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You’ve been here before. There’s nothing to worry about.
Helen Mansfield shifted restlessly, the paper sheet on the examination table rustling under her. Maybe she should have sat on the chair in the corner. This was a routine meeting to discuss the results—the sure-to-be absolutely, totally normal, nothing to worry about results—of the ultrasound she’d had done as a follow up to her annual mammogram.
To distract herself, she tried to count the number of cotton balls in the glass jar with the tin lid on the counter in front of her. It sat next to a similar jar of wooden tongue depressors. Both seemed oddly out of place next to the sleek, black flat-screen monitor attached to the wall by a swinging arm. Did doctors still use wooden tongue depressors? Wasn’t there something a little more...sophisticated by now?
The door opened without warning, and Dr. Shelagh Chesley strode in. She’d been Helen’s family doctor for more than three decades, and while they didn’t socialize Helen considered her a friend, one who had been with her through the birth of her daughter, years of sore throats and upset stomachs, a bout with pneumonia, the onset of menopause.
And the death of Helen’s husband from pancreatic cancer three years ago.
“Hello, Shelagh.” She licked her lips, mouth dry with nerves, despite her internal pep talk.
“Helen.” Dr. Chesley leaned against the counter and crossed her arms, her navy-blue blazer tightening across her shoulders. Her hair was unapologetically steel grey, cut in a short bob, and her makeup understated. “I’m going to come right out and say it—the ultrasound confirmed a mass in your right breast. We need to biopsy so we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Are you sure?” Helen winced. “Of course you’re sure. It’s just, I’ve had abnormal mammograms before. We’ve even gone as far as an ultrasound. There’s never been a need for a biopsy.”
“You know you have dense breast tissue. That often means additional scans to rule out areas of concern. And you’re right, we’ve never had to go further than an ultrasound. Until now. Given your family history, we can’t discount what we’re seeing this time.”
Helen’s mother had died from breast cancer at forty-three, when Helen was only twenty. Now fifty-five, she’d outlived her mother by a dozen years, but that turbulent time still had the power to make her stomach roil. After her mother’s younger sister had required a double mastectomy and passed away from the same disease a few years later, Helen had met with Shelagh to discuss preventative measures.
And here they were.
Helen couldn’t say the word, fearful of conjuring it into reality. But she needed to know. “What are your instincts telling you?”
Dr. Chesley pressed her lips together. “I won’t speculate, Helen. Given the characteristics of what we’ve seen in the mammogram and ultrasound, I want to do a surgical biopsy and remove the mass. I’ve arranged for you to go in a week from tomorrow. It’s an outpatient procedure done with local anesthetic and a mild sedative, so you’ll want someone to drive you home.”
It was all going too fast. Helen held up her hand. “Hold on. Isn’t there something else we can do before we go full bore with surgery?”
“No.” Dr. Chesley regarded Helen with a compassion that made her even more queasy. It was exactly the expression she’d expect to see on the face of a doctor giving bad news. “It’s a small lump, and I am confident we can remove it entirely during the biopsy. Next steps will be determined once we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Helen floated untethered from her feet, and made her way out of the doctor’s office, into the elevator, and out the exterior doors to where her car was parked. She slid into the driver’s seat, the air of the interior stifling and stale. July had been unusually hot for northern British Columbia, and there was no end in sight for the soaring temperatures.
Despite the heat, Helen shivered. A chunk of ice sat low in her belly, the chill of fear creeping through her nerves and veins. She cupped her hand over her right breast and pressed. She couldn’t feel anything—wasn’t even sure exactly where the lump was. She pictured it, an oozing, pernicious mass radiating its evil tendrils deep into her body.
Then she pictured smashing it with a hammer, stomping it under her foot, crushing it with a rock so big she had to clutch it with both hands.
Feeling slightly steadier, she started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.
––––––––
SOMETHING WAS WRONG with Helen.
Nathan Spieth chatted with Stephanie Collins while keeping an eye on Helen. She flitted about, the skirt of her lightweight summer dress fluttering above her knees, making sure everyone had a drink and was helping themselves to snacks. He didn’t think any of the other members of the Silverberry Book Club—meeting this Tuesday evening in Helen’s back yard—had noticed anything. But he’d long been attuned to even the slightest changes in her mood.
Something was definitely not right in her world.
“All right, everyone!” She called the group to attention by tapping lightly on her martini glass with her fingernail. “Let’s gather round and start the discussion.”
Nathan offered Stephanie a seat on the deep cushion of the outdoor sofa. This was her first book club meeting, and she seemed rather shy and bewildered. She had come with Terrance Renfrew and his husband Bennett, but the couple had become involved in a conversation with Penta Potter, another member of the Silverberries, and left Stephanie standing awkwardly alone. Nathan had stepped into his unofficial role as secondary host and set himself to putting the new arrival at ease.
Once everyone was settled, Helen launched the analysis of last month’s assigned reading. Nathan watched her closely, contributing when needed to keep the conversation going, but otherwise letting the six or so other members carry the ball. The book club had been active for a little over two years, but he’d sensed for a couple of months now that interest was waning. Part of that might have something to do with the wonderful weather they’d been having. Who wanted to sit around discussing “good” books when they could be out on a boat or at a cabin or generally enjoying the heat wave? Meeting on Helen’s deck had been a compromise, yet even so several regulars had made their excuses and not attended.
An hour later, the discussion broke up. Nathan began collecting the party’s detritus while Helen escorted the rest of the Silverberries to the front yard. He lived right next door—had for twenty years—and it was habit for him and Helen to help the other with clean up when it was their turn to host. Given Helen’s demeanour this evening, he had an additional motive for sticking around.
She returned from the front yard and climbed the wooden steps to the deck. Normally brimming over with energy and verve, she moved at a slower pace tonight, and the creases around her mouth were deeper than usual.
As he placed dirty glasses of all shapes and sizes on a serving tray, he said casually, “Everything all right?”
“Of course.” Her reply came so quickly he knew it was a reflex, not necessarily the truth.
He straightened and pinned her with a glance. “Helen. I’ve known you a long time. There’s something on your mind.”
She averted her gaze and began stacking serving dishes with abrupt, jerky movements. “It’s nothing important.”
Nathan studied her. Three years ago, when her husband Aaron had died, she’d stopped colouring her hair and had chopped the long silvery locks into a skull-hugging cut that accentuated her cheekbones and amazing green eyes. A muscle in her jaw flex repeatedly and well acquainted with her innate stubbornness, he decided to leave the subject be. For now.
They worked in silence, moving around each other with the ease and efficiency of years of practice. He reflected on how they’d come to this stage in their relationship. When they’d met, they’d both been married. Nathan’s three sons and Helen’s only daughter had been in elementary school. Now they were both widowed. He had three grandchildren, she one granddaughter.
He’d found Helen attractive from their first meeting, in a general, appreciative way. As he’d grown more and more dissatisfied with his own marriage, though, he’d done his best to squash any show of interest. The difficulties Wanda and he were going through were complicated enough without adding in lust for their next-door neighbour—especially since that neighbour was very happily married and had no idea what he was feeling. Then, just when he’d raised the courage to discuss divorce with Wanda, she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer, and, well, he’d stayed.
Now she had been gone five years, and his sharp, stabbing guilt had faded. What still stood out keen and clear were the months leading up to her final day. It was one more thing he and Helen had in common. Though his love for Wanda had faded well before her diagnosis—unlike Helen’s feelings for Aaron—watching someone you’d built a life and family with die of cancer was not an experience he ever wanted to live through again, and he was sure Helen felt the same way.
A clattering smash jolted him from his thoughts. Helen stood at the sink, the chip and dip bowls, vegetable platter, and sundry other dishes in a heap inside it. She gripped the edge of the counter and rocked back and forth, her head bowed.
“Helen?” Alarmed, he stepped forward, tossing aside the dish rag he’d been using to wipe the kitchen island and resting his hand on her forearm. “Now you’ve got to tell me. What’s going on?”
She looked up, her eyes wide and wild, a pulse beating rapidly in her throat.
“Do you want to have sex?” she said.