand and the white fabric bunches in my hand.
“What can I do to fix this?” I ask.
He sighs, long and low. “I don’t know.”
“So, there’s something I can do?”
“No, that’s not what I said.”
“But you don’t know one hundred percent that things are over.”
The voice sounds again in the background, high and thin. Who is that?
“We can still get married. We don’t have to cancel the wedding. You still love me, I know—”
“I have to go,” he says.
“Can I see you? Can I come home?”
“No. Maybe. No. Look, Daniella, you are home. Please don’t make this hard.”
He hangs up and I’m left holding a silent phone to my ear. I pull it away and stare at our picture on the screen. A peculiar stinging sensation rushes through me and I can’t believe he’s done this, I can’t…I can’t…the feeling threatens to erupt, and I shove it back down. My phone screen goes blank and I see my reflection. Pinched mouth, wide eyes. I smooth my face into the picture of calm.
A thick lump sits in my throat. But I won’t cry.
I can fix this.
I survived the mastectomy. I can get Shawn back.
For a moment, my world feels like it has broken, and all the glass pieces are reflecting a different reality. One where, even though I am kind, and good, and give all my love to others, they don’t love me back. They hurt me. It’s a world where I have no one. I always expected that if I was nice, if I smiled and nodded and agreed, if I gave and helped and loved, that I would be loved back. Was I wrong?
I shake my head.
No. I can’t have been.
So, what now? I can’t go home to Shawn and I can’t stay here. I need a place to live.
I work through my contact list, all my friends in and around Stanton are friends of Shawn too. They can’t help.
I don’t know any work colleagues well enough to ask.
Finally, after two hours of texting and calling, I admit defeat. No one wants a post-surgery, post break-up disaster sleeping in their guest room or on their living room couch.
Okay.
If my mother means it, and I really can’t stay here, then I’ll rent an apartment.
It’ll be fun.
Shawn will come around soon. I’ll get him back and I’ll get my life back. There’s nothing in the world that can stop that from happening.