I move along to speak to other guests and notice Richard chatting with friends, his eyes detouring from mine after they make contact.
When the music breaks into “Hava Nagila,” our guests leap from their chairs, form a circle, and put their arms on each other’s shoulders. Dancing the hora, they kick. I always pictured Elizabeth leading the charge, but other friends step into the void. Jake returns from the bar with a vodka on the rocks; he and my sister remain seated.
David and my male cousins raise Alexandra on a ballroom chair while Richard and I clap and circle. We join hands with friends, embracing the joy of this ritual. I spot Brooke and Lauren dancing with their little cousins Justin and Brittany. When the hora is over, they join Alexandra and her friends on the dance floor, spicing it up with teenage energy.
Elizabeth remains at her table, poised and lovely in her dark sequined gown with a plunging back. She chats with anyone who approaches her. Elizabeth’s skin is as vibrant as ever, nothing gaunt or hanging about her limbs. A blessing of sorts. Jake doesn’t ever leave her side, his hand steadfast on her chair.
Guests take their seats for the candle lighting. All eyes are on Alexandra beside a three-tiered cake. Like a miniature adult, she takes the microphone and addresses the crowd. Harrison stands beside her, holding a lit taper candle. If not for Richard’s earlier marriage, Alexandra would have been an only child, but in this moment a brother supports her.
“Good evening, everyone. For my good deed, I will be donating my bat mitzvah money to the charities designated by those I call to light the candles,” Alexandra says. “The first candle is in memory of my father’s parents, Harry and Faye Freeman, my grandparents who are no longer with us. My donation will go to the American Cancer Society.” Harrison hands Alexandra the taper to light the first of thirteen candles, and everyone applauds.
“The next candle is for Grandma Rachel and Grandpa Joseph. Please come up and light candle number two, supporting a donation to the American Heart Association.” The DJ plays “If I Were a Rich Man,” from Fiddler on the Roof, as my parents walk hand in hand and greet their granddaughter with simultaneous kisses on the cheek. Cameras flash.
The Gordons take the stage to “Italian Restaurant,” by Billy Joel. Alexandra announces a donation to the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center Cancer Fund when Elizabeth lights the candle. Our guests stand in ovation, and my heart swells.
David, Jill, and the kids approach to “New York, New York,” by Frank Sinatra. Alexandra will donate to the Susie Stein Fund in memory of Jill’s mother, who died of breast cancer last year. Finally, Alexandra’s best friends rush the stage at the sound of “Uptown Girl,” and a donation to the Boys&Girls Clubs of Boston is announced.
With all thirteen candles lit, Alexandra passes her father the microphone, and I join Richard for the toast. He speaks about Alexandra’s caring nature and personality. “I am so proud of the young lady she’s become,” Richard says. When his eyes well up with tears, I put a hand on his shoulder and swallow, refusing to cry.
We pose for a final family photo near the cake. There’s another standing ovation from our friends. Richard and I hold hands as we return to our seats for the meal.
The music slows during dinner. When the plates are cleared, Jake leads Elizabeth to the dance floor. He holds her gingerly, as if she might break, but close, afraid to let go. This tender dance recalls Elizabeth’s voice on the phone over twenty years ago:
“Guess who I ran into on the T? Jake Gordon!”
“Such a troublemaker,” I said. “But fun. And cute.”
“He’s changed. Just wait until you see.”
As Alexandra’s party hits the home stretch, the memories swarm. I see Jake waving goodbye in our front yard in Gloucester when he dropped out of high school, saying, “Ciao, princesses.” I see weddings, births, Brooke’s and now Alexandra’s bat mitzvahs, all celebrated with loved ones bonded by blood, commitment, and history. Elizabeth, Jake, and I attended the same schools, the same teenage parties. We knew how each other’s homes smelled, the number of steps at the back door, where our pets were buried, and the story behind each of our scars.
For a second, I have a glimmer of how impossible it must feel for Richard to penetrate this closed circle. Even in celebration, my family stands behind their own lines. I wish that Jake would shake Richard’s hand for the sake of family and in the spirit of kindness. I wish that Richard could release his grudges and approach my sister’s table.
But in this moment, I have an epiphany: I can’t change other people. I can only change myself.
I begin to honor my own role in this family’s demise.
Chapter Fifteen
The high from Alexandra’s bat mitzvah lasts for a week before life settles into a new normal, made grim by Elizabeth’s prognosis and everything that’s unresolved between Richard and me. I try to remember that you can’t fake good kids. At least we’ve been successful at that.
One afternoon in May, I step out my front door for a walk. My garden bursts with red tulips and clusters of yellow daffodils. Unlike my reservoir walks with Elizabeth, this stroll is solitary and serene. I have found myself venturing out alone more and more, late in the day, a kind of therapy. I consider the pros and cons of my marriage and realize that my expectations of marriage were particular, not universal, that not everyone seeks the same things I do. I begin to appreciate that Richard might have sought something different from our marriage, just as we clearly crave different ways of being loved. I didn’t fully understand these things about myself before I got married; maybe no one does at such a young age or before intense conflicts. I never realized that I was so enmeshed with my family that if my husband didn’t love them, I would equate it with his not loving me.
Today, seeking variety, I find my feet taking me to a quaint cluster of stores about a mile from my house in Wellesley Center. The days have become milder, and joggers have again taken to the streets. Crossing a parking lot, a tall man passes in front of me just a few yards away, working his knees high, breathing hard. My gaze lingers on his loose-fitting shorts and then his terry-cloth headband. “Dr. Varghas?” I say, with a shot of recognition and adrenaline.
The oncologist turns to me midstride. Slowing his jog, he gives in to a walk. I stand there for a moment, drinking in this tiny miracle. Rather than causing me to regret the imposition on my solitude, seeing Dr. Varghas energizes me. He takes a few steps in my direction, waves a hand. “Samantha, nice to see you. You live around here?”
I gesture behind me to the Tudor houses and leafy lawns. “This is my neighborhood.”
“Really?” He smiles. “Me, too. I’m around the corner.” He points. “Renting a place in Hulbert Village until I know where to plant roots.” Without his white lab coat, my sister’s oncologist resembles someone I could meet at the gym. He clears his throat, shifts his weight from foot to foot. Is it possible that he’s at a loss for words?
On sudden inspiration, I say, “Are you finished with your run? You wouldn’t have time for coffee?”
He looks at his wristwatch.
“Sure. That would be nice, actually. I have a little time.”
We head to the Starbucks at the end of the lot and take a table in the back, before ordering at the register.
“How are you holding up?” he asks when we return from the counter with our cardboard-sleeved cups. “Elizabeth’s lucky to have you.”
“Thanks. I’ll be lucky to keep her,” I say.
Dr. Varghas sips his latte. The café is crowded with people talking, reading, and tapping on laptops. I pull my chair closer. I realize how this must seem, especially if Richard or Elizabeth were to walk in. But our encounter feels serendipitous and cathartic, comforting to me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
“Dr. Gold said you came to Boston on a fellowship,” I say.
“That’s right, in thoracic oncology.”
“Why oncology?” Dr. Gold had called him a rock star. The way he explains things to
us during Elizabeth’s appointments shows that he combines his expertise with deep emotional intelligence.
Dr. Varghas considers my question about his specialty by looking down at the table the way he refers to a chart on his desk. “In oncology the research possibilities are fascinating and endless. But I couldn’t do only research. My patients—people like your sister—it’s quite meaningful work.”
“I don’t know what we would do without you,” I say, and place my hand on his arm. I allow it to linger perhaps a bit too long before returning it to my coffee.
Dr. Varghas pushes his chair away from the table and crosses his knees.
“Your sister is strong,” he says, “and much too young for this.”
“You have so much patience. We ask the same questions over and over.”
“I work with the whole person, not just the disease,” the doctor says, meeting my eyes. My face flushes with his attention. I worry that I may be crossing a line, but I have a nagging question about Elizabeth’s treatment that I haven’t had the courage to ask. Alone with Dr. Varghas, I find my nerve.
“Elizabeth’s terrified, you know. We all are. Um, if the cancer progresses while she’s on Iressa, is there anything else?” Elizabeth has given me permission to discuss the details of her condition. That’s not what makes me nervous.
“We can double the dose on Iressa, if we have to,” Dr. Varghas says. “And there’s a new drug in trials, Tarceva, Ires- sa’s cousin, which is even more potent.” He tells me that, as far as he is concerned, Elizabeth is finished with traditional chemo. He’d recommend a clinical trial for her only if first Iressa, then Tarceva, fails her. Above all, he doesn’t want to interfere with Elizabeth’s energy and quality of life, the time she has left with her children. He explains that each round of traditional chemo becomes harsher and harsher because the cancer cells toughen up. “They’re smart,” he says. “Cancer can actually learn to fool the chemo.” I’m disheartened to hear that the disease can evolve to beat back such miraculous feats, but comforted that Dr. Varghas prioritizes Elizabeth’s quality of life. I’m relieved that he has her on a different path.
Tears flow freely against my will, from a mixture of hope, grief, and Dr. Varghas’s kind validation of my suffering. I never wanted to be a public crier—just like I never wanted to be a public fighter. My conflicts with Richard and Elizabeth’s cancer have put an end to all that. I use a brown napkin to blot my eyes and decide to unleash my scariest question: “Will Elizabeth be sick the rest of her life?”
“I have every hope that medicine will keep Elizabeth’s cancer under control for some time.”
“We never talk about how much time she has left. We can’t. She can’t,” I say.
“Cancer changes everyone’s life, not least the patient’s.” The doctor covers my hand with his smooth palm. For a moment, he’s not just a rising-star oncologist but both less and more: Dr. Varghas is another human, one who can see what I’m going through. I am grateful for this moment, even if I have overstepped my boundaries.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he says. “My wife will think I ran back to New York.”
Hearing Dr. Varghas say wife makes me cringe, but I control my face. He has never mentioned a wife in his office, nor has he had any reason to.
“I didn’t know you were married,” I say. I hope that my intimacy doesn’t scare him away or somehow compromise Elizabeth’s care.
“My wife’s a dermatologist. We have a baby on the way,” he says, beaming.
“What a lucky woman,” I say. “I appreciate your time.”
“You’re very welcome,” the doctor says professionally.
I walk the long way home, absorbing what Dr. Varghas has shared about Elizabeth and the prospects of Tarceva. I always felt guilty about our financial differences when Jake and Richard were on unequal footing, before Jake became successful. Now, my being healthy and Elizabeth’s being sick introduces a new guilt. I have always felt that my sister and I are nearly the same person. Life likes to remind me we’re not.
Richard still doesn’t know the full extent of Elizabeth’s illness; he thinks it’s a limited type of bone cancer. Harboring this secret creates even more distance in my marriage. For now, at least, Richard has lost me to my family—Elizabeth’s illness takes up all I have. David, Jill, my parents, and I speak every day on a desperate hotline. From one another we draw strength, further dividing our world into “us” and everyone else. Just as Richard has always feared, he’s solidly in the second category.
THE NEXT DAY, I’m anxious. I can’t rid the meeting with Dr. Varghas from my mind. I need to be with Elizabeth. Just seeing her looking healthy and feeling good will calm me. When I arrive at noon with my third coffee, the Gordon house is quiet.
“You hungry?” Elizabeth asks. “We just had lunch. There’s plenty of salad left.”
“I’m all set,” I say. “Honestly, I just wanted to give you a hug.”
I follow Elizabeth into the den. She tells me she just finished reading an article about acupuncture. Brooke and Lauren are at school, and Elizabeth and I sit on the sofa beneath their portraits.
In a club chair, Jake frowns into his computer. It’s unusual for the three of us to be here alone, no feet moving on the stairs, no kitchen cabinets slamming, no friends of Brooke’s and Lauren’s stopping by. Elizabeth excuses herself midchat to use the bathroom, and Jake waits a beat before whispering, “Samantha, I want to get Elizabeth a present.”
“How lovely. What are you thinking?” I ask. He always consults me when buying my sister gifts.
“I saw a beautiful diamond necklace yesterday at Shreve’s. Will you check it out for me? Don’t you dare tell Elizabeth! I want it to be a surprise.”
“I’ll go right now,” I say. I love this job, reminiscent of happier times. I call to Elizabeth from the foot of the stairs. “Sorry, sweetie, I have to let the dogs out. Call you later.” I bound out the door.
Soon I am whizzing down Boylston Street to Shreve, Crump&Low. When I arrive and ring the buzzer, Cindy smiles as she spots me through the security glass. I’ve known her for a long time—this store is where Richard bought me my first pair of diamond earrings, fifteen years ago.
“How’s your sister?” Cindy asks, before I’m even inside. I hear a trace of her Canadian accent, even though she’s lived in Boston for thirty years. We kiss twice, both cheeks, the French way.
“Better,” I say, my head cocked to one side, nodding slowly— my canned response whenever anyone asks about Elizabeth.
“Is she in remission?”
Oh God. They mean well, but people are so nosy around here. Elizabeth will never be in total remission.
“Yes,” I say.
Cindy takes the hint and moves on. “Jake was here yesterday and put aside a few pieces for you to evaluate. He wants your approval, of course.” Cindy walks behind the brightly lit case filled with diamond necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings—some trendy, some traditional, all high-quality, elegant pieces.
While Jake appreciates my input, Richard would never need to ask Elizabeth for advice about a gift for me. Richard knows my preferences and has exquisite taste himself. He would want the gift, from inspiration to execution, to belong entirely to him. I can’t complain. Every birthday and anniversary, he presents me with a meticulously wrapped gold gift box. For our fifteenth it was a diamond heart, and for my forty-fifth an antique-cut diamond bracelet I could easily have selected myself. Richard’s knowing me is a kind of love that stops short at the wall of my family. How might I feel to have a husband who loved my family but never gave me thoughtful gifts?
Cindy lays out a necklace with centerpiece diamonds decreasing to smaller stones where it clasps. “This is Jake’s favorite,” Cindy says, “but he wants only large diamonds, to make them the same size all around.”
That definitely sounds like Jake. Bigger is always better.
I place the necklace against my décolletage and look in the mirror. It’s absolu
tely stunning, but I wonder how many occasions Elizabeth would have to wear it. It’s not an out-to-dinner necklace or even a cocktail-party necklace; it’s all-out black-tie. She’ll be able to wear it to a wedding or a bar mitzvah, but how many of those does she have coming up? I can see why Jake selected it, but I know this necklace is all wrong. Elizabeth has been telling me what she really wants for years.
“It’s gorgeous, but Elizabeth has always wanted diamond studs. Do you have any in the store?”
“None that are substantial enough, but I can get a pair by tomorrow. You know diamonds shrink over time,” Cindy says, and we laugh.
She’s right, of course. When I first got engaged, I used to hide my hand under the table when I met new people. I worried that my three-carat oval was too showy. I loved it but didn’t want to flaunt it. That diamond engagement ring that Richard bought me in 1987 looks much smaller to me now.
Back in the car, I call Jake and tell him about the diamond studs. He’s skeptical.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I wanted to spend more. You think that’s all she wants?”
Because the earrings are smaller than the necklace, Jake thinks they aren’t significant, but I assure him that Elizabeth will get much more enjoyment from the earrings than she will from the showstopper he chose. “She can wear them every day,” I say. “And trust me, they’ll be plenty expensive.”
The next morning, Jake and I meet at the boutique. He judges the studs shrewdly against the light, then asks me to try them on. I’m two inches taller than my sister, and my face is fuller, but he wants to know what they might look like on her.
I fasten the studs behind my ears. The diamonds are brilliant and make me look regal. They’re light and comfortable, not a burden to wear, despite their impressive size. I keep glancing at myself in the mirror, feeling like a treasured woman.
Jake admires the sparkle, and I know he’s picturing Elizabeth. The look on his face, joy laced with a slight shyness—it’s the way every woman wants to be seen.
Appearances Page 14