CHAPTER 11—WHAT THEY NEED

Creaking stairs and the sound of bronchial distress outside her door alerted Suzanne. She checked her watch. Wilma, right on time, her shift finished. She needed an opinion on the Gordon situation, a question answered. Was Gordon married or separated from his wife? Although Suzanne hadn’t answered Wilma’s phone calls on a couple of recent occasions, she now desired her company.

Suzanne put down the plate of spaghetti she slurped and lowered the volume on the TV. She opened her door.

“Oh, hey Wilma,” she said. “I thought I heard you! How’s life?”

Wilma stopped and let the grocery bags she carried drop to the floor. Her short bleached-blond hair revealed dark roots. Her face sagged. Her eyes were puffy. She had applied her makeup lightly today, not the usual shellacking.

“Hey.”

“Listen, what are you doing now? I gotta ask you something, if that’s okay.”

Wilma wheezed and looked at Suzanne sadly. “Sure. Come on over. Could you do me a favour, though? Could you take a couple of these bags?”

Suzanne went out into the hallway and grabbed the grocery bags. Wilma tinkered with a mound of keys and opened her front door, Suzanne trailing in. Wilma flicked on a light and shuffled into the living room. She found the TV remote and turned on the set. She eased herself on the couch and switched on a table light.

“I don’t feel like making anything tonight. Think I’ll order in. Do you want anything?”

“Where you ordering from?”

“I dunno. Maybe the Chinese guy.” Her purse fell onto the floor from the couch, spilling most of its contents. Wilma cursed softly. “Fuck.” She struggled to lean over and pick up the items.

“Have any beer or anything?”

“No beer. Or wine. Maybe there’s something in the cupboard above the stove.”

Suzanne stood on tiptoe on a chair, felt around a greasy shelf and found crème de menthe and Baileys. It would do. She poured herself a tumbler of Baileys.

“Do you want some?”

“No,” said Wilma, reaching for a brush. “I need to lay off the hooch.”

Suzanne pulled up an ottoman by the couch. Wilma settled back in, having collected her purse. Eyes absent, she flipped through TV channels. Suzanne choked down the Baileys, the sweetness revolting.

“Wilma, I need your opinion on something that’s happened to me. Wilma, are you listening?”

Wilma lowered the volume on the remote. She looked at Suzanne, her expression weary. “Why haven’t you answered your door when I’ve knocked?”

“You’ve knocked on my door? When?”

“About five times in the last couple of weeks. I know you’re home, too.”

Suzanne gripped the glass and put on her best clueless look. “When? How was I home?”

“Maybe you weren’t home, I don’t know. You might not like me and I might not like you, or understand you, or get you, but . . .” She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Mind if I turn on another light? It’s dark in here.” Suzanne switched on the other table lamp. She licked her glass and stared off at the cat figurines in the cabinet. She didn’t spot her favourite figurine, a cat holding a mop.

“I got some bad news from the doctor,” Wilma said, picking at her nails.

Suzanne scrunched her toes and frowned. “Where’s the cat holding the mop? Is the cat holding or dancing with the mop? I’ve never been sure. It isn’t broken, is it? Didn’t you get that in Hawaii or Jamaica or somewhere like that? I have a clown figurine. It’s hilarious. The clown is reclining, sort of like it’s posing for a centrefold.”

“I have cancer,” Wilma said.

“Cancer. Did you just say you have cancer?”

Wilma repeated herself, playing with a ring on her finger. “I have breast cancer.”

Images of children jumping caught Suzanne’s attention. She looked over Wilma’s head at the TV. A grade-school class gathered around a beige thing with an enormous blue head. Rooey? Rooey was doing the circuit again, the appearance probably a tie-in with the membership campaign. This was being reported on a local commercial affiliate, a PR coup for someone at ABS. Suzanne looked back at Wilma. Wilma hugged a pillow and hung her head. Suzanne leafed through a Women’s World magazine on the coffee table.

“That’s not too good. Try not to get down about it.”

Wilma raised her head. “Try not to get down about it? Are you human?”

Suzanne cleared her throat. “What I mean is . . .”

She searched her mind’s database for sympathy. She’d have to excavate her heart for the proper response. Her heart, that blustery storm, that block of ice. For a person who worked with words, Suzanne was deeply inarticulate. At times she wondered if she was sentient at all. The word “psychopath” was once hurled at her by a frustrated high school teacher. A badge of honour at one time, the label now made her reflect.

“What I mean is that we live in a city with one of the best university hospitals in Canada, a pioneer in organ transplants, among other medical procedures. I’m confident that you’ll receive the best care there is, and in a prompt manner. Breast cancer is treatable with radiation therapy, surgery, chemotherapy and medication, if I’m not mistaken. Unless you have a particularly virulent form of cancer, I’m sure your prognosis is good, if not excellent.”

“They might lob off my tit,” Wilma cried.

Suzanne paused. “Well, if mastectomy is indicated as the best course in your case, I’m sure your oncologist knows what he or she is doing. Is this just a biopsy or do you have to get a tumour removed?”

“Maybe the whole boob.”

“Okay. Well, there are support groups for breast cancer ­survivors. I understand this must be difficult for you. If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to call.”

Amazed, Wilma stared at Suzanne. “You sound like one of those brochures in the waiting room at the hospital, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help myself.” Suzanne got up and poured some more Baileys for herself and some for Wilma.

Wilma shrugged and took the glass. “Here I am, fifty-two years old. Why do I have cancer? Where did this come from?”

Suzanne lowered herself on the couch. She resisted reeling off the many probable reasons why Wilma had cancer: obesity, a lifetime consuming trans-fatty acids, excessive consumption of alcohol, a pack-a-day cigarette habit, a sedentary lifestyle.

“I don’t know. So, what are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do? Die, maybe.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I’m tired. Tired and depressed. I’m better than I was a few weeks ago, when I was knocking on your door.”

Suzanne scrunched her toes again. “What did you do then?”

“I called my son. ‘There’s no service for the number you have dialled.’ Actually called the ex. He was genuinely concerned. Said he’d take me to the hospital, if I needed him to. Then he asked me for money. The fucker. I told a girl at work, told her to keep it quiet. I can’t afford to lose my job. This really comes out of the blue. I’d been feeling tired for a while, but I didn’t think anything of it.” She slapped her thighs. “Well. What’s done is done. No use crying over spilled milk, no pun intended. I’ll take my lumps, no pun intended.” She made herself laugh.

Suzanne smiled. “You’ll be okay.”

Wilma looked at Suzanne, blue eyes shining with tears, her eyeliner smudged.

Suzanne pushed the words out. “Do you want a hug?”

“That would be nice.”

Suzanne reached over and put her arms around Wilma’s thick torso. Wilma held on and quietly sobbed. Wilma felt soft and plump. Like a mother would, Suzanne guessed. She stared over at the firing television and let her go.

“If I need your help,” Wilma sniffled, still holding Suzanne, “will you help me?”

“Of course,” she said, squirming out of the embrace. “You can count on me.”