The Cast

by Amy Blumenfeld

  Me: “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I gave her a hug and kiss.

  Emma: “Mommy?”

  She looked intensely into my eyes.

  Me: “Yes?”

  Emma: “I love you.”

  Me: “I love you, too, more than anything in the world. You are my greatest gift.”

  Emma: “Mommy?”

  Me: “Yes, sweetheart?”

  Emma: “Can I have Cheez-Its for snack tomorrow?”

  This was the conversation that was now stuck in my head. It replayed in my mind like the continuously looping Christmas Day yule log that aired on all the local television stations when I was a kid, making the day off from school a buzzkill for all the non-Christian kids in the neighborhood, because unless your parents shelled out dough for cable—and none of ours did—you had nothing to watch on TV.

  My brain’s frequency was frozen on that scene in the bathroom with Emma when I heard footsteps marching down the hallway from the great room. I could tell by the clunk of her Birkenstocks that it was Jordana. The thought of sharing the truth with her made my chest pound, the same way it did when I thought about telling my parents or Emma. I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet.

  Knock. Knock. “It’s me,” Jordana said, as she turned the knob and swiftly entered. She shut the door, flipped the lock, and leaned her back against the handle as if she were standing guard to block an oncoming stampede.

  “All right, what’s the deal?” she said, staring down at me.

  I laid out the facts: Early-stage breast cancer. Most likely a long-term side effect of the radiation. Caught during an annual checkup. Most likely just surgery, but won’t know for sure if it spread or if I’ll need chemo until they get the post-operation biopsy results.

  Jordana listened intently and nodded but remained silent. I had expected a cross-examination and tears. Though she was physically present, she seemed to have disappeared. The buzz of the lightbulb in the wall sconce was the only sound in that bathroom.

  Eventually, the life returned to her eyes. “Okay,” she said resolutely.

  “Okay?” I asked. That’s it?

  “Yes, okay, we’ll get through this,” she said, sounding bizarrely upbeat. “This is the shoe, right? It’s dropping. Believe it or not, I’ve been preparing myself for years for this day. We’ve always known this was a possibility, right? Well, it’s here and I’m ready. Just tell me what you need. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll quit my job, I’ll take Emma, just say the word.”

  I flinched when she said “take Emma.” Although I knew she meant “babysit,” a small part of me heard a willing understudy for my role as her mother. Has Jordana already contemplated a scenario in which I die? Does she have a color-coded plan for how she’ll raise my daughter?

  “I have just one question,” she continued. The assuredness she had displayed a moment earlier had quickly dissolved into vulnerability. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I haven’t even told my parents.” I sighed. “Honestly, the thought of telling them, Emma, and you”—I clutched my stomach—“completely turns my insides.”

  “Why? Why is it any different than telling a friend—you know, like, say, oh, Holly? I mean, she clearly knew.”

  Seriously? You’re fishing for compliments? Are we still in high school?

  “Jord, come on. I truly love you all, but you’re my family. You know that. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin the weekend—you worked so hard planning this amazing reunion.”

  “How could you tell her before me?” she asked. For a split second, I saw her lip quiver and her eyes glisten.

  Though I didn’t say a word, I must have appeared annoyed, because the exasperated look on her face softened and I felt her make a conscious choice to shift gears, package up her pain, and shelve it for later.

  “I’m sorry. You could never ruin anything, Bec. Listen, I’m going to go back out there. It’s sort of rude of me to invite people into my home and then ignore them. Right now, just try to relax and enjoy. After the weekend, you and I will sit down and map out a plan. Everything will be fine,” she said, her take-charge voice returning. But what I saw beneath her grit was sadness and fear.

  I was surprised that the topic of Nolan’s absence never came up. Like Emma, who could seamlessly ask for Cheez-Its as a follow-up to “Mommy, promise me you won’t die,” Jordana had always been good at sweeping the messy stuff away and moving on, particularly for the sake of a drama-free social gathering. But unlike my child, who was not mature enough to know, Jordana was well aware that promises couldn’t always be kept. I made a mental note not to be shocked by an unhinging at some point.

  When we returned to the table, everyone was making small talk to avoid the tension. Eventually, when they ran out of compliments about the food, Lex dove in.

  “So, Bec, what’s going on?” she asked gently. “Look, it’s just us. What’s the deal?”

  I exhaled. It was time for this to be out in the open. “I’m sorry, guys. I wanted this to be a happy, easy weekend. I appreciate the effort all of you made to be here. It really is amazing and very touching. And Jordana did so much work and such a beautiful job, I didn’t want to spoil anything. I mean, look at this spread,” I said, pointing to the abundance of food beautifully displayed on her collection of craft-fair ceramic serving platters.

  I was filibustering, and I knew it. They all put their forks down and stared at me, waiting.

  I told them about the diagnosis and surgery.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Lex said, her hand over her heart. “So, is Nolan working this weekend to get things off his plate in time for your operation?”

  “That’s a generous assumption, Lex,” I said. “The truth is, I don’t know where Nolan is. I thought he would be here by now.”

  I had just extended an invitation for inquiry, and my heartbeat quickened in acknowledgment.

  “I’m confused,” Lex said.

  “As am I.” I slipped off my shoes and crisscrossed my legs on the seat of the chair.

  “I’m gonna fetch some more wine from the basement. Excuse me,” Sal said.

  “I’ll help you,” Adam offered, rising in his seat.

  I looked around at my old friends and continued. “So, over the last two days, he has basically disappeared. Physically, emotionally, in every way—gone. We had a blowout fight in the plastic surgeon’s office.” I could feel a lump form in my throat as I recalled the way in which Nolan barely flinched when I sarcastically threw out the word divorce in the exam room.

  “What?” Lex shrieked.

  I noticed Seth shift uncomfortably beside her.

  “It’s true,” I nodded. “He was barely fazed when I told him about the diagnosis. Would I have liked him to be a little scared and concerned? Yeah, probably—I mean, it is, after all, a life-threatening disease—but I wrote it off as Nolan’s eternal optimism, which I have always loved, so part of me appreciated it. But then we met with the plastic surgeon to discuss reconstruction, and the shit hit the fan.”

  “What do you mean?” Lex asked.

  “I mean, reconstruction is presented as the thing you do after a mastectomy, especially if you’re young. It’s like one-stop shopping at these clinics. Before I knew it, they were taking pictures of me naked at all angles and asking if I wanted to replicate the breasts I had, or go bigger or smaller. They even scheduled the operation right then and there. It was like this train that just kept moving and moving and all I wanted was to jump off. I kept thinking: more operations, more pain, more risks of infection, more days to keep me away from Emma. And for what? Breasts? I never cared about having boobs to begin with! Do I even want this surgery?”

  “Anyone need some water?” Seth asked softly, rising in his seat.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Is this too much information for you?”

  Seth smiled. “Bec, please. I’m just a little parched. You think I’m going to shut down a conversation about breasts? Really? How long
have you known me?”

  We all laughed. Acting the clown had always been Seth’s role, and he seemed to be reprising the part.

  “What happened after the plastic surgeon booked the operation?” Lex asked.

  “At the end of the meeting, the doctor left the exam room and Nolan said something like, ‘Well, this is one way to get a boob job!’ And I said, ‘I don’t know if I want it.’ That’s when he blew up.”

  “Blew up?” Lex asked.

  “Yeah. He said I was insane. He called me selfish. He started ranting about how I would look like a ‘freak.’ There was no way the people in the hall didn’t hear.”

  “Jackass!” Lex seethed, and muttered something under her breath about her husband.

  I noticed Seth was biting his nails—a childhood habit of his I had long ago forgotten but immediately recalled. A vision of Seth sitting on a metal folding chair during our eighth-grade graduation dance quickly flashed before me. While the rest of us stood in the middle of the junior high school gym, awkwardly swaying and wrapping our arms around our dates, Seth just nibbled at his cuticles and stared at the floor as the DJ’s pulsing strobe light illuminated him sitting alone against the wall.

  “Honestly, I’m more distraught about Nolan than I am about this diagnosis or surgery.” I felt myself unraveling. It felt good to vent. “I get that he’s entitled to be upset and have a reaction, but this is sort of extreme, if you ask me. How could I have been so blind? I thought he was this amazing guy everyone loved for a reason. I mean, he takes my ninety-year-old grandfather as his date to corporate work events when he knows Poppy will like the guest speaker. That’s the father figure I want for my child and the man I want as my husband. I can do without the asshole version.”

  I looked across the table at Jordana, the only one who was expressionless and mute.

  “Don’t make this choice for anyone but you,” Lex said. “My only question is—and mind you, I will fully support you no matter what you decide—have you really weighed both sides of this?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Lex turned to Seth. “Are you sure you’re okay with this conversation?” she inquired, lightly touching his bicep again with her fingertips and leaving them there for what struck me as a long time. There was something very comfortable and easy about their interaction that I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Yes, it’s okay,” he insisted, biting away at his cuticle.

  “Well,” Lex continued, “Bec, how will you feel when you look at yourself in the mirror and there’s just a big scar across your flat chest? Personally, I don’t know if I could handle that.”

  “That’s a good question,” I said, as I envisioned myself standing in front of the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall in our bedroom. “I suspect there will be days when I feel confident and days when I look at myself and think I’m some kind of botched science experiment. But, honestly, my money’s on the good days. It’s like when I was a kid and I stared down people on the street who gawked at my bald head. You’ve just gotta own it. I’m still me. I am who I am—hair or no hair, breasts or no breasts.”

  “God bless. You’re strong, Bec,” Lex said, straightening her back and adjusting the black sunglasses still perched on her hair like a headband. “I’d be screaming and throwing shit against the wall.”

  “I’m coming to all of this from a different place,” I explained. “I’m not like other women, who are experiencing this disease for the first time as an adult. If I had no history, I’d probably just go ahead with the reconstruction. But I’ve been around the block, and I’m tired of feeling like a professional patient. I’m done. I don’t want multiple surgeries. I don’t want even the slightest, most minuscule risk of infection. I don’t want to wonder if my scar tissue from the radiation I had as a kid will make breast reconstruction more complicated or painful and cause me to visit the doctor repeatedly. Just cut the disease out of me and let me live my life. I don’t mean to be blithe, but that’s how I feel. As for not looking like a normal woman, I don’t care. I’m the same person either way.”

  Everyone was quiet.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Lex said. “You have incredible strength. That man should count his lucky stars he found a woman like you.” She took the edge of her linen napkin and dabbed the corners of her eyes.

  We were all quiet for a moment. I looked over at Jordana. She was staring into her plate. I felt awful I’d ruined the weekend, but it was a relief to have said everything out loud.

  “Do you know what Nolan told me?” I said, swirling a carrot stick in the hummus on my plate so I wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s gaze.

  “What?” Holly asked.

  “He said I’d be a fucked-up female role model for Emma.” Tears pooled in my eyes at the mention of my girl’s name.

  “No, he didn’t!” Lex exclaimed, slamming her hand down on the table, making the silverware jump. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Jordana exhaled loudly and started stacking the plates and walking them over to the sink.

  Finally! I thought. A reaction! Her silence and obvious unease throughout the meal reminded me of the day they all visited the hospital to deliver the Becca Night Live videotape—the day she practically sprinted to the door when the nurse told her it was time to leave.

  “The thing is, what if he’s right?” I said, regaining my composure. “But if I get the implants, am I telling my daughter you can be a ‘woman’ only if you have boobs? And if I don’t have the reconstruction, is she gonna be disgusted or embarrassed because I don’t look like her friends’ moms? Or will she feel guilty one day for having boobs because I don’t?”

  The only sound in the room was the clink of dishes and utensils as Jordana cleared the table with the grace of a Stormtrooper.

  “Who knows what will be, but give yourself a little credit, Bec,” Holly said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Look at how you’ve explained surrogacy to her. The kid is in her single digits and already has a solid understanding of third-party reproduction. But, more important, she’s proud! You taught her to see the beauty in it. She takes her cues from you, and she can learn to own this, too. If you’re good with it, she’ll be good with it. Whatever you choose, you’ll find a way to instill pride and explain it to her, just like you did with her birth.”

  Seth cleared his throat. “Either way,” he said, “you still have a great ass. I’ll whip Nol into shape and make him an ass guy.”

  Lex laughed and sat up a little straighter.

  I knew he was joking, but in that moment, I wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not sure it will make a difference. I feel like I’ll lose my husband and my chest in the same summer.”

  “Then fuck it,” Lex cried out. “You don’t need him. You will resent him forever. You will destroy your marriage if you do it for him and not for you. Trust me.”

  Seth’s brow furrowed, and he shot a quizzical look at Lex, before turning back to me. “Nolan would never force your hand, Bec. He adores you. He’s not shallow. You know that.”

  “The Nolan I know isn’t the Nolan I’ve seen over the past days. This guy is practically mute. He won’t even look at me. Put it this way: Would the Nolan you know not show up for a reunion weekend in celebration of his wife?”

  “I think he’s in shock,” Seth said. “I think he’s scared. Nolan’s a can-do guy. Give him a problem, and he’ll do whatever it takes to solve it. I’m not a shrink, but maybe he’s realizing he can’t fix this. Maybe convincing you to do the reconstruction is like him trying to control this situation. Maybe you guys should talk to someone, like a couples’ counselor. I don’t know, though. What do I know about relationships?”

  I noticed Lex take a swig of wine.

  Jordana walked over to the head of the table, wrung her hands on a dish towel as if she were about to asphyxiate it, and fixed her gaze on the wall in the distance. She seemed to be revving up to something profound. We all turned to her, awaiting whatever it was she was abou
t to opine.

  Finally, she shifted her eyes to our faces and proclaimed in a calm, controlled, yet authoritative voice: “You all just need to check your privilege.”

  “What?” we said, as a single, confounded chorus.

  Oh boy, here we go, I thought.

  “Is this one of your trendy, politically correct, social justice–y catchphrases?” Seth asked playfully.

  Jordana glared at him. She was in no mood for ribbing.

  “Sorry,” Seth mumbled, lowering his chin shamefully toward his chest.

  “Every day at work, I check my privilege,” Jordana said passionately, gently pounding her chest with the crumpled dish towel as if she were making a dramatic closing argument in the courtroom. “I remind myself that as someone who is well educated, financially secure, and surrounded by friends and family who are similarly blessed, I must put aside my advantages in order to gain a better understanding of my clients’ realities. I know that, no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible for me to truly comprehend what it’s like to walk in their shoes. Most of the time, they are victims of circumstance. They face uphill battles because of the color of their skin or where they live or how they dress, and I try to remember that at all times, even if they talk down to me or disrespect me despite my help. It can be hard, but you know what do I do? Check. My. Privilege. I remind myself to look at all angles and think about where they’re coming from before I speak or make a move.”

  “Where is she going with this?” Lex groused, leaning into Seth’s shoulder.

  Jordana noticed but chose to continue speaking.

  “My point is that it’s the same thing with Nolan. I want to throttle him, don’t get me wrong. But we all need to recognize that for him, it’s just different. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t have the same privilege we have. Not to say seeing Becca sick when we were kids was a privilege, but you get my point. He doesn’t have the same insight the rest of us have.” She turned to look at me. “He didn’t see the fifteen gazillion bags of blood and medicine hanging from your IV pole in the hospital, or how you passed out that time in your bedroom at home when I came over to drop off your algebra homework. Do you remember that? I ran downstairs to your mom and told her to call an ambulance. I thought you’d died.”