Just then Aaron walks through the door. He’s holding one of those carry trays full of Starbucks cups and starts handing them out.
“None for you,” Dr. Shaw says, pointing to Bella.
She laughs. “That’s the worst part about this. No coffee.”
Dr. Shaw smiles. “I’ll see you in there. You’re in great hands.”
“I know,” she says.
Frederick shakes Dr. Shaw’s hand. “Thank you for everything. Finky speaks very highly of you.”
“He taught me a lot of what I know. Excuse me.” He makes a move toward the door and stops when he reaches me. “Could I speak to you in the hall?”
“Of course.”
The room has descended into caffeinated chaos, and no one notices Dr. Shaw’s request or my exit.
“We’re going to try our best to get all of the tumor. We’ve categorized Bella’s cancer at a stage three, but we really won’t know definitely until we take tissue samples of the surrounding organs. And I know you raised a concern about an omentectomy. We’re just not sure how far it has spread yet.”
“I understand,” I say. I feel a deep, wet cold creep from the hospital floor, up my legs, and settle in my stomach.
“It’s possible we may need to remove a portion of Bella’s colon as well.” Dr. Shaw looks to Bella’s door and back at me. “You are aware that you are listed as Bella’s next of kin?”
“I am?”
“You are,” he says. “I know her parents are here, but I wanted you to be made aware, too.”
“Thank you.”
Dr. Shaw nods. He turns to leave.
“How bad is it?” I ask him. “I know you can’t tell me that. But if you could—how bad is it?”
He looks at me. He looks like he really would like to answer. “We’re going to do everything we can,” he says. And then he’s striding toward the operating room doors.
* * *
They wheel Bella into surgery with little fanfare. She is stoic. She kisses Jill and Frederick and Aaron, who Jill has clearly taken to. A little too much. She keeps finding excuses to grab his forearm. Once, Bella looks at me and rolls her eyes. It feels like a candle in the darkness.
“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. I bend over her. I kiss her forehead. She reaches up and grabs my hand. And then lets go just as abruptly.
When she’s gone, we’re moved into the big waiting room, the one filled with people. They have sandwiches and board games. Some chat on cell phones. A few have blankets. There is laughing. Yet, every time the double doors open, the entire room stops and looks up in anticipation.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a coffee,” Aaron says. We choose seats by the window. Jill and Frederick pace a few feet away talking on their phones.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria or something.”
“Yeah. It’s going to be a while.”
“Had you met her parents before?” I ask Aaron. Bella never mentioned it, but now I’m not so sure.
“Just this morning,” he says. “Jill came and picked us up. They’re kind of a trip.”
I snort.
“That bad, huh?” he asks me.
“You have no idea.”
Jill saunters over. I realize she’s wearing heels.
“I’m putting in an order to Scarpetta,” she says. “I think we could all use some comfort food. What can I get you two?”
It’s barely 9 a.m.
“I’ll probably just go down to the cafeteria,” I say. “But thank you.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “I’ll order some pasta and salad. Greg, do you like pasta?”
He looks to me for the answer. “Yes?”
My cell phone rings then. David.
“Excuse me,” I tell the group, which now includes Frederick, who is looking over Jill’s shoulder at her phone.
“Hey,” I say. “God, David, this is a nightmare.”
“I imagine. How was she this morning?”
“Her parents are here.”
“Jill and Maurice?”
“Frederick, yes.”
“Wow,” he says. “Good for them, I guess. Better they be there than not, right?”
I don’t respond, and David tries again. “Do you want me to come sit with you?”
“No,” I say. “I told you. One of us has to keep our job.”
“The firm understands,” David says, even though we both know that’s not true. I didn’t tell anyone about Bella’s illness, but even if I did, they would be supportive as long as it didn’t get in the way of my work. Wachtell isn’t a charity.
“I brought a ton of work with me. I just told them I’m working remotely today.”
“I’ll come by at lunch.”
“Call me,” I say, and we hang up.
I sit back down in my chair. “There’s a free latte,” Aaron says, handing me a Starbucks. “I forgot to make Jill’s nonfat.”
“How could you,” I say in mock horror, and Aaron chuckles. It feels wrong here, that sound of joy.
“I guess I was a little focused on my girlfriend’s cancer.” He gives me an exaggerated headshake. “How dare I.”
Now I’m the one to laugh.
“Do you think this counts as blowing it with her parents?”
“There’s always the chemo,” I say. And now we’re both in hysterics. A woman knitting a few chairs over from us looks up, annoyed. I can’t help it, though. It feels nearly impossible to get any air, that’s how hard we’re laughing.
“Radiation,” he says, gasping.
“Third time’s a charm.”
It’s Frederick’s stern look that sends us up and out of our seats, sprinting toward the door.
When we’re in the hallway, I take big, gulping breaths. It feels like I haven’t had air in a week.
“We’re going outside,” he says. “You have your cell phone?”
I nod.
“Good. Yours is the update phone. I made sure on the chart.”
We head down in the elevators and the double doors spit us out onto the street. There’s a park across the way. Small children dangle from swings, surrounded by planted trees. Nannies and parents bark into their cell phones.
We’re on the sidewalk, the length of Fifth Avenue splayed out before us. Cars push one another forward, egging the others on. The city inhales and inhales and inhales.
“Where are we going?” I ask him. My bones feel tired. I lift my leg up, testing.
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
“I don’t like those.”
Aaron laughs. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says.
He grabs my hand, and we’re turning up Fifth Avenue.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“We can’t go far,” I say. I’m practically running to keep up, he’s moving so quickly.
“We’re not,” he tells me. “Just up. Here.”
We’re at the back entrance of a doorman building on One Hundred First Street. He takes an ID out of his wallet and swipes the key fob. The door opens.
“Are we breaking and entering?”
He laughs. “Just entering.”
We’re in what appears to be a basement storage unit, and I follow Aaron through rows of bikes and giant plastic storage containers with out-of-season items into an elevator in the back.
I check my phone to make sure I still have service. Four bars.
It’s a freight elevator, old and lumbering, and we shuffle our way to the rooftop. When we step off, we’re greeted by a tiny stretch of grass surrounded by a concrete terrace and beyond that, the city splayed out before us. There’s a glass dome behind us, some kind of party venue.
“I just thought you could probably use a little bit of space,” he says.
I walk tentatively toward the terrace, run my hand along the marbled concrete. “How do you have access to this place?”
“It’s a building I’m working on,” he says. He comes to stand beside me. “I like it because it’s so
high. Usually buildings on the East Side are pretty squat.”
I look at the hospital, dwarfed below us, imagining Bella lying on a table, her body splayed open somewhere inside. My grip on the concrete tightens.
“I’ve screamed up here before,” Aaron tells me. “I wouldn’t judge if you wanted to.”
I hiccup. “That’s okay,” I say.
I turn to him. His eyes are focused below us. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he sees Bella the way I do.
“What do you love about her?” I ask him. “Will you tell me?”
He smiles immediately. He doesn’t lift his eyes. “Her warmth,” he says. “She’s so damn warm. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” I say.
“She’s beautiful, obviously.”
“Boring,” I say.
He smiles. “Stubborn, too. I think you guys have that in common.”
I laugh. “You’re probably not wrong.”
“And she’s spontaneous in the way people aren’t anymore. She lives for now.”
A ping of recognition in my chest. I look to Aaron. His eyebrows are knit. He looks, all at once, like it’s just occurred to him, what that really means. The possibility ahead. Ding ding ding. And then I realize it’s my cell phone that’s ringing. It’s been in my hand, vibrating and tolling.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Kohan, it’s Dr. Shaw’s associate, Dr. Jeffries. He wanted me to call and give you an update.”
My breath holds. The air stills. From somewhere in the distance, Aaron takes my hand.
“We’re going to take a biopsy of her colon and abdominal tissue. But everything is going according to plan. We still have a few hours ahead of us, but he wanted you to know so far so good.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “Thank you.”
“I’m going to get back now,” he says, and hangs up.
I look to Aaron. I see it there, the love in his eyes. It mirrors mine.
“He said it’s going according to plan.”
He exhales, drops my hand. “We should get back,” he says.
“Yeah.”
We reverse the process. Elevator, door, street. When we get to the lobby of the hospital, someone calls my name: “Dannie!”
I turn to see David jogging toward us.
“Hey,” he says. “I was just trying to check in. How’s it going? Hey, man.” He extends his hand to Aaron, who shakes it.
“I’m going to head back up,” Aaron says. He touches my arm and leaves.
“You doing okay?” David folds me into a hug. I reach up and embrace him.
“They said it’s going well,” I said, although that’s not entirely the truth. They said it’s going. “I don’t think they need to get into her stomach.”
David’s eyebrows knit. “Good,” he says. “That’s good, right? How are you?”
“Hanging in.”
“Have you eaten?”
I shake my head.
David produces a paper bag with a Sarge’s logo, my bagel with whitefish salad.
“This is my winner’s breakfast,” I say sadly.
“She’s got this, Dannie.”
“I should head back up,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
“I should be here,” he says.
He puts a hand on my back and we go upstairs. When we get to the waiting room, Jill and Frederick are still on their cell phones. A pile of Scarpetta’s takeout sits upright in a chair next to them. I don’t even know how they got them to deliver this early—I’m not even sure they’re open for lunch.
I brought my computer and I take it out now. The one good thing about the hospital: free and strong Wi-Fi.
Bella has told very few people. Morgan and Ariel, who I email now, and the gallery girls, for logistical reasons. I update them, too. I imagine these tiny, waiflike women contending with their beautiful boss having cancer. Does thirty-three seem ancient to them? They haven’t even crossed twenty-five.
I work for two hours. Answer emails, punt calls, and research. My brain is a haze of focus and paranoia and fear and noise. At some point, David forces the sandwich on me. I’m surprised by my appetite. I finish it. David leaves, promising to come back later. I tell him I’ll meet him at home. Jill steps out and comes back. Frederick goes in search of a charger. Aaron sits—sometimes reading, sometimes doing nothing but staring at the clock, at the big board where they list where patients are. Patient 487B, still in surgery.
It’s creeping toward late afternoon when I see Dr. Shaw walking through the double doors. My heart leaps up into my ears. I hear the pounding, like gongs.
I stand up, but I do not run across the room to him. It’s strange the social normalcies we hold strong to, even in the midst of extraordinary circumstances. The rules we are unwilling to break.
Dr. Shaw looks tired, far older than his age, which I’d put at around forty.
“Everything went well,” he says. I feel relief course through my body right along with my blood. “She’s out and recovering. We were able to get all the tumor and any cancer cells to the best of our ability.”
“Thank god,” Jill says.
“She has a long road ahead of her, but today went well.”
“Can we see her?” I ask.
“She’s been through a lot. One visitor for now. Someone from my team will come over to take you back and answer any further questions.”
“Thank you,” I say. I shake his hand. So do Frederick and Jill. Aaron is still sitting. When I look back at him, I see that he is crying. He holds the back of his hand against his face, swallowing his sobs.
“Hey,” I say. “You should go.”
Jill looks at me but doesn’t say anything. I know Bella’s parents. I know being with her in the recovery room, unchaperoned, scares them. They don’t want to make decisions about her care, not really. And so I will. I always have.
“No,” he says. He shuffles his hands in front of his face, diverting attention. “You should go.”
“She’ll want to see you,” I tell him.
I imagine Bella waking up in a bed. In pain, confused. Whose face does she want hovering above hers? Whose hand does she want to hold? Somehow, I know that it’s his.
A nurse comes back. She wears bright pink scrubs and has a stuffed koala clinging to the pocket of her shirt. “Are you the family of Bella Gold?”
I nod. “This is her husband,” I lie. I’m not sure what the rule is for boyfriends. “He’d like to go back.”
“I’ll take you,” she says.
I watch them disappear down the hallway. It’s not until they’re gone, and Jill and Frederick are cornering me, asking questions, demanding we get the nurse back, that I feel happy for Bella for the first time. This is the thing she’s wanted forever. This, right here. This is love.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bella is supposed to spend seven days in the hospital, but because of her age and general health she’s released after five, and on Saturday morning I meet her at her apartment. Jill has gone back to Philadelphia for the weekend to “take care of some business,” but hired a private nurse who runs the place like military quarters. The apartment is spotless when I arrive, more orderly than I’ve ever seen it.
“She won’t even let me stand up,” Bella says.
Every day she has looked better. It’s impossible to understand how she could still be sick, how there could still be cancer cells in her. Her cheeks are now rosy, her body has regained its color. She’s sitting up in bed when I get there, enjoying scrambled eggs and avocado, a side of toast, and a cup of coffee on a tray.
“It’s like room service,” I say. “You always wanted to live at a hotel.”
I set the sunflowers—her favorite—I brought on the nightstand.
“Where is Aaron?”
“I sent him home,” she says. “The poor guy hasn’t slept in a week. He looks way worse than I do.”
Aaron has kept vigil at her bedside. I went to work, slogged through the days,
and came in the morning and at night, but he refused to leave. Watching over the nurses, her monitors—making sure no misstep was made.
“Your dad?”
“He’s back in Paris,” she says. “Everyone needs to understand that I’m fine. Obviously. Look at me.”
She holds her hands above her head in proof.
Chemo doesn’t start for another three weeks. Long enough for her to recover, but not long enough for any cells to spread in a significant way—we hope. We don’t know. We’re all grasping. We’re all pretending now. Pretending this was the hard part. Pretending it’s over and behind us. Now, sitting in her sunny bedroom, the smell of coffee surrounding us, it’s easy to forget it’s a pretty, dressed-up lie.
“Did you bring it?” she asks.
“Of course.”
From my bag, I produce the entire season of Grosse Pointe, a WB show from the early two thousands that performed so poorly it apparently doesn’t warrant streaming on any service. But when we were kids, we loved it. It’s a sitcom about the behind-the-scenes of a fictional WB show. We were so meta.
I ordered the DVDs and brought my old computer—the one with the DVD player from ten years ago—with me.
I take it out now and reveal it to her.
“You think of everything.”
“Just about,” I say.
I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed with her. My jeans feel too tight. I abhor people who walk around in workout clothes. It’s the entirety of the reason I could never live in Los Angeles: too much Lycra. But even I have to admit, as I tuck my legs in underneath me, this would feel more comfortable with some stretch. Bella wears silk pajamas, embossed with her initials. She makes a move to get up.
“What are you doing?” I say, springing into action. I toss my body across hers like train tracks. I lunge.
“I need some water. I’m fine.”
“I’ll get it.”
She rolls her eyes but tucks herself back into bed. I leave the bedroom and go into the kitchen where Svedka, the nurse, is furiously washing dishes. She looks up at me, her face practically murderous.
“What do you need?” she barks.
“Water.”
She pulls a glass down from the cabinet—a green goblet from a set Bella bought in Venice. While the water is being poured, I look out over her living room, the cheerful color, the bright spots of blue and purple and deep forest green. Her window drapes hang in soft folds of violet silk, and her art, collected over the years from everywhere she’s gone—high and low—lines the walls. Bella is always trying to get me to buy pieces. “They’re investments in your future happiness,” she tells me. “Only buy what you love.” But I don’t have the eye. Any art I own, Bella has picked out for me—usually gifted.
In Five Years Page 13
