“My grandmother died of this same thing. What are my odds of surviving it?” Clara braces herself for the answer.
“Very good.”
A whoosh of air escapes Clara’s lungs and she slumps in her seat. “But… my grandmother—”
“That was decades ago.” Apparently having taken a recent refresher course in McCallum family medical history via Clara’s file, the doctor shakes her head. “In this day and age, a diagnosis like yours isn’t the automatic death sentence it used to be.”
So promise me I’m not going to die, dammit. Can’t you just say that?
She can’t die. She has a movie to make, her first big feature role. The kind of role that might propel a teenaged Broadway-dancer-turned-soap-actress directly to major Hollywood player.
Why is this happening? Why now, of all times?
It’s almost December, for God’s sake. Her favorite time of year. She hasn’t even started her Christmas shopping yet. She opens her mouth to tell Dr. Svensen, then quickly clamps it closed again.
Dr. Svensen won’t find retail deprivation significant. She won’t understand that it’s not about shopping. That for Clara it’s about more, so much more than that.
As a child caught in the middle of a heartbreaking divorce, Clara had lived for the holidays, when her parents seemed to call an unspoken and temporary truce.
Long after he moved out, Daddy had continued coming to their Central Park West apartment on Thanksgiving morning to watch the Macy’s parade pass beneath their window with Clara and her mother. He even stayed to eat turkey and stuffing and the Pillsbury Crescent Rolls Clara always made for him because they were easy, and happened to be his favorite food in the entire world.
Daddy would eat at least six rolls and announce that he couldn’t eat another bite, not even pie, though they all knew he had another dinner planned later in the day with whichever girlfriend he was seeing at the time. “I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy,” he would say, pushing back his chair from the table. That was Clara’s cue to poke him in the stomach, and he would giggle, just like the Doughboy did in the commercials.
Clara loved Thanksgiving.
In December, there was Hanukkah. Daddy was half Jewish, his mother’s side. Mom was always invited to the celebration. She usually came, for Clara’s sake, and because she adored latkes and applesauce and sour cream almost as much as she loved her former in-laws.
Then there was Christmas. For years after he left home, Daddy carried on the tradition of choosing a tree with Clara. They would lug it along West Sixty-Eighth Street to the apartment, where Mom was waiting with hot chocolate. They decorated it as a threesome, always.
On Christmas Eve, for as long as Clara pretended to believe in Santa Claus, Daddy spent the night so he could see what Santa had left her under the tree. He slept on the couch, but Clara didn’t care. For one magical night of the year he was there, with her and Mom, where he belonged. For one glorious morning, the three of them woke up together, sat around together in their pajamas, just the way they used to before the divorce. Just like a real family.
“Do you have any questions, Clara?” Dr. Svensen’s voice interrupts.
“Only one. But I’m assuming you can’t promise me that I’m not going to die of cancer, can you,” Clara says flatly.
“The survival rates at your stage are increasing every year, and you have a good chance of going into full remission.”
“Full remission?” Clara exhales the breath she didn’t even realize she had been holding.
Full remission. That’s reassuring. Still…
Malignant.
And no promises.
How did a routine gynecological exam lead to this? How is it possible that just a few hours ago, she was on the set of her new movie, running lines with her costar? When her cell phone rang, it never even crossed her mind that it might be her doctor with the results of that routine biopsy.
After all, the lump was so small Dr. Svensen almost missed it. Clara certainly did—not that she’s in the habit of self-exams, anyway.
She probably should have been, with her family history.
Probably?
For God’s sake, how could you have been so lax?
Dr. Svensen didn’t seem particularly worried when she found the lump, high on Clara’s right breast, almost under her arm. She said she was going to test it strictly as a precaution. That it didn’t feel like anything Clara should be concerned about, so she wasn’t.
Nothing to be concerned about.
Ha. Famous last words.
Now her head is whirling with questions, from Should I make a will? to Will I lose my hair?
She settles on asking the latter, because in her line of work, it’s hardly insipid.
“Possibly, depending on the chemo drug they go with,” is the disconcerting reply. “But you can get a realistic-looking wig. With all the performing you’ve done, you’re probably no stranger to wigs, are you, Clara?”
“I’ve never been bald underneath them,” she says curtly, and her trembling fingers once again thread their way into the thick brunette mane that became her trademark back when she was on One Life to Live.
One Life to Live… ah. Talk about irony.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Svensen is saying. “I just meant that with your theatrical background, you’ve probably—”
“It’s okay.” Clara softens her tone. “I know what you meant. I’m just…”
She trails off, wondering how she can possibly describe what it is that she’s feeling.
It would be much, much easier to describe the one thing she isn’t feeling: hopeful.
After all, she can’t forget that her maternal grandmother, Irene, died of breast cancer. Decades ago, as the doctor pointed out. Long before Clara was born.
The shadow of that loss hangs over her mother’s life to this day, albeit not over Clara’s. She has always had more of her father’s breezy and upbeat disposition.
In contrast, her mother is the most skittish, fatalistic person Clara has ever known, darting through life as though the Grim Reaper lurks at every turn.
Jeanette Bradshaw always assumed that the cancer that took her mother and an aunt would one day claim her. She has been religious about self-exams and yearly mammograms. She’s on a first-name basis with every employee at her neighborhood health-food store; she supplements her diet with exotic herbs and vitamins, eats organic this and soy that, all in an effort to stave off what she considers to be the inevitable.
Wait till she finds out the old Grim Reaper skipped a generation, Clara thinks somberly, wondering how she’s going to break the news to her mother.
Then again…
Why even tell her? Is sharing the burden with her mother really necessary at this stage? The last thing she wants is Mom hovering at her sickbed, helplessly wringing her hands and forcing organic sprouts down her throat.
Mom doesn’t have to know until… well, until she has to know.
After all, it’s not like she’s going to drop by Clara’s apartment anytime soon. She fled New York weeks ago, well ahead of winter’s first snow. Now she’s safely ensconced in a Florida condo with her new husband, Stan, whom she married last spring.
Clara is supposed to fly down for Christmas, but only for a few days because of her film’s rigorous location shooting in a northern suburb.
I can always just tell her I have to work right through the holidays.…
Yes, and then what? Spend Christmas alone… and bald?
There are worse things, Clara tells herself, chin up, tears dried. Far worse things than that.
Clara’s block of West Eleventh Street in Greenwich Village is lined with charming nineteenth-century townhouses, their narrow frontage separated from the sidewalk by low black wrought-iron rails. Matching grillwork protects the ground-level windows and door tucked beneath the wide steps that lead to the main entrances half a story above the street.
The Federal-style facades are typically redbrick, topped by fla
t roofs marked by jutting deep-bracketed eaves. The distinct architectural pattern on the three main floors reminds Clara of a tic-tac-toe board: a door occupies the lower left box, while framed paned windows fill out the remainder of the grid.
Tonight, U2 is playing loudly on her iPod as she opens the low gate before her building and trudges up the steps. She initially considered choosing something more seasonal, having downloaded dozens of classic carols off the Internet just last week. Maybe Barbra Streisand’s uplifting first Christmas album, or perhaps something soothing and classical like Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite.
But in the end, she concluded that Bono wailing familiar, angry lyrics about war and love might be the most cathartic music for her mood.
A dank breeze is blowing off the Hudson River a few blocks to the west, the unseasonably mild weather a reminder that, technically, it’s still autumn. Winter’s inevitable chill seems months away.
Before Clara can insert her key into the lock, the front door swings open. She steps back and looks up to see Drew Becker.
The first time she met him, he was unloading a rented moving van at the curb on the fifteenth of last month. Their eyes met above the precarious stack of boxes he was carrying, and she saw a spark of recognition in his gaze.
She wouldn’t have pegged him for a soap opera fan; he must have seen her movie.
“Hi,” he said, wearing the usual Don’t I know you from someplace? expression Clara is used to receiving from strangers on the street.
And for a split second, she actually thought she might know him, too. Until he said, “I’m Drew Becker,” and she didn’t recognize the name.
Nor, when she got closer and politely held the door for him, did she recognize his face after all.
Clara once read somewhere that four out of five people in the world have brown eyes and dark hair. Her new neighbor is among them, yet his features are anything but common. His eyes bear the translucent warmth of her father’s single-malt Scotch, his hair the burnished richness of her well-worn leather jacket.
But she isn’t attracted to him. She might be, if she allowed herself that indulgence. But she won’t. Not with him. Not with anyone.
Especially not now.
At least he didn’t ask her for an autograph that first day, if indeed he did realize who she was when she introduced herself as Clara McCallum. She found herself thinking fleetingly that she wouldn’t have minded if he’d asked for her phone number.
But he didn’t. Which was definitely for the best.
They chatted in the vestibule, but not for long. The boxes were heavy.
Just long enough for Clara to learn that Drew’s from California—northern, not southern. Wine country, not Hollywood, thank God.
Maybe his flirtatious behavior on the two earlier occasions she’s run into him has nothing to do with the fact that she’s an actress. Still, she’s deliberately kept him at arm’s length, Jason still fresh in her mind.
Now, Drew mouths something as he holds the door open for her.
She unplugs her earphones. “I’m sorry… what did you say?”
Drew props the door open with his shoulder. “I just asked how you are.”
“Uh-oh, loaded question,” she says with a bitter laugh.
“What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing… I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“Bad day?”
“You could say that.”
“Come on, no bad days allowed at Christmastime.”
“It isn’t Christmastime yet.”
“Sure it is,” he persists cheerfully.
Feeling prickly and unreasonable, she insists, “No, it isn’t. Not until December. December doesn’t start until Friday.”
“I don’t know about New York, but where I come from, Christmastime officially starts the day after Thanksgiving. Which was almost a week ago.”
To her horror, she finds tears springing to her eyes.
“Well, it’s not Christmas here yet,” she repeats tersely. “The Rockefeller Center tree still isn’t even lit.”
“So that’s what kicks off the holiday season in New York?”
She shrugs. Technically, it’s Santa riding down Broadway at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but she’s not in the mood to expound on the joys of Christmas in Manhattan.
“I guess you’re not big on holidays, huh?”
“Who doesn’t love holidays?”
“Then you just don’t celebrate Christmas?”
“No, I usually do, but this year…” She shrugs again, wondering how the heck she’s managed to mire herself in this uncomfortable conversation.
“What are you doing this year?” asks her nosy neighbor.
“For Christmas?”
He nods.
Fighting for my life.
“Nothing.”
“No family?”
“My father’s going away, and I was supposed to go see my mother in Florida, but…” She shakes her head. “That’s not going to work out.”
To Drew’s credit, he doesn’t ask why.
“That stinks,” is all he says.
“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. “Whatever. I’ll be fine. I mean, you know… I’m a big girl.”
“Yeah, well, if you want to hang out with a big boy over the holidays, I’ll be on my own, too.”
“You’re not going home to California?”
“Can’t. No vacation time yet. I just started my job.”
“What is it that you do?” she feels obligated to ask, not really caring.
“I’m an investment banker.”
Just like Jason. Which promptly squashes any potential attraction she might have eventually allowed herself.
Stable, grounded, totally left-brained. Not a good match for her.
“Hey, I just realized… you remembered where I’m from,” he says cryptically.
“Oh. Right.”
She’s embarrassed. Why?
Because she remembered that detail from their first conversation, or because he looks so pleased?
She wants to tell him that it isn’t what he thinks.
The problem is, she doesn’t know what he thinks.
She only knows what she thinks, which is that it’s time to go.
So she adds, “Okay, well, have a good night.…”
Drew. But she doesn’t dare tack that on. Then he’d realize she remembers his name, too.
“You, too,” he says. “And hey, if you get lonely over the holidays, just knock.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” she says, knowing she never will.
In her third-floor apartment, Clara flips a light switch, drops her bag just inside the door, drapes her wool coat over the nearest chair, and shivers. Whoa. Is it cold in here, or is it just me?
She checks the thermostat. It’s just me.
She turns it up a few degrees to seventy-two, and hears the hiss of steam heat in the old vents. Then she moves around the room, turning on all three lamps.
There. Warmth and light. Two life-sustaining elements.
She sinks into the couch and looks around, seeking comfort in familiar surroundings. The first time she set foot in here, she immediately concluded that it looked like a Nora Ephron movie set: the kind of place middle America would imagine an up-and-coming New York actress living in.
She’s been renting the one-bedroom apartment for over two years now. Compared to her former high-rise rectangle, this place oozes charm: high ceilings, hardwoods, even a fireplace. The neighborhood is almost free of skyscrapers, allowing the sun to stream in through three southern-exposure windows that overlook a flagstone courtyard tucked behind the townhouse.
Clara signed the lease—with Jason, who was her roommate until this summer—a mere month after taping her One Life to Live character’s dramatic swan song. Her sudsy alter ego, the dastardly Arabella Saffron, was killed off at Clara’s request, thus releasing her from her contract and freeing her to take her fir
st movie role.
That was a bit part, playing Kate Hudson’s friend in a romantic comedy. But she got scene-stealer reviews—not to mention an offer to pose topless in Playboy. Which she turned down, of course. No need to overexpose herself—literally—at this stage in her career.
The magazine people assured her agent that the offer would remain open.
Not that it matters now, Clara thinks with a pang, touching the gauze-covered scar on her right breast.
So what? You weren’t going to do it anyway.
Still…
Stop that! Focus on the positive. You’ve still got a big career ahead of you as a serious actress.
Her first movie led to a slightly larger role in a critically acclaimed medical drama that unfortunately bombed at the box office. But that, in turn, opened the door to her first starring role in The Glenhaven Park Dozen, an ensemble period piece based on a true story.
In real life, eleven servicemen from a tiny suburban New York village perished on the beach at Normandy in the first wave of the D-Day invasion. The screenwriters have taken artistic license, making it an even twelve.
Clara plays Violet, the fictional pregnant wartime bride of Jed Landry, a doomed soldier who actually existed.
It’s a juicy role. Plenty of tender, passionate moments with her heartthrob costar Michael Marshall, a haunting monologue she gets to deliver in the fury of a staged blizzard, and a hysteria-filled moment of truth at the climax, when she learns of her husband’s fate.
Clara has devoted months of her time preparing to play Violet, immersing herself in period films, swing music, old magazines. She hired a dialect coach to help her perfect the 1940s’ speech style—a distinct vocal patter characteristic of the era.
She even hopped the sleek silver Metro-North train to Westchester County and spent two beautiful Indian summer afternoons up in Glenhaven Park. There, she soaked up the small-town atmosphere, chatted with old-timers, and even studied photographs and relics at the library’s local history exhibit.
All because she wants to get this right, aware that it’s the kind of role that can launch a career to the next level, and now…
Malignant.
If Only in My Dreams Page 2
