by Kate Hewitt
As he eats three slices of pepperoni pizza and I merely push it around my plate, I wonder if I should tell him the truth about my sickness. Cancer, the word, the concept, is completely off his radar. Does he even know what it is?
I’ve resisted having one of those serious conversations because my parents had one with me, when I was Isaac’s age, and my mother was first diagnosed. I didn’t understand the big words; I had no concept of what cancer was. But I remember my father’s grave tone, my mother’s pale face, the overwhelming seriousness of it all, and how it terrified me. I didn’t want that for Isaac, especially when there is no back-up adult to stay reassuringly healthy.
The lack of that backup remains on the fringes of my mind, a niggling worry in case the worst happens. Who will take care of Isaac? It’s the first thing I thought of when Dr. Stein told me my diagnosis, and the question continues to torment me now, even though I keep telling myself it’s not going to come to that. It just can’t.
When I made a will, after I officially adopted Isaac, I made Dorothy his guardian. It seemed sensible, since she was the adult he knew best besides me, and she lived in the city. I have plenty of life insurance, enough savings in trust for Isaac, so while not ideal, it was acceptable. Of course, it’s not now.
Dorothy is in Chicago, taking care of her daughter’s fractured family. Who can be Isaac’s guardian now? It’s something I should decide sooner rather than later, and yet my mind flits away from the question, the problem. It’s not something I have to think about quite yet, surely, and I have enough to deal with already.
On Tuesday I take Isaac to school, go to my chemo appointment, and then struggle to work by ten. I’ve already taken two weeks off, and I want to save the other possible ten for when I’m really sick, because that is always at the back of my mind. What if this gets worse? A lot worse?
At work people eye me askance and a few ask me how I am. I tell them I’m fine; what else can I say? While sitting at my desk, catching up on work emails, I run my hand through my hair and stare down at the fistful of strands caught on my fingers.
I thought, with the cold cap, I wouldn’t actually lose my hair, but when I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror at the office, I realize how thin it has become. I’ve just been feeling too crap to notice. I bend my head, and see the pale glint of my scalp through the chestnut-brown strands. There’s also a good inch of gray roots, since I’ve missed my usual six-week cut and color. I look even worse than I realized, which is quite a feat. No wonder people were giving me weird looks as I walked to my office – I looked like something the cat had played with, mangled, and then dragged in through the door.
I once prided myself on how sleek and chic I looked, without ever venturing into sexy or kittenish territory. I was always professional and polished, attractive in a business-like way. That, like so much else, has been stripped away from me. Now I look like a bag lady who bought a rich woman’s clothes from a charity shop.
It’s no surprise when Bruce stops by my office, acting overly jocular, jangling the change in his pocket.
‘Everything all right, Grace?’ He doesn’t look me in the eye. I don’t think he has since Jill Martin stole my partnership from under my nose. Needless to say, we haven’t worked out together since then.
‘Everything’s fine, Bruce.’ I rest my hands on my desk and give him my calmest, most professional smile. In the seven years since I was sidelined I’ve made Harrow and Heath a few good investments. Nothing stellar, but nothing too shabby, either. I’ve also outed a few investments they thought were solid that I realized weren’t. All in all, I don’t think I’m quite the embarrassment Bruce acts like I am, out of his own guilt. But now, with this illness, I’m becoming a liability.
‘So you took some leave?’ He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to fill in the blanks, but I know how much I have to tell him, or really, how little.
‘Yes, I have a health issue that is being resolved.’ I smile pleasantly. ‘Thanks for asking.’
He makes a bit more useless chitchat and then finally ambles out. When he’s gone I wonder if I’m crazy, trying to keep cancer a secret. How can I, when my hair falls out, when I need more time off, when I am so obviously very, very sick?
But I can’t escape the bone-deep instinct I have to play my desperate cards close to my chest. I remember the guy on the floor below with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, how he was cut loose in such a way that he couldn’t sue for wrongful dismissal. The company has a very good, very ruthless lawyer on retainer. I don’t want to cross him. But of course I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep myself under his radar.
I limp through the next week, managing to get to work every day. I also get fitted for a very expensive, very realistic-looking wig. When the stylist puts it on me, I breathe a sigh of both relief and longing. I look more like myself, the self I once knew and took for granted. Isaac notices, catching up the hair, letting it fall through his fingers.
‘Is it real hair?’ he asks, and I nod.
‘Yes, do you think that’s gross?’ I’m curious, as well as trying to lighten the moment.
‘No.’ He looks at me assessingly, his gaze sweeping over my new locks. ‘You look good, Mom.’ I smile, feeling lighter and happier than I have in weeks. I pull him into a quick hug, and he doesn’t resist.
‘Thanks, bud.’
The next week is my last of chemo, maybe the last ever if the tumor has shrunk enough. It’s also Isaac’s last week of school, with three whole months stretching ahead of us that I have to fill in. Stella won’t be here either; she’s decamping to Provence the day after school gets out. It feels too late to tell her the truth now, and maybe by the time she returns, it will all be over. Maybe by September I’ll be getting back to normal.
For Isaac I’ve patched together some day camps at Asphalt Green and the 92nd Street Y, but when I explain to Yelena about the change in arrangements, she practically throws a tantrum.
‘My hours are two to seven.’
‘I know, and Isaac gets out of camp at one forty-five,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘So it’s only fifteen minutes earlier, and you’d start your shift by picking him up.’ It doesn’t seem all that unreasonable to me, but Yelena shakes her head dramatically, her shiny, dark hair flying around.
‘That was not our agreement.’
‘It’s summer, Yelena. When I interviewed you, you stated that you had some flexibility, which I now need.’
‘Some,’ she agrees with dark emphasis, and clearly that is a negligible amount. I stare at her, frustration filling me up like water in a well. She glares back at me, her mouth twisted in a knowing smirk. I haven’t hidden how desperate I am; I haven’t been able to. But am I really that desperate? Is Yelena really going to make me find some other arrangement for Isaac’s pick-up so she doesn’t have to start one second earlier?
‘So. You’re saying you can’t pick up Isaac at one forty-five from his day camp?’ There is a warning note in my voice that Yelena picks up on.
‘No, I am not saying that,’ she says huffily, as if she hadn’t been bitching about that very thing for the last ten minutes. ‘Only, it is just, you know, an inconvenience.’
‘But one you’re willing to put up with.’ She gives me a stiff nod. It’s a victory, but I have no doubt Yelena will try to make my life hell in some other way. She seems to have a talent for it.
The last day of school, Stella invites Isaac and me over for a barbecue on their roof terrace. I haven’t seen her in several weeks, and then only briefly, so she hasn’t noticed the way my looks have taken a dive off a cliff, hasn’t realized how sick I’ve been. And of course I haven’t told her. Now, somewhat to my sorrow, it feels too late.
At least with my wig, some discreet make-up, and a bit more appetite than usual, I am almost feeling like my old self, or what I imagine my old self might have felt like. I’ve forgotten, really. I am amazed at how quickly that happens.
It’s a warm, sultry night in early June, the conc
rete city far below us. Isaac, Will, and Will’s little brother Jamie are playing on a giant checkerboard, with plastic pieces the size of hubcaps. Stella and I are reclining on a wicker sofa; Stella’s made up a pitcher of sangria, and while I’ve avoided alcohol since starting chemo, I decide to splurge tonight and have one glass. I don’t feel too nauseous, and Dr. Stein will have the results of my test on Monday, to see if the tumor has shrunk. I’m almost feeling hopeful.
‘So do you have exciting summer plans?’ Stella asks. ‘I know you go to the Cape…’ They are off to the south of France for three months on Saturday, their usual exodus to their rented villa, as well as to visit Eric’s family in Europe.
‘Yes, for a week in August. I love it.’ And I really hope I will feel well enough to manage.
‘Oh, I love the Cape. You are so lucky.’
I smile, because I know Stella means it, despite her own far more luxurious plans.
‘You know,’ she says, lowering her voice a little, ‘sometimes I feel like it’s all overkill. Three months in France? All the lessons? Does a seven-year-old really need to know Mandarin Chinese?’
I laugh, shaking my head. ‘You tell me.’
‘I admire you, Grace,’ Stella says seriously. ‘I feel like you have the right balance. Work, motherhood, privilege, reality. It works.’
I glance around the terrace, at the boys having a fun time wheeling the checkers along. ‘This feels pretty good to me, actually.’
‘It does, right now.’ She leans back against the sofa. ‘I suppose I just feel guilty sometimes. I know I’m lucky, but do I really know? And are my kids going to grow up spoiled because they have so frigging much?’ She grimaces. ‘Do you know I grew up in Indiana? I shared a bedroom with two sisters. Seriously, it was a downgrade on The Brady Bunch.’
‘Your kids will never be spoiled, Stella.’ I mean that sincerely. ‘You’re too down-to-earth for that.’ Despite the huge apartment, the endless activities, the summers in France, Stella feels grounded to me, which is one of the many reasons I like her so much.
‘I hope so,’ Stella says, and for a second I think about telling her about my illness. It seems ridiculous, absurd, that I haven’t told basically my best friend that I have cancer. She should have been the first person I called. She would have helped me, I know she would. And yet I didn’t, and I’m not going to now, because I really don’t want our relationship to change, to become defined by my disease, because everything else is.
In any case, right then, relaxing on top of the world, a glass of sangria in my hand, my son playing near me, I can almost pretend I don’t have cancer. Or at least that I won’t for long.
On Monday I wait in Dr. Stein’s office, everything in me tensing, as she comes in with my results. Her manner is brisk, her smile quick. What does that mean?
‘Good news, Grace,’ she says, cutting to the chase. ‘While I would have liked to see the tumor shrink a little more, it’s reduced in size enough for me to consider surgery.’ Her gaze scans my face. ‘That is, if you’re still feeling like you want to go ahead with the double mastectomy?’
I gulp. Nod. ‘Yes,’ I say, feeling jubilant and terrified all at once. ‘Yes, I would.’
Twenty-Two
HEATHER
When I get back home from Grace’s, it’s nearly nine at night, thanks to the traffic. The house is a mess, the girls are quarreling, and Kev is in a bad mood. And I have to deal with it all.
‘Where have you been?’ Lucy demands theatrically, hands on her hips, her face tear-stained.
‘I had an emergency.’
‘An emergency?’ Lucy’s mouth drop opens. ‘What kind of emergency?’
‘Nothing, it’s dealt with now.’ I don’t want to get into where I’ve been with Lucy or anyone yet. I start taking the dirty dishes that are scattered around the living room into the kitchen. My mind is still spinning from what Grace told me.
Cancer, and it sounds serious. What does that even mean for her, for Isaac, for me? Am I awful to think that way already, to wonder what if…?
‘Has everyone eaten?’ I ask as Emma drifts into the kitchen, looking morose.
‘I made spaghetti.’
I shoot her quick smile. ‘Thanks, Emma.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Out.’ I shrug, feeling strangely guilty. ‘Helping a friend.’
Emma looks suspicious, but I don’t explain anything more. I don’t want to cause ripples by mentioning Grace and Isaac. Not yet, not until I’ve sorted things out in my mind.
The next hour is spent dealing with all the mess and irritation, and then getting Lucy to bed. Amy is out, and she doesn’t come home until after ten, which is against our rules but neither Kevin nor I say anything. At nearly sixteen, she is becoming out of our control, although we haven’t said anything about that, either. If we don’t say anything, if we don’t acknowledge it to each other, perhaps it isn’t really happening, or maybe it will at least go away soon.
By eleven I’m getting ready for bed; Kevin is already lying in bed, two pillows stuffed behind his head. He eyes me in a slightly hostile way. ‘So what was the deal tonight, you out like that?’
My back is to him as I answer. ‘Grace asked me to pick up Isaac.’
‘Grace?’ He sounds disbelieving. ‘In the city?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Now he sounds even more disbelieving.
I take a deep breath as I shake out my hair. Then I turn around. ‘Kev, she has cancer.’
He is silent for a long moment, and I can’t tell anything from his expression. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Bad? Of course it’s bad. It’s cancer.’ But I know what he means. ‘She’s having chemo now. She looked terrible.’
‘Is she going to survive?’ Kevin asks baldly, and I flinch a little at the unfeeling starkness of the question, even though I’ve been wondering the same thing.
‘Surely it’s way too early to ask something like that. She’s only been doing the chemo for a couple of weeks, I think.’
He shrugs. ‘Still.’
‘Breast cancer has a pretty good survival rate.’ I’d Googled it, although why exactly I’m not sure. My feelings are so tangled, and I’m afraid to examine them too closely. Afraid what it will reveal about me.
‘Why did she call you, though?’
I stiffen. ‘Why not?’
‘Come on, Heather. It’s not like you and Grace are best buddies. Not by a long shot.’
‘I know, but…’ I struggle to moderate my tone. I know what he’s saying, and even I felt surprised when Grace called me. Asked me. ‘I know Isaac.’
‘Doesn’t she have friends? A nanny?’
‘The nanny was out for the day.’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s just kind of weird.’
‘I don’t think it’s that weird.’ I try not to sound defensive as I get into bed.
Kev pats his pillows down as he gets ready to go to sleep. ‘Face it, babe, you’re the last person Grace would want to ask for a favor.’
That stings, even though I have to agree with him. After I turn out the light I lie in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why my relationship with Grace has had to be so strained, so antagonistic even as we have always pretended to get along. Was it just because I asked for the adoption to be open, or was there something more, something that was always there, from the moment I first looked at her profile, saw that slightly superior smile, and chose her for the mother of my child? I didn’t even know what I was doing back then. I was acting out of a fear that made me so dizzy I couldn’t even think. But, looking back, I think there was some sense of superiority that motivated me, along with everything else; I couldn’t compete with Grace’s money, but she was single. It evened it all up somehow; yet as I think this, I know it’s wrong. It’s not the way I should have been thinking at all.
Now I wonder, if I’d chosen one of those smug couples, would things have been better – or worse? Would it have felt like less of a c
ompetition, a power struggle? And which one of us has made it that way? Maybe we’re both guilty, both at fault.
Over the next few weeks I wait for Grace to call. Every time my cell rings I snatch it up, hoping it’s her. I’ve convinced myself that she needs me, but she obviously doesn’t. Maybe a pick-up when everyone else is out of town and her nanny is off duty, but real life? The day-to-day? She seems to be managing fine. And then it turns out I’m not.
It starts with the meeting with Lucy’s teacher that I forgot about, so it had to be rescheduled. I’m already feeling like a bad mom when her teacher starts our conversation by asking, ‘Did you know Lucy has trouble reading?’
Kev’s not here, of course. He never comes to meetings like these. ‘What do you mean by trouble?’
Mrs. Bryant puts on reading glasses and takes Lucy’s test, pinched between two fingers, like it’s Exhibit A from some courtroom drama. ‘According to the tests I’ve done this year,’ she informs me in a cool tone, ‘Lucy has the reading level of a seven-year-old, if that.’
The ‘if that’ catches me on the raw. She sounds so accusing, so judgmental. ‘You weren’t aware of this, Mrs. McCleary?’
‘No.’ My jaw is tight, my hands clenched in my lap. Mrs. Bryant is one of those stern, iron-haired teachers who looks down on pretty much anyone, at least anyone she suspects is stupid. Maybe she knows I didn’t finish high school, never mind that I have my GED now. And then there’s Kev too, with his straight D average through all four years. Maybe she thinks I don’t help Lucy with her homework; that I don’t read to her before bedtime. And I don’t always. I don’t even often. But still, I care.
‘I’m surprised it wasn’t caught earlier—’
‘Caught?’ She’s making it sound as if Lucy has some disorder, some disease. ‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘I mean the severity of Lucy’s learning disability is such that it should, ideally, have been flagged up when she was younger, so she could get the help she needs.’
