“But are they big enough?” Jake says. “Elizabeth’s ears are bigger than yours.”
“Here, look,” I say, placing the studs in his palm. “They’re huge.”
Jake stares at the studs intensely, rolling them in his palms. Cindy produces a magnifying glass to demonstrate the quality of the stones. “These earrings could be two engagement rings,” she says.
“Tell me about the color,” Jake says. Even though I doubt he knows much about the language of diamonds, he wants to learn. Cindy places a chart on the glass, speaking of inclusions and color grades. Jake passes the magnifying glass over the earrings on a black velvet tray. He’d never put regular gas in his Range Rover—high test or nothing!
Cindy remarks that these are exquisite, nearly colorless diamonds. No inclusions under the magnifying glass. Finally, Jake agrees.
“Want to come home with me and give her the earrings now?” Jake asks. I glance at my watch. It’s almost one o’clock, and Alexandra’s in school.
“Sure,” I say, thrilled to share in the excitement.
I follow Jake home and reach their house to find Elizabeth also pulling into the driveway. Lila, her housekeeper, takes bags of Whole Foods groceries out of Elizabeth’s car. Even though Elizabeth is strong enough to carry groceries, no one lets her. Even Elizabeth agrees that her cancer is heavy enough.
In the kitchen, Jake announces that he has a surprise. He takes the gold-wrapped box out of his pocket, says, “Catch,” and tosses it lightly to Elizabeth. I’ve never seen him so cava lier. Usually he creates a ceremony around gifts—a glass of champagne, a dinner out.
Elizabeth is surprised when the box hits her hands. “What’s this?”
“We’re done with chemo. We have to celebrate!” Jake says.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, appearing deeply grateful. “I hope I never have to go through that again.”
I smile, seeing Elizabeth happy. She shakes the wrapped box, holding it up to her ear. “Shouldn’t we wait for the kids?”
“No,” Jake says. “I can’t wait that long. And I want Samantha to be here.”
I can see that Elizabeth really wants to wait for Brooke and Lauren, but she defers to Jake. She unwraps the gold paper and opens the velvet box, gasping when she sees the glint of the diamonds. “Oh my God, they’re magnificent. I’ve always wanted diamond studs. These are huge—and so sparkly!” Elizabeth fastens the earrings and goes straight for the bathroom mirror. I follow, seeing her face shine in the reflection. She’s wearing a cotton shirt and jeans, but these earrings give her polish.
“I’m never going to take them off,” Elizabeth says, heading back to the kitchen. She kisses Jake, and they embrace. “I love you,” she says.
“Wait until your mother sees,” Jake says.
Elizabeth wears the earrings every day. Her friends admire them, and Jake beams whenever someone pays her a compliment. These diamonds are their bright lights—the first of many lavish gifts. A week later, when Elizabeth meets me at the reservoir, she leaps out of her silver Range Rover with another announcement.
“Jake bought me a car,” she says, wide-eyed.
“What about your Range Rover?” I say, pointing to her car. “It’s only a year old.”
“A white Mercedes sports car. I’ve always loved that car. I’m getting it next week.”
“And the Rover?”
“I’m keeping them both,” she says.
“Wow! Not bad. That Mercedes is sexy,” I say. I can picture Elizabeth driving a sporty two-door with the sunroof open, wearing her oversize sunglasses and her diamond studs.
“If I knew I’d be well,” Elizabeth says, dropping her eyes to the gravel, “I’d enjoy it more.” But her dimple reveals a bit of excitement.
“Use it well,” I say, a family expression uttered whenever someone gets a new car or anything of significance.
“Jake has started spending money like crazy,” Elizabeth says, growing quiet.
We begin our walk. I imagine her playing out consequences in a future she might not see.
Chapter Sixteen
On Iressa, Elizabeth has more energy than she ever had on chemo. She swallows a pill each morning and makes the pilgrimage to Beth Israel once a month for a blood test with Dr. Varghas to assess the drug’s efficacy. Otherwise, she’s back to life as usual, managing cancer as a chronic disease. Sitting near the fish tanks for her first monthly appointment, however, she simmers with anxiety.
“I don’t look like her, right?” she asks, gesturing discreetly to a pale woman with no eyebrows, wearing a scarf.
“Of course not,” I say. Amazing how the inside of the body doesn’t translate to the outside. Today Elizabeth wears tight jeans, a pale pink sweater, and navy Chanel flats. She has fringed her blue eyes with strokes of mascara. Although her natural hair is still thin and wispy, she looks chic. “You don’t even look sick,” I say.
Elizabeth smiles. “Let’s go to London, see a show.” We were scheduled to go with our mother, but we canceled after 9/11, and we never rescheduled when she got sick.
Scanning the waiting room, my habit, I can’t help but fixate on a wheelchair cradling an emaciated old man. I look away and land on a young white woman with ashen skin and hollow eyes, chemo’s signature, sitting with her “chemo club” support group. Her friends wear false smiles and muster up overzealous laughter in their efforts to deny her certain death. I understand how they feel. Because I am a chemo club of one. Today, however, my sister is the image of health: glowing skin, bright eyes, and regained weight—very much at odds with her surroundings.
I can tell from our first moments with Dr. Varghas that he will be discreet about our encounter at Starbucks. I watch my sister’s oncologist more closely than usual as he scans his computer and examines the scans, mentally replacing his dress slacks and white coat with red running shorts.
“Looks good, looks good,” the doctor assures us. “There is very little cancer now in your lungs. Iressa is doing its job. You could run a marathon if you wanted.”
Elizabeth and I look at each other and smile.
“Guess we should start training,” I say, which makes Elizabeth laugh. As much as we both like to exercise, a marathon has never appealed to either of us.
“This is fabulous news,” I say more soberly, catching Dr. Varghas’s eyes. “As for the marathon, we’ll leave that to David, our brother.” He’s run two marathons, competed in a dozen triathlons and, until Elizabeth got sick, was training for an Ironman.
“How long do you think Iressa will keep working?” Elizabeth asks. “Will a pill cure the cancer in my lungs?”
Dr. Varghas touches the tips of his fingers, considering Elizabeth’s question. Answering carefully, he says, “It would be highly unusual for a complete remission. But you’re stable, which is excellent news. Let’s take it month by month.”
After a long, uncomfortable pause, my sister relents with a quiet “okay.”
Leaving the hospital, I realize that neither Elizabeth nor I wants to accept less than perfection. Elizabeth won’t accept lessthan-perfect health, and I won’t accept a less-than-perfect marriage. These high standards do not serve either of us right now.
In the car, I say to her, “London is a great idea. It’s time to enjoy your life. Summer is here.”
Iressa’s results feel like a miracle on the order of Moses’s parting the Red Sea. God nourished the wandering Israelites in the desert, sending manna from heaven. Let’s see what He can do for us.
THE GORDONS RENT a house for the season in New Seabury, right on the water, a beautiful and accessible part of Cape Cod. Now that Elizabeth has only one oncology appointment per month, why stay in Weston?
In June, a moving van pulls up and two twentysomething men, one with bulging biceps and a sleeve of tattoos, jump out of the truck. The driver holds a yellow cargo slip in his hand; Elizabeth and I walk outside to meet them on the brick walkway. Inside, Jake decides what they need to take: bedding, clothing, a t
elevision, staples from the pantry, golf clubs, and bicycles. It’s already eighty degrees, and the sun glows on my face, reminding me of my own happy place, Nantucket.
The sky is blue and cloudless when we part. “I’m going to keep my body in good shape,” Elizabeth says, “really take good care of myself. Now or never. I’m going to try a raw diet and swim in the ocean every morning.”
“Best summer of your life,” I say.
“I’ll get to spend every day with the kids. Lauren is taking tennis lessons at the club,” she adds. Lauren has become protective of Elizabeth during her illness, offering to help cook dinners, and lying on the sofa next to her watching TV at night. “Also, I have the name of a healer,” Elizabeth continues. “She does Reiki and acupuncture. Tom Tam said it would be fine if I kept my treatments going with her, instead of shlep- ping back to Boston once a week.”
I laugh. “You’re sure on top of things.”
We hug goodbye, but it won’t be for long. Over the next week, I’ll get Alexandra ready for summer camp in Maine. The week after, I’ll head to Nantucket. All summer, my sister will be on the Cape and I’ll be just a fifteen-minute flight away.
Driving to the Hyannis airport, I have my poodles in the passenger seat and the sunroof open, feeling freer than I have in months. I’m even excited to see Richard. Nantucket has been our place ever since Richard first let me in on the secret. I picture us as migrating seagulls that meet in a particular spot before returning to the ocean.
ON NANTUCKET, Richard greets me at the airport with the warmest hug and kiss I’ve felt in a long time. “Sweetie!” he says, lifting me off my feet. “Girls!” he says, as the dogs jump on him affectionately. Richard’s been on Nantucket for a week, and he’s well into his tan, decked out in full island regalia: shorts, a beach-permit T-shirt, and Wayfarer sunglasses with a float strap.
“You look so handsome,” I say, trying to control my surprise.
“It’s really good to see you,” he says.
I begin to relax. Even before Elizabeth got sick, Nantucket was my place to unwind. I didn’t have to worry about running into her and Jake at a restaurant with Richard. I could let go of anticipating how the endless feud might ruin my day.
“It’s so good to be back,” I say. Richard grabs my bag, and we walk arm in arm to our yellow Wrangler with bumper stickers on the back and front: ACK, Nantucket’s airport code, and Sky’s the Limit.
We plan to wake early tomorrow for a beach walk. Afterward, we’ll take a leisurely drive into town, stroll the cobblestone, and buy coffee and newspapers at the Hub, not needing to rush anywhere. We might perch ourselves on a wooden bench to people-watch, allowing the day to take its own course. I look forward to worrying less about Elizabeth, but I still plan to call her every day.
When I open the door, our sheer curtains billow in the ocean breeze. I have designed the house to be bright and happy, a bit bohemian. I sink into my flowered, shabby-chic couch and finally feel the universe supporting me.
“Ready?” Richard asks the second I sit. Earlier, we’d RSVP’d to attend a friend’s party down the beach.
“Sort of,” I say. “It feels so good to be home. Let’s skip the party.” Everyone has been instructed to wear white. There will be a bonfire, steamers and lobsters, tequila, and dancing until the fog rolls in, or until it gets too dark to see.
“Give it an hour,” Richard says reasonably.
Later, as I’m pulling on my white skinny jeans for the first time this season, along with my favorite linen shirt, my phone rings. It’s Elizabeth.
“What’re you doing?” she asks.
“Putting on our whites. What about you?”
“David’s family just got here. We’re going out with the kids. Just wanted to check in. It never feels right spending time with David and Jill without you.”
For a moment, I wish I were there. Even though Elizabeth and I are together all the time, the history with Richard has given me the anxiety of an outsider. David and Elizabeth’s families have no friction. How nice it would be to experience that. I crave how that used to feel.
Richard appears next to me with crossed arms. He can hear Elizabeth’s voice on the line. “Hurry up,” he says.
I put my hand over the phone and say, “Just a minute.” I turn my back. However frivolous these calls seem to Richard, every conversation with Elizabeth is important.
“Where are you having dinner?” I ask.
“A new restaurant in Osterville.”
“Have a blast. I’m getting ready for the party, so I’ll speak to you in the morning. Love you,” I say, and hang up.
“You still haven’t done your makeup?” Richard says.
Instead of answering, I walk downstairs and pour myself a glass of Domaines Ott, my favorite summer rosé. A dressing drink. Richard paces the bedroom, which annoys me.
“Don’t ever rush me off the phone,” I say.
“You just got here. What could you two possibly have to talk about?”
I take a sip of wine to calm myself.
Richard peers out the bedroom window, down-beach, toward the party. We hear music. “I’ll wait for you,” he says. “Just hurry.”
“Are the wine and vodka ready? Want to go down and make sure we didn’t forget anything?” I ask, irked that Richard would micromanage my makeup without taking care of other logistics.
After the last coat of mascara, I meet Richard downstairs, grab the bottle of chilled pinot grigio and two long-stemmed glasses. Richard takes a thermos of cold, sour-apple martinis to share. We cross the dirt road and take the path between the dunes, leaving our shoes in the beach grass. Our friends are in full party mode as we approach, dancing to Billy Joel and drinking around the bonfire. “Welcome!” Chelsea, who planned the event, says. “Glad you guys came.”
I drink one glass of wine, then another, trying to regain my earlier ease and enjoy myself with island friends. Richard wraps his arms around me, pulls me a bit too close. As the sun drops into the water and hues of orange, yellow, and magenta light the sky, we dance, my head on his shoulder. I yield to my husband’s warmth near the crackle of a fire.
“It’s good to have you here,” Richard says, smiling with his eyes. And, for the moment, I’m comfortable in my own skin.
At home I undress and run a warm shower to wash the sand off my body and feet. Keep clean sheets clean, my mother always said. I’m behind the glass door when Richard comes in —to brush his teeth, I imagine—and I close my eyes, wetting my face and hair under the spray.
Before I know it, I feel Richard’s body behind me. I turn in surprise. Within seconds, his tongue is in my mouth and we are unabashedly making out like we did during those first days of desire. Richard lifts me up against the blue starfish tiles and lowers me onto him. We make love with a passion I thought we had lost. Before he comes, Richard’s face grows red and panicked; then he relaxes. He strokes my wet hair, kissing me tenderly and thoughtfully, as if kisses could be sentences.
“I love you,” he says, pulling from my mouth just enough to say the words.
“I love you, too,” I say, burrowing my face in his chest. I feel like I might cry. We’ve been distant from each other for so long. Gaps so wide can’t always be bridged. I revel in the rapture of our new connection, and relief.
BEFORE RICHARD AND I are even out of bed the next morning, Elizabeth calls.
“I went to the bathroom this morning, and the toilet was full of blood.”
My heart races, zero to eighty. “Did you call Dr. Varghas?”
“He set up an appointment for me at Falmouth Hospital with the doctor on call.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I say, without giving it a second thought.
“Oh, thank you. I’m really nervous,” she says, and hangs up.
Richard stirs sleepily on the pillow. Our dogs, Bella and Bentley, have joined us in the night. All three of them take up space without care or worry.
“What time is it?” Richard asks drows
ily. When I explain about Elizabeth and the blood, he props himself up on his elbows and shakes his head, more frustrated than concerned. “Seriously? You have to be at every appointment?”
“Yes, I do,” I say. I must be there to hear what the doctor says, and it’s my job to write it down. I’m out of bed, pulling on clothes in high gear, making excuses. What if the Iressa has stopped working?
“It’s a fifteen-minute flight,” I say. “My car is at Hyannis airport. I’ll be back for dinner. You’re playing golf anyway.”
“What about the book festival?” Richard asks. “That’s why I’m playing golf,” he says, with hurt in his voice.
“Elizabeth is more important.” I have been looking forward to the book festival, and I can’t help but be touched that Richard remembered. Alice Hoffman is scheduled to speak, and I’m curious about writing. But I wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway.
The day boasts full sunshine—perfect weather for flying on one of Cape Air’s eight-passenger planes. We touch down in Hyannis, and I speed to the hospital in Falmouth. As soon as I see Elizabeth and Jake in the lobby, my heart knows it was right to come. Elizabeth’s face is pale and drawn. I steel myself for what might be a bad turn.
“How’s the big guy?” Jake asks, before greeting me. His tone takes me aback.
I have just left my husband, flown to meet them here, and this is the thanks I get? Jake doesn’t hesitate to rely on me for gift advice, or to sit through chemo, or to cheer up Elizabeth with an evening call. I feel like a used Kleenex. I stand there, gaping.
Elizabeth takes my hand, and we check in. The exam room is painted, like everything on the Cape, ocean blue with white trim. Dr. Varghas has already briefed this doctor on Elizabeth’s medical history, so we don’t get into the details.
“Please, sit down,” he says. This doctor wears Cape casual: khakis and a polo shirt, more of a vacation look than a medical one. When Elizabeth reports the red urine, to our surprise, rather than inquiring after pain or injury, the doctor asks first what she ate for dinner.
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