The Cast

by Amy Blumenfeld

  “Seriously,” I now said to Becca, “is there really a difference between the sixteen brands of rectal thermometers I’m staring at? I mean, come on! Who are these so-called ‘experts,’ and how do they conduct the research? Do they stick babies on a table, line up the thermometers, and put different ones in their butts to see if they come out with the same number?”

  Becca chuckled, but it was far from her typical cackle. Something about her response seemed forced and compulsory. Maybe she was tired, or anxious about being the center of attention. I recalled how overwhelmed she’d been on her wedding day, knowing that all eyes would be on her.

  “So, when are you heading to the reunion?” she asked.

  “I’ll probably leave here in about an hour or so,” I said. “Hey, I thought you were meeting Jordana and getting Lex at the airport. Shouldn’t you guys be on your way by now?”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Slight change of plans. Seth is picking up Lex, and Jordana’s already left. Any chance I can get a ride up with you?” she asked.

  This was strange. Becca not with Jordana? There had been at least ten separate email chains in recent weeks about the logistics of the weekend. In every permutation, Becca was riding up in Jordana’s car. In fact, Jordana had the itinerary down to the minute. It always surprised me how someone with such a bohemian facade could be the furthest thing from laid-back.

  “Are you sure coming with me won’t upset Jordana?” I asked, wondering if they’d had a spat. If so, I wanted to steer clear. Until I’d received Jordana’s invitation to the reunion, I hadn’t seen or spoken to her since Becca and Nolan’s wedding. Starting in our senior year of high school, when she claimed I stole her boyfriend, any interaction Jordana and I had consisted of me walking on eggshells, trying to be extra nice, and Jordana avoiding eye contact. It was kind of her to invite Adam and me to honor Becca, and I didn’t want to do anything to offend my host.

  “Don’t worry about Jordana,” Becca said.

  “Okay, meet me here and help me figure out the rectal thermometer situation; then we’ll drive up together. It’ll be fun. And besides, then you and I can get some QT in before Jordy takes over. You know she still resents me.”

  “Jordana and your husband were an item a hundred years ago.” Becca sighed.

  “Yes,” I said, “and Jordana has ignored me ever since. We didn’t plan it. We got married, for God’s sake. It’s not like it was a fling.”

  It was, in fact, quite the opposite. The summer before our senior year of high school, I hosted a house party while my parents were away on a cruise. Somehow, word spread and the small soiree turned into a John Hughes–esque teen extravaganza with over a hundred kids, three of whom sat on top of my neighbor’s car and dented the roof. My parents learned of the party when they returned from their trip and opened an auto-repair bill that had arrived in the mail. Though I was a good kid and this was my one dalliance, my nonobservant but Zionist parents decided I needed some “straightening out” and sent me on a two-week teen tour of Israel. Jordana’s boyfriend of two years, Adam, happened to be on the same excursion. We went to separate schools, and Jordana was our only common friend. I don’t know whether it was the distance from home, or the fact that it was our first taste of independence, or because it was the culmination of a fabulous vacation, but Adam and I kissed on our last day in Israel.

  All the way across the sea, we contemplated how to tell Jordana. In the end, we never had to. She was standing at the International Arrivals terminal at JFK at 5:00 a.m. with a neon-yellow WELCOME HOME, ADAM poster when she saw him lean toward my ear and whisper something that made me grin as we rolled our luggage through the automatic doors. From that one gesture, she knew. She dropped the sign, ran out of the building, and never forgave either one of us.

  Though our families and friends wrote it off as a phase, Adam and I returned home from Israel inspired to become more religious. Neither of us could identify a single event from our trip that had been the turning point. It wasn’t the morning we hiked up an ancient desert fortress at sunrise or the afternoon we lit a memorial candle together at the Holocaust museum. It wasn’t the fact that we learned Jewish history by standing in the exact locations described in the Torah or that, just hours later, we planted our own trees in the soil near those very spots. And it wasn’t the Friday afternoon when deliciously exotic aromas guided us through a crowded Jerusalem marketplace or the Sabbath eve when we shoved tiny handwritten prayers into the crevices of the Western Wall as the Old City glistened in amber and gold. No, it wasn’t just one of those experiences that changed us; it was all of them combined.

  And so, from the moment he walked off the plane, Adam wore a black felt yarmulke. And while it took a few weeks for me to part ways with my beloved cutoff jean shorts and tank tops, I eventually adopted modest attire, wearing long skirts and three-quarter-length sleeves. Before long, we were praying three times a day, studying with a rabbi, eating kosher food, and asking our parents to use separate cookware for meat and dairy meals. It all just kind of happened, quickly and naturally, the way things tend to unfold when they feel preordained.

  Becca yanked me back to the present moment. “Jordana invited you this weekend, didn’t she? She wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t want you there.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I suppose it was an olive branch. I’ll see you soon.”

  Half an hour later, Becca arrived, lugging a quilted paisley weekend bag over her shoulder. She wore army-green cargo shorts, a plain white tee, a delicate gold necklace, and beige leather ankle-strap sandals. She looked like a walking advertisement for Banana Republic.

  “Look at you!” she said, as she headed down the toy aisle.

  Becca gently rubbed my belly with both of her palms. This was the first time she had seen me in person since I’d started showing. We lived a borough apart, but our busy schedules made get-togethers tough to book.

  “Crazy, huh?” I smiled and rested my hands atop hers. I took a mental snapshot, hoping always to remember the moment when my best friend—the one in whom I’d confided throughout my struggle, the one who I prayed would live long enough that we could be mommies together—saw me pregnant for the first time.

  “I’m so happy for you,” Becca said, as she hugged me. “It’s your turn. You’re going to be the best mom.”

  Is she tearing up? I was taken aback. She wasn’t the weepy, sentimental sort. For the third time that day, I felt as if something was off.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You know you’re my inspiration, right? I want to be the kind of mom you are to Emma: fun and cool. The way she looks up to you—”

  “Please,” Becca interrupted. She caressed the sapphire solitaire around her neck, Emma’s birthstone. She subtly bit her lower lip, forming the same expression she made in sixth grade when Anthony Edings accidentally slammed a soccer ball into her shins and she didn’t want to cry.

  There was definitely something going on. I could feel it in my bones. I stared at her for a second, trying to gauge whether she was ready to talk, but I got the sense that she wasn’t quite there yet. “What’s the deal with this contraption?” I asked, pointing to a large circular toy at the end of the aisle.

  “I call it the Circle of Neglect,” an unfamiliar female voice said from behind me.

  Becca and I turned to see a very fit, young pregnant woman in black spandex pants and a high blond ponytail. She was pushing a shopping cart with a toddler throwing Cheerios from the small seat beside the handlebar.

  “Let me tell you, that activity center is a godsend,” the woman said with an air of authority as she pried the Cheerios from her son’s clenched fist. “I just stick him in the seat and turn on the music, and he spins around and plays. Gives me at least thirty minutes of downtime.”

  “We had one for Emma a few years ago, but it was much more basic,” Becca said.

  The woman smiled and nodded toward my abdomen. “When are you due?”

  “August. How about you?”


  “Our girl’s supposed to arrive on Labor Day. You know what you’re having?”

  “No, it’s a surprise,” I said.

  “Well, whatever it is, good luck!” she said, and pushed her cart away.

  “So, what’s the under-over on that hot mama?” I whispered to Becca. “I’d say she’s somewhere around twenty-four. And did you see the way she got the Cheerios out of that kid’s death-grip fist? That’s skill.”

  Becca shrugged. “You’ll figure out the Cheerio death grip for yourself. And so what if she’s young? You’re a hot mama, too,” she said reassuringly.

  “I’ve gained thirty pounds, my boobs are like watermelons, and my dainty feet now require extra-wide shoes. The only thing about me that hasn’t changed is my red hair. Even my freckles seemed to have expanded!”

  “But you’re glowing. You really are. You look beautiful.”

  Just as I was about to thank her, Becca’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and then ignored it.

  “I forgot to ask you,” I said, running my fingers over the stroller blankets, “if you’re driving up with me, how’s Nolan getting upstate?”

  When Becca didn’t respond, I looked up and saw her frozen in place, staring into the distance like a deer in headlights.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said unconvincingly. “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t answer me.”

  “What did you ask?”

  “I just asked how Nolan is getting upstate.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean exactly that,” Becca said, her tone now biting. I wondered if I had offended her in some way.

  Her phone rang, and, once again, she checked the caller ID and didn’t pick up.

  “Is that Nolan?” I asked gently.

  “Actually, no,” she said, “it’s Jordana. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  That was when I knew something was very wrong. I could count on one hand the number of times my germaphobe best friend had ever used a public restroom. I continued to zap items without much enthusiasm until she came back. Her mouth formed a forced smile, but her eyes knew better and refused to cooperate.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, putting my hand on her forearm.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said.

  “What will be fine?” Now I was really worried.

  “Nothing. Let’s finish your registry.” She waved a hand as if to shoo away my question.

  The dark bags beneath her eyes made her sockets appear cavernous, and the sparkle that normally shone from her hazel irises had dimmed. She looked spent. Suddenly, I didn’t care about shopping.

  “Forget the stupid registry,” I said.

  Becca shook her head as if to say no, but then her face contorted and her hands flew to her mouth to muzzle her sobs.

  “Oh, honey,” I whispered. I quickly threw the gun into my purse to free my hands. My belly was too big for a proper embrace, so I wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her toward me. She buried her head in my neck, and we remained fixed in that side hug long enough for her tears to saturate my shirt.

  “Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive, you talk, okay?” I said when she caught her breath. I wiped a tear rolling down her cheek with my thumb.

  “I can’t go,” she said, sounding utterly defeated. “I have too much to figure out at home.”

  “What’s going on? Is Emma all right? Are your parents okay?”

  “Yes, everyone’s fine.” Becca sniffled. She looked as if she were about to open up, but then caught herself. “I just need some time alone to clear my head and think. As much as I love everyone, I’m just not up to schmoozing.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but Lex is flying in from halfway across the country, and Jordana has devoted six months to planning this shindig. You can’t flake out in the eleventh hour because you’re not in the mood.”

  She folded her arms in protest. I tried to think of a way to get her in the car.

  “Listen,” I said. “The trip is only a couple of hours, but for an eight-months-pregnant lady with sciatica and a constant need to pee, that’s like an eternity. I’m going to have to stop along the way and may get tired. It’s probably not a good idea for me to be alone. I might need you to take the wheel.”

  Becca processed my request for a moment. “Fine.” She revealed the slightest hint of a smile. I linked my arm through hers, and together we exited through the automatic doors.

  For the next ninety minutes, Becca essentially interviewed me while I drove. As a journalist, she’d spent years perfecting the art of getting people to talk. She knew how to strategically frame questions and when a sympathetic glance, instead of a verbal prompt, would yield maximum loquacity. That’s how she was able to spend the majority of our trip shining the spotlight on me. She inquired about my pregnancy, about Adam, and about how we planned to balance caring for the baby and the bakery. All of this was a cover for not talking about whatever was bothering her. But even though I was on to her diversion tricks, I let it happen. Sometimes the best thing about old friendships is knowing when not to push.

  But when we reached a rest stop on the highway, I pulled the car into the lot and looked at her, waiting. I knew she needed to talk and that this would be our last moment alone before Jordana and the others gathered around her.

  “What?” she asked.

  I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. I didn’t even blink. She was cornered, and she knew it.

  She took a deep breath. “So, you know how I go every year for my follow-up appointments with my Hodgkin’s doctor?” she finally said. She fiddled with a ponytail holder on her wrist.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “They do a lot of different tests because they don’t know the long-term impact of the treatment I had years ago, because it was all high-dose and experimental.”

  I nodded. I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Well, for the last twenty-five years, my heart, lungs, boobs, bloodwork—everything—has always been clean. But this past week, they found something. It’s in the early stages, and I’m going to be fine. It just needs to come out. So I’m having a double mastectomy in two weeks. That’s all.”

  I stared at her from across the front seat, questions flooding my mind. “If it’s that small, why do you need surgery?” I asked. “Why can’t you just watch and wait, or do a less aggressive treatment?”

  She shook her head. “I’m high-risk because of my history. The chances of this coming back are too great to wait it out. I’m not like someone getting diagnosed for the first time. I’m in a different category. The less aggressive approach would be radiation, and I don’t qualify because I already had radiation to my chest. In fact, that’s what they think triggered this.”

  I reached for her arm. “I can’t believe you have to go through this shit again. I’m so sorry.”

  “This is nothing like what I had when I was a kid. This is a blip. Do you hear me? A blip,” she said, with a reassuring smile. “Honestly, it will be a relief not to have to worry about when the other shoe will drop. Because it’s dropping right now. And I’m taking care of it.”

  I stared out the windshield for a moment and ran my palms over my belly. I thought about Becca’s parents. I worried constantly about the health of my unborn child; I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for them to watch their daughter fight for her life not once, but twice.

  “I’ll be okay,” she said when I dabbed the corner of my eye. “If this is the price I pay for twenty-five good years, I’ll take it.”

  “How did your parents take the news?” I asked.

  “They don’t know,” she said softly. “I haven’t told them yet. I’m not ready for that conversation. They’re so happy right now in retirement and grandparenthood, I don’t want to ruin it. If I can put off worrying them a little while longer, then why not?
”

  I understood. “How did Jordana react?” I asked, knowing how hard it would have been for Becca to tell her.

  “She doesn’t know yet, either.”

  “What?” I said. “Seriously? How are you going to get through this weekend?”

  “I have no idea.” She sighed and tilted her head back onto the headrest.

  “Well, it goes without saying, I want to help however I can. I’m here for you, although I know you’ll be in great hands with Nolan. I’m sure he’ll be waiting on you hand and foot.”

  Becca cleared her throat. “Yeah, well,” she scoffed, “I’m not so sure about the Nolan part.”

  Chapter 7: Nolan

  A sleepless night on the living room couch was no reason to break routine. So, as I did every Friday morning at seven o’clock, I met Seth at his physical therapy clinic in midtown for my regular session.

  “You excited for this weekend?” I asked Seth, whose sculpted legs were planted beside my face as I lay back on a weightlifting bench. I was happy to focus on fifty-pound barbells, instead of my fight with Becca.

  “Yeah,” he said, “My girlfriend’s coming up on Saturday night, so you’ll get to meet her.”

  “Which one is this?” I asked. “The actress?” I couldn’t keep track of his women.

  “No, the Pilates instructor,” he said matter-of-factly. “I broke up with the actress a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Right,” I said. Seth identified his girlfriends by their jobs, not their names. This was one of the many things I’d learned about him over the past year and, oddly, one of the reasons I liked him so much. He wasn’t trying to pretend to be anyone other than who he was.