Stop Here

by Beverly Gologorsky

  Whatever her mother’s journey, she didn’t share it with Rosalyn, didn’t talk about the disease, didn’t reveal what was happening to her body. She never mentioned pain, disfigurement, or death. Then again, at seventeen, Rosalyn didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to take in the flat chest while her own breasts were flourishing. Her hands cup their fullness. She remembers Carl’s head burrowing contentedly in the cleavage, his delight in their milk-laden heaviness. He was with her when the nun brought in the infant. She closed her eyes, lest the baby’s face remain to haunt her. Now she wishes she had seen her, someone to hold on to.

  The phone rings.

  “It’s me,” Mila announces.

  “You’re home already?”

  “Darla said your dad’s cute and funny.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Swear to whatever. Ava and I hatched a plot to take you to dinner a few nights from now.”

  “I’ve had enough diner food.”

  “Funny, funny. The real stuff. Romano’s, remember their salads? Even better, the wine they never tell you the name of . . . heaven. So warn your guy, he can’t come. It’s just us.”

  “Sounds great.” She clicks off.

  Cute and funny? Darla’s gone to the wrong house.

  • • •

  It’s a different exam room, small, cold, without windows. Lying on a narrow, padded table, a thin pillow beneath her head, wires attached to chest and legs, an EKG clicks faintly, recording her heartbeats. Yesterday, a whirring plate of light took three-dimensional pictures of her bones. Heart, bones, breasts, her body dissected for study; the tests, their definitions, the possible outcomes, layers of information have all taken their toll on her brain as well. Her voice has begun to echo in her head like a bad telephone connection; she senses herself watching herself, even when applying makeup. It’s as if she’s two people, one just a hair ahead or behind the other. Is this a heightened state or terror?

  The technician removes the wires, wipes the gel off her body. The surgeon scrolls down the long sheet of paper, studying the EKG.

  “Rosalyn, your heart is beautiful,” he tells her, stuffing the graph in her file. “I’m sending the bloods to the lab. The bone scan hasn’t come back yet. But let’s look at the mammogram together. Get dressed, come to my office.” He helps her off the table. The desire to hang on his arm, to stay in his sight at all times, is strong.

  • • •

  “I left work an hour ago to get here, but the traffic . . . listen, sorry I’m late, couldn’t be helped,” Jack bustles in, anticipating a scolding. But she hardly noticed the time. As usual he makes himself at home, uncorks wine, pours some in glasses, hands her one.

  “I haven’t done a thing about dinner,” she mumbles more to herself.

  “Low on the problem scale.” He tugs her to sit beside him on the couch.

  “Are you a problem solver as a scientist?” she asks, though concentrating is difficult.

  “It’s what they pay me for.”

  “Are you worth the money?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tell me one of your great finds.” She’s trying.

  “It’ll sound like tooting my horn, is that how you say it?”

  “Toot away,” she orders.

  “I discovered blending two types of old drugs produced a third that raised the number of white cells in the blood.”

  She stares at him. “Are you doing cancer research? Because that’s too eerie.”

  “I never saw any reason to mention it before. It’s where a great deal of the drug investigation is today.” He slides an arm around her shoulders.

  “You don’t have to press me one place or another every time you mention cancer. I’m not that fragile.” Actually, though, she’s chilled.

  “No you’re not. In fact, your self-sufficiency is sometimes off-putting.”

  “Off-putting. That’s very British. Aren’t your countrywomen very self-sufficient?”

  “In their public selves.”

  “I see.” She wonders if his wife is clingy.

  “I offended you when it wasn’t my intent.”

  “Men want women to need them so they can feel strong and noble. But here’s the thing . . . when women do lean on them, men feel suffocated.”

  “Wow. That’s telling me.”

  “That wasn’t my intent.”

  He laughs. “Touché. Nevertheless, you’ve seen the doctor again. What happened?”

  “He showed me the mammogram. It’s there, a white splat, not small, easy enough to see on the film. Also the staging came back. The surgery is being scheduled.” She moves to the window. It’s too dark to make out anything that isn’t already familiar. He comes up behind her, nuzzles her neck.

  “Your touches kind of scare me.”

  “That’s simply terrible. What can I do?”

  She wants to say, be cautious, because she’s taking in the dimension of things, registering their very essence. She once read soldiers on the front lines create an impenetrable bubble to keep the world at a distance.

  The phone rings.

  She picks up the cordless. “Hello?”

  “You said you were away.”

  “Dad?”

  “Can’t stand the sight of me anymore?” his voice explosive.

  “Dad!”

  “Lie to your father? Great! I actually thought Darla was my granddaughter, but she’s only going on eighteen.”

  “Dad—”

  “You’ve resented—”

  “For craps sake, I have breast cancer.” She hangs up. “Bastard,” she mutters. “And you, too. Just go home.”

  “My sweet girl. I’m not about to honor your self-pity.”

  “Self-pity!”

  He hands her the wine. “Drink up.”

  “I don’t want it. And I don’t want you here.”

  “Take a deep breath, my dear.”

  “I want you to leave.”

  He wraps his arms around her; his hard body a wall. “So you can be alone with your fears.”

  “So I can muster my strength.”

  “It’s already there, in your eyes, determined jaw, set lips. Believe me, it would take an earthquake to undercut that.”

  “Why do you think you know me?”

  “I don’t. You won’t let me. You won’t share your dreams or your nightmares. Why didn’t you tell your dad in the first place? Why must you carry the load by yourself?”

  “And you’d like to take me to bed to prove your ability to comfort me, right?”

  “I would, but not for that reason.”

  She gazes at him. Nothing in his expression mocks her. The accent makes him sound flip. “And the reason is . . . ?”

  “I’m terribly smitten with you. I didn’t want to be. It’s why I hired someone instead of meeting a woman on my own. I thought hiring would alleviate better feelings.” His voice so earnest it’s almost comical.

  “You talk funny.”

  He chuckles. “I’m going to cook dinner. Can I search your pantries?”

  “Excuse me?”

  • • •

  She sets the table, her mind somewhere else. What if she fled? Stuffed the bad news in a corner of her brain the way the doctor stuffed the EKG in her file. What if she took off for California to walk the beaches? Or farther, Rome, Venice. Or maybe Turkey? She has the money. Spend it now. She looks out the window where things are as they were. That’s the problem with fantasies. They change nothing.

  He places a puffy salami omelet on the table, the garlic and onion smells palpable.

  “Looks wonderful,” she says, a bit sorry for her cutting words before.

  “Now aren’t you glad I stayed?” He holds out a chair for her.

  “I won’t be bribed.” She sits across fro
m him.

  “Apparently. Yet it’s exactly what I want to do. Cheer you.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “Not really.” His expression clouds and she wonders if he’s feeling guilty.

  “Are you thinking about your wife?”

  “Not thinking so much as worrying a bit. I spoke to the nurse this morning. My wife’s been sleeping more. A bad sign.”

  “Do you like being surrounded by sick women?”

  “What a thing to ask.” He looks uneasy.

  She shrugs. “Well, you are.”

  “I don’t see you that way.”

  “What way?” She’s no longer sure what they’re talking about. Like those customers who insist on chatting. She provides trivial questions, and the answers don’t matter.

  “Like Lillian, incapacitated.”

  She wishes he hadn’t said her name.

  “Simply believe this. I’m here for you.”

  “But then you won’t be.”

  “You’re vulnerable. I’ll continue to reassure you.”

  “Jack, that’s condescending.”

  “Good! Sounds more like you.”

  “I’m in a very strange place,” she admits.

  “And I’m still drawn to you.”

  “Who knows what’s going to happen to me.”

  “That’s true about any of us,” he says.

  “You mean, today’s what we have? Sounds like my dad.”

  He cuts the omelet, places some on her plate. She’s not the least bit hungry but forks up a tiny piece because he’s watching her. Ridiculously, Willy comes to mind. He still worries about what people will think.

  “Things still matter,” she muses.

  He looks up. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m surprised, is all.”

  “Crises propel us to odd places. A bit of an adventure . . .”

  “That’s inspiring, thank you.”

  “Adventures have no history, that’s all.”

  “It’s more complicated than an adventure,” she says.

  “Come now. You’ve heard about the best-laid plans . . .”

  She nods, pushes away the barely touched food. “I’m really not hungry.”

  • • •

  She drives to her dad’s house. She hasn’t spoken to him in a week. She considers leaving the bags of food in the driveway and taking off, but then finds herself with a shopping bag in each hand, walking up the scarred path. Fogged windows block anything inside. The house needs painting. Only the maple tree thrives, though no one ever cut back its branches.

  “Dad?” She shuts the door behind her.

  To her surprise he’s in the kitchen.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Want coffee?” he asks.

  “No.” She wants out of here. Will resent any discussion about her body. And begins to stuff packets of frozen food in the freezer. He leans against the sink watching her. There’s hardly room for the two of them.

  “I hired Darla for the summer,” he says gruffly.

  “You what?”

  “Going deaf?”

  “You’ll have to pay her.”

  “No kidding,” he says.

  “Did she agree?”

  “She accepted.” His eyes steady on her.

  She wants to say you finally got off the chair. She wants to say it took the threat of death. She wants to say it’s really too late. “Good, Dad. That’ll be a help.”

  • • •

  They’ve taken her street clothes, earrings, purse—anything that could identify her—and stowed them in some room she’ll allegedly be wheeled to after recovery. Draped in a hospital robe, covered by a sheet, she’s one of several bodies lined up between drawn curtains awaiting surgery. It’s still possible, she isn’t anesthetized yet. She could chance fate, shout, I changed my mind! Let me out of here! She makes no move, no sound, resignation heavier than the future.

  Fingering the cold edges of the narrow gurney, A/C very high, no germs allowed, if she stays calm her teeth won’t chatter. Breathing in deeply, she counts slowly on each exhale the way Dina taught her. It’s no use. Her thoughts race, collide, refuse to remain long enough to read, as if there’s something she must resolve. Dina has the keys to her condo and will take care of everything. Darla will deal with her dad. Ava and Mila drove her here. Ava didn’t say much, though Mila went on about her daughter, how amazing it is that’s she’s grown, how worrisome, too, how she spends money like . . . Mila’s chatter was more comforting than Ava’s silence. They insisted on staying with her through admission, walked her down the long blue-carpeted corridor toward the heavy double doors leading to the area where a nurse took over. It surprised and scared her then when Ava suddenly hugged her so tight the breath was squished out of her.

  Jack, too, on his last night here wrapped her so tightly she feared for her bones. Said over and over she was his godsend. How strange. He wanted to remain with her through surgery and then some, though his job at the lab was done. She wouldn’t let him, didn’t want him to see her in duress, wanted his image of her to be whole and beautiful. And, yes, she understood none of that mattered to him, but still, it’s what she wanted. He wrote down a thousand phone numbers where he could be reached. He promised to stay in constant touch, made her promise to meet him in Europe when she recovered. Said if she didn’t, he’d return to fetch her. She believes him.

  Her doctor parts the curtains. He’s in surgical garb, though his mouth remains uncovered. He smiles warmly; his warm hand squeezes hers. He alone understands what she’s about to go through. He promised her a shot to relax her and leans over to inject her arm. He whispers two words she’d never say to herself, “think positive,” though they both know truth will have its way.

  8

  About Time

  “Mom, sit down.”

  “I’m making dinner.” The don’t-bother-me tone reserved for fussy customers, she’s brought it home with her. Okay, she’s overworked, working the diner kitchen . . . it’s not her thing. Damn Murray. Rosalyn’s illness, too . . . it frightens her—fear for those she loves.

  “I can’t talk to your ass, Mom.”

  “Darla!” She spins around. Without a bit of makeup, her daughter’s a stunner, the contrast, dark hair, light skin. “Okay, what?”

  “You’re not going to be thrilled.”

  “Try me.” The shag cut frames Darla’s small face perfectly.

  “I graduate in June.”

  “I know that.” Adolescent nonsense. She reaches for an onion on top of the ancient fridge, notices the scratch marks on the door from a thousand magnets.

  “In July, I’ll be eighteen. I won’t need your signature. It’s May,” her daughter recites.

  She fishes for the missing knife buried under a pile of dishes in the cracked porcelain sink. Christ, the place could use some rehab. “Work the summer for Rosalyn’s dad. Save money for the car’s down payment. I can’t—”

  “Mom . . . Forget the car. I’m going to sign up.”

  She stares through the window at an identical clapboard house. A breeze flutters the short white curtains that need washing. “No you’re not,” she says softly, her gut cramping.

  “It’s the best way.”

  “To what? Die?” She sits across from her daughter.

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “It’s out of the question, Darla.” If she raises her voice, they’ll fight. She’ll lose. She takes a deep breath, tries not to sigh.

  “If I sign up now, I get an extra thousand dollars.”

  “Money?” It’s her fault, all her worrying out loud about it. She’ll send Darla to her cousin in Arizona.

  “You don’t have any. I need a lot.”

  “They’re not paying you to attend the opera.”


  “Mom, I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re young and stupid.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s a horrible choice. There are only downsides.” Is this what women’s liberation has brought? She needs a drink.

  “On top of the thousand, there’s a shitload of cash up front, so I could start a savings account. What am I going to do here? Work a few hours for Rosalyn’s dad, a few hours more in some supermarket till I save enough to go to a third-rate community college? It’s not how I see my future.”

  “Spend the summer with your cousin in Arizona. I’ll scrape up the down payment for that jalopy you’ve been eyeing.” Maybe Murray will let her work Rosalyn’s shift as well.

  “If you say no now, I’m going to sign up in July. So mull it over.” Her daughter strides out of the kitchen.

  She kills the stove flame and grabs a bottle of Johnnie Red from below the sink, a glass from the drain. She pours a few inches neat, sits on the couch, and drinks it down. The door slams. Out for the evening. The sigh that’s been clogging her throat escapes. The girl’s right about one thing—there’s nothing special about living here. Darla could meet a guy and get pregnant. Her daughter’s too smart for that. How smart is signing up, though?

  It annoys the crap out of her that in a few weeks Darla won’t need her approval to put her life on the line. Maybe it’s true . . . what goes around . . . She devastated her parents when she eloped with Jimmy. But this is different. Darla could be maimed or killed. Christ, she has to do something to stop her. Times like these, a father would be helpful. Good god, it’s been years since she had a thought like that.

  She pours more scotch, looks around, but there’s nothing worth selling. The room has darkened. She doesn’t bother with the lamp. Her reflection’s on the TV screen, a woman edging middle age with a daughter as old as she was then. The marks of time can’t be hidden the way she’s hidden Jimmy from Darla.